The Love I Believe In

I've always sort of loved Valentine's Day. Sure, it's corny and commercialized and various other things that people hate on it for, but giving/receiving gifts is far and away my top love language, and I love any excuse to celebrate things. Plus, I am of the opinion that love deserves it's own holiday. Historically (more specifically, in the context of my marriage), I was made to feel dumb for getting excited about it, which often resulted in a certain degree of shame. Currently, I'm in the business of reclaiming the parts of me that I allowed to shrink and that began to suffocate as a result. That said, I'd like to make it clear that I like corny/commercialized holidays, i.e. Valentine's Day and also that I'm not sorry about it.

That I'm reclaiming the part of me that loves Valentine's Day probably sounds relatively insignificant, but it represents something so much bigger. I made myself so small for so long. I'm rediscovering the parts of myself that shame taught me to hide and shrink and edit. I'm rediscovering them and learning to love them. Reclaiming these things like this feels being able to breathe deeply for the first time in a long time. It feels like coming back to life.

This time last year, I was in a very different place than I am today; separated, halfway through a months long communication hiatus, constantly in or on the verge of tears, still trying to piece myself back together enough to make a decision about the fate of my marriage. My sweet family rallied around me with distraction and preventative measures in the form of gifts and breakfast dates and expensive steak dinners and bottles of wine. This year, surprisingly, I'm somewhat unfazed. I'm not sad, exactly, and I don't have the urge to destroy the Valentine's displays when I go to Target.

This feels like a pretty big victory to me.

For the longest time, I felt caught between a rock and a hard place; stuck between believing that big love exists and also feeling so bitter that it was stolen from me. Discouraged to think that maybe I never even had it in the first place. I've seen love twisted and distorted until it's completely unrecognizable. I was deceived and betrayed and lied to, supposedly because of "love." I'm still dealing with bitterness and disappointment at the unfairness of it all.

Over the last year and a half, though, I have been shown love that is bigger and deeper and more real than I've ever experienced in my life. If I'm honest, my family and handful of close friends are the main reason I believe in love at all anymore.

But I do believe in love.

I believe in love as a force. I believe in love that serves and heals and believes for good things. Love that unites the masses.

I believe in a love that is blind.

I believe in love as a decision. Love that resolves to sacrifice and negotiate and compromise.

I believe in hard love. I believe in love that exists even and especially where feelings are fleeting. I believe in love that stays. Love that fights. Love that keeps promises no matter what. Love that stands in the gap.

Do I believe in fairy tale love? Sure. A version of it, anyway. But most of the time I only believe in that love for other people. (For now).

It occurred to me recently that I don't really think of myself in terms of a relationship status. Saying that I'm single feels weird, even though it's true. Saying I'm divorced feels worse, even though that's also true. I guess I don't feel the need to assign myself a category. I'm just here; which honestly, I'm so completely okay with. I'm not anti-men or anti-dating by any means, and I'm also not pining for love. For now, I'm content, and ready for whatever comes next. Honestly, I'm surprised by how true that is.

It feels like hallowed ground.

Thoughts on Forgiveness

Sometimes forgiveness is simple.
Sometimes it can be hard and fast and over before you even have to think about it.
But sometimes it's not simple.
Sometimes the thing you're trying to forgive feels too big to even acknowledge, let alone afford the conscious thought required to process it.
Sometimes forgiveness is complicated by too many moving parts.
How do you forgive what doesn't change?
How do you forgive the person who isn't sorry they hurt you?

I'm learning that it's okay to forgive in parts when forgiving all at once feels impossible. Healing occurs gradually and in stages. Forgiveness can, too.

I'm learning that sometimes forgiveness has to be fluid. You choose it and you keep choosing it because at the end of the day, you're only human. But maybe one day you choose it, and the next you feel so much that it seems impossible again. Two steps forward, one step back is 1,000% an an acceptable model, because emotions are hard and feelings are valid and "pain demands to be felt*."

I'm also learning that forgiveness is for me more than it is for anyone else. For so long, I resisted; in part because forgiving something this big felt like letting them off easy, or like I was doing them a favor. It felt like self-betrayal. But recently, I've begun to truly appreciate what it means when they say that to withhold forgiveness is like swallowing poison and and waiting for the other person to die. It's been costing me. Whereas to forgive, to let it all go, and to move forward without any of this holding me back or weighing me down feels like the best gift I could ever give myself.

And so slowly, clumsily, I'm learning how to dance this particular dance.
Always to the tune of grace (upon grace, upon grace, upon grace).
In the name of healing;
In the name of moving forward;
And in the name of freedom.


*John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

#kailatakesLA

So, I did a thing:

I went to California.
For 3 days.
All by myself.

My primary motivation was to see my very favorite author, John Green, on his Turtles All The Way Down Tour, because unfortunately the tour didn't make any stops in or near Colorado. At first I just couldn't find anyone to go with me, but then the thought of going alone turned into this exciting, bucket list caliber idea.

I'm not exactly sure how or when I became this person who is completely comfortable traveling across the country alone, but it feels pretty great. I never even felt nervous or awkward, really. It kept reoccurring to me at semi-regular intervals, this somewhat alarming realization of what the heck I'm 1,000 miles away from home and I'm not scared and I don't hate it and I'm really enjoying myself and what is happening.

I did things I wanted to do, and I did them on my own time; it felt like this incredible gift to myself. To feel that level of confidence and independence was such a new/strange/unreal experience for me. It was all so liberating.

I ate alone in restaurants.
I took a narrated tour of the city.
I saw Justin Bieber's house (which I'm still low-key freaking out about).
I did the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
I saw John & Hank Green at the Alex Theatre for the last stop of the Turtles All The Way Down tour.
I walked around downtown L.A.
I took a shameless amount of snapchats and selfies.
I ate Sprinkles cupcakes.
I saw dolphins at Venice Beach and walked up the coast to the Santa Monica Pier.
I watched the sun set over the ocean, which is one of my all-time favorite things.
I had brunch in Pasadena with a girlfriend I went to Burkina with in January and hