One year ago today, I sat in my therapist's office and sobbed for every single one of my 55 minutes with her. Back then, I could hardly speak the words or say the names. To say it out loud made it more real and ripped the gaping hole even wider. In all honesty, I don't remember much of what went on around me those first few months. I remember being afraid of losing my job because I was calling in sick so much. I remember my family taking turns staying in my room at night, lying awake and patiently listening to me cry until I didn't have the physical strength to stay awake any longer. I remember feeling the tension of their silent agreement not to leave me alone. I remember one specific night, lying awake and holding my sister's hand while we both cried. I remember her asking me through her tears to promise that I wouldn't kill myself. I clearly remember the pain and fear in her eyes; my fierce and precious protector, who was and is so heartbroken by this, both on my behalf and her own. I remember thinking that I couldn't imagine causing her or the rest of my family the kind of excruciating pain I felt. I made her that promise, which was no small feat. Promises are a big deal to me. And the lies were loud.
That day in counseling, my therapist asked me to write and sign a contract in my own words stating that I wouldn't hurt or kill myself. I agreed, and this is what I wrote:
I promise I will keep myself safe. I will ask for help when my thoughts get dark and I will not be alone if I am unsure. I will stay.
Kaila Norris 8/30/16
I remember intentionally being brief and a little vague because I didn't want to be the kind of person who needs to sign a contract in order to not kill herself. But however vague the words were, I knew what I was agreeing to. She asked me to take and keep a picture of it on my phone, and she kept my original copy. She made sure that I understood exactly what I was promising.
And here I am, one year later.
If I can be completely honest, there have been moments when these two promises were all that kept suicide off the table. There have been moments when I've begrudged making them. Ultimately, I'm grateful, both for the accountability and the courage to stay alive.
While most of my memories of the things that have happened throughout the past year are blurry at best, my memories of the pain and emotions I've felt are clear as day. I'm still confident that no amount of physical pain will ever match the mental, emotional, and spiritual pain I've experienced. Pain so severe it becomes physical at times. Even though it still hurts a lot more than I'm comfortable with, even though the nightmares linger, and even though I still prefer not to speak it aloud or say the names, I have such a deep appreciation for the contrast I see between then and now. There were days early on when I literally couldn't even stand up. Now, on my good days, I stand taller than I ever have. I take a shower and leave the house most days. I run 3-4 times per week. I find reasons to smile and laugh. I'm starting to hang out with friends on a more consistent basis. I travel every chance I get. Now, my reasons to stay far outnumber my reasons not to.
And even though it still hurts and even though it's still hard, I'm glad I did.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Monday, August 21, 2017
My Great Art
Back in November, I started this blog with a post titled "Great Pain." It began like this:
They say that great art comes from great pain. If that's true, I'd like to know how these artists keep themselves upright long enough to create anything in spite of said great pain, let alone something others might consider great. My great pain has me in a crumpled heap. Always mentally and emotionally, but often physically too. The last thing I feel capable of is creating art worthy of sharing with the world.
[You can read the entire post here: https://evensohope.blogspot.com/2016/11/great-pain_17.html]
I used to mistakenly think of art as being primarily for the consumer: an author writes a book, an actor performs a monologue, a painter paints a picture; all for an audience. It's an extremely (and embarrassingly) narrow-minded view, I admit. And maybe sometimes art is confined to a supply and demand mentality. But now I understand that art is first and foremost for the artist. Often only for the artist. And I'm realizing that creating art doesn't necessarily have to be a focused effort. It's an outpouring. And overflow. Oscar Wilde said, "To define is to limit." To put the concept of something as subjective as art in a box is to do the world a great disservice.
It occurred to me today that this entire year has been my art. My waves and my tides and my occasional transient stillness. My ebbing and flowing. My art is my decision to stay alive and the life I am creating despite my great pain. My art is my story and my symbolism. It's reassembling a shattered and raw heart, a gouging and subsequent filling of all my broken places. It's my courage to plunge headfirst into the deepest pain and find myself there. My art is my vulnerability and discovering the strength I didn't know was inside me. It's believing for truth even when the lies are louder. It's learning to forgive the seemingly unforgivable. It's daring to hope that someday someone will love me well and believing that I'm worthy of that. My art is my smile and finding reasons to laugh despite the heartache. My art is my resilience and the stories I tell in ink on my skin. My art is my bravery, my dreaming, my vastness. My capacity to feel things deeply. My art is learning and knowing and loving myself.
My great art is my fight.
My fight for healing.
My fight for grace where I feel everything but.
My fight for joy.
My fight for love.
My fight to believe in the good things coming.
Maybe my art is the mark I leave on the world and on the people I love. Maybe not everyone will understand or appreciate or even notice it, and maybe that's okay. Maybe eventually it will result in a more tangible form of art that I'll share on a larger scale, or maybe it will just be the legacy I leave behind. Whatever it is and whatever it becomes, I am proud. I am proud to still be standing, breathing, healing. Surviving this year is the hardest thing I've ever done, and I hope to high heaven that it's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. It has been complicated and messy and a thousand other things, but above all, my art is mine.
And I've decided that it's beautiful.
They say that great art comes from great pain. If that's true, I'd like to know how these artists keep themselves upright long enough to create anything in spite of said great pain, let alone something others might consider great. My great pain has me in a crumpled heap. Always mentally and emotionally, but often physically too. The last thing I feel capable of is creating art worthy of sharing with the world.
[You can read the entire post here: https://evensohope.blogspot.com/2016/11/great-pain_17.html]
I used to mistakenly think of art as being primarily for the consumer: an author writes a book, an actor performs a monologue, a painter paints a picture; all for an audience. It's an extremely (and embarrassingly) narrow-minded view, I admit. And maybe sometimes art is confined to a supply and demand mentality. But now I understand that art is first and foremost for the artist. Often only for the artist. And I'm realizing that creating art doesn't necessarily have to be a focused effort. It's an outpouring. And overflow. Oscar Wilde said, "To define is to limit." To put the concept of something as subjective as art in a box is to do the world a great disservice.
It occurred to me today that this entire year has been my art. My waves and my tides and my occasional transient stillness. My ebbing and flowing. My art is my decision to stay alive and the life I am creating despite my great pain. My art is my story and my symbolism. It's reassembling a shattered and raw heart, a gouging and subsequent filling of all my broken places. It's my courage to plunge headfirst into the deepest pain and find myself there. My art is my vulnerability and discovering the strength I didn't know was inside me. It's believing for truth even when the lies are louder. It's learning to forgive the seemingly unforgivable. It's daring to hope that someday someone will love me well and believing that I'm worthy of that. My art is my smile and finding reasons to laugh despite the heartache. My art is my resilience and the stories I tell in ink on my skin. My art is my bravery, my dreaming, my vastness. My capacity to feel things deeply. My art is learning and knowing and loving myself.
My great art is my fight.
My fight for healing.
My fight for grace where I feel everything but.
My fight for joy.
My fight for love.
My fight to believe in the good things coming.
Maybe my art is the mark I leave on the world and on the people I love. Maybe not everyone will understand or appreciate or even notice it, and maybe that's okay. Maybe eventually it will result in a more tangible form of art that I'll share on a larger scale, or maybe it will just be the legacy I leave behind. Whatever it is and whatever it becomes, I am proud. I am proud to still be standing, breathing, healing. Surviving this year is the hardest thing I've ever done, and I hope to high heaven that it's the hardest thing I'll ever have to do. It has been complicated and messy and a thousand other things, but above all, my art is mine.
And I've decided that it's beautiful.
Friday, August 18, 2017
You Know What Sucks?
Feeling like you might actually be certifiably insane. To believe or feel something so strongly one minute, then to be presented with something completely unexpected that distorts reality and makes you feel and believe the direct opposite. It's like I'm constantly having to assemble my mindset: what I believe to be true, and how I feel as a result, based on the information I have. But my mindset is delicate, like a house of cards, because everything inside me is still ebbing and flowing and there is so much I don't know and that's out of my control. The tiniest thing can undo it all: news, a memory, a dream, a tweet, a text. One minute I'm very carefully assembling this house of cards that is what I know and how I feel, and the next the cards are flying all over the place and I have no idea what happened. All I know is that I have to start all over again and somehow all the cards are different now. It's tedious and it's exhausting and I have no idea how to break the cycle. It feels like I can't win.
It's unbelievably frustrating. I feel like a psychopath. I feel unstable. I constantly have emotional whiplash because I can't keep up with myself. There is too much inside of me and there are too many external variables. Fear, doubt, hope, compassion, anger, nostalgia, love, suspicion, pain, curiosity, grief, confusion, etc. all compete for space in my head along with the questions about whatever is going on apart from me that I have zero control over. I feel everything full-force and all at once. I honestly don't know how I've managed to keep my head from exploding. I sometimes find myself wondering if this is what a psychotic break feels like. Realistically, I know I'm not actually crazy, but it still sucks to feel crazy for reasons that are beyond my control. (And coincidentally to have spent an entire year of my life essentially being told that I was crazy). I didn't ask for this. I'm doing the best I can, but it doesn't always feel like my best is enough. My heart feels heavy and my mind feels foggy and I have to try to figure out how to function despite it.
It's hard.
It sucks.
I hate it.
And yet, there is no alternative.
So I scream.
And cry.
And break things.
And then I start building again.
Because I don't have any other options.
It's unbelievably frustrating. I feel like a psychopath. I feel unstable. I constantly have emotional whiplash because I can't keep up with myself. There is too much inside of me and there are too many external variables. Fear, doubt, hope, compassion, anger, nostalgia, love, suspicion, pain, curiosity, grief, confusion, etc. all compete for space in my head along with the questions about whatever is going on apart from me that I have zero control over. I feel everything full-force and all at once. I honestly don't know how I've managed to keep my head from exploding. I sometimes find myself wondering if this is what a psychotic break feels like. Realistically, I know I'm not actually crazy, but it still sucks to feel crazy for reasons that are beyond my control. (And coincidentally to have spent an entire year of my life essentially being told that I was crazy). I didn't ask for this. I'm doing the best I can, but it doesn't always feel like my best is enough. My heart feels heavy and my mind feels foggy and I have to try to figure out how to function despite it.
It's hard.
It sucks.
I hate it.
And yet, there is no alternative.
So I scream.
And cry.
And break things.
And then I start building again.
Because I don't have any other options.
Wednesday, August 16, 2017
Free Falling
Maybe the bravest and most powerful thing I've ever done is give myself unconditional permission to feel all the things.
The good, the bad, the utterly terrifying.
The things that fear and logic and society tell me I shouldn't feel.
To feel it, and to give it all g r a c e.
To be swept away in the ever-changing current that is my mood, my thoughts, my emotions.
For too long I've been working so hard to micromanage that current.
Filter what I feel.
Surrendering control and moderation and judgement feels like a daring leap off of the highest cliff into nothing but free fall.
But you know what?
There's no effort in free fall.
And I've never felt more free.
The good, the bad, the utterly terrifying.
The things that fear and logic and society tell me I shouldn't feel.
To feel it, and to give it all g r a c e.
To be swept away in the ever-changing current that is my mood, my thoughts, my emotions.
For too long I've been working so hard to micromanage that current.
Filter what I feel.
Surrendering control and moderation and judgement feels like a daring leap off of the highest cliff into nothing but free fall.
But you know what?
There's no effort in free fall.
And I've never felt more free.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
The Beginning of the End
It's August.
Twenty four days from now I will stand before a judge, and if all goes according to plan, my divorce will be final. The date has been on my calendar for months now, but something about entering this month makes it all feel...actually, there isn't even a single word for it, and I'm struggling to narrow it down. Real? Immediate? Bigger? More painful? Terrifying?
Twenty four days from now will also mark one year since finding out about my husband's affair. It feels partly like an alarming coincidence, but mostly like a strangely poetic ending to a year of chaos and nightmares. Symbolism is a big deal for me, so I'm grateful to only have one date to associate all of this with moving forward.
Part of me is so ready to finally put this year from hell behind me and move forward. Realistically, I know that nothing is going to magically be different or easier after August 24th. The only immediate changes will be my name and my marital status. But I'm also very aware that the end of this year and this chapter is also the beginning of the rest of my life. I have absolutely no idea what that looks like, and it's terrifying. But it's also all I've got, and it's mine to create. There's hope there.
The rest of me (most of me, really) is feeling the devastating weight of it all. The weight of a failed marriage. Grieving the loss of someone who isn't dead. Letting go of what I believed my life and future were and would be. Feeling seriously uncomfortable amounts of anger and rage at how I've been betrayed, how I've been treated, and what has been taken from me. Filtering through what my marriage, the affair, and the past year have taught me about myself, my identity, and my worth. Separating truth from lies. Fearing how other people will perceive me for being 27 and divorced. Fighting the shame that I feel because my husband chose another woman over me and our marriage. Fighting to believe the people I love and trust when they tell me that nothing is wrong with me.
August 24th will come and go, and all of this will still exist inside me. My heart will still be broken, and I will still have nightmares. I believe there will be a shift, but it's not going to dull the pain. If anything, I'm preparing for it to be worse for a while. Hope and grief are constantly at war in me. Grief wins almost every time. But I'm beginning to believe that the shift that is coming will give hope more space to grow. Grief is still a necessary pain, and it will be for a long time. But I think I'm ready for grief and hope coexist. Today, anyway. I'm still learning.
My mind and my heart are in constant states of chaos. It's taken me this long to accept that and let it be what it is. It's necessary chaos, and it's okay with me. The difficult part has been learning how to rest despite it. I still haven't figured out how. I'm an ocean learning my tides. I've never really been good at going with the flow.
But I'm learning.
Twenty four days from now I will stand before a judge, and if all goes according to plan, my divorce will be final. The date has been on my calendar for months now, but something about entering this month makes it all feel...actually, there isn't even a single word for it, and I'm struggling to narrow it down. Real? Immediate? Bigger? More painful? Terrifying?
Twenty four days from now will also mark one year since finding out about my husband's affair. It feels partly like an alarming coincidence, but mostly like a strangely poetic ending to a year of chaos and nightmares. Symbolism is a big deal for me, so I'm grateful to only have one date to associate all of this with moving forward.
Part of me is so ready to finally put this year from hell behind me and move forward. Realistically, I know that nothing is going to magically be different or easier after August 24th. The only immediate changes will be my name and my marital status. But I'm also very aware that the end of this year and this chapter is also the beginning of the rest of my life. I have absolutely no idea what that looks like, and it's terrifying. But it's also all I've got, and it's mine to create. There's hope there.
The rest of me (most of me, really) is feeling the devastating weight of it all. The weight of a failed marriage. Grieving the loss of someone who isn't dead. Letting go of what I believed my life and future were and would be. Feeling seriously uncomfortable amounts of anger and rage at how I've been betrayed, how I've been treated, and what has been taken from me. Filtering through what my marriage, the affair, and the past year have taught me about myself, my identity, and my worth. Separating truth from lies. Fearing how other people will perceive me for being 27 and divorced. Fighting the shame that I feel because my husband chose another woman over me and our marriage. Fighting to believe the people I love and trust when they tell me that nothing is wrong with me.
August 24th will come and go, and all of this will still exist inside me. My heart will still be broken, and I will still have nightmares. I believe there will be a shift, but it's not going to dull the pain. If anything, I'm preparing for it to be worse for a while. Hope and grief are constantly at war in me. Grief wins almost every time. But I'm beginning to believe that the shift that is coming will give hope more space to grow. Grief is still a necessary pain, and it will be for a long time. But I think I'm ready for grief and hope coexist. Today, anyway. I'm still learning.
My mind and my heart are in constant states of chaos. It's taken me this long to accept that and let it be what it is. It's necessary chaos, and it's okay with me. The difficult part has been learning how to rest despite it. I still haven't figured out how. I'm an ocean learning my tides. I've never really been good at going with the flow.
But I'm learning.
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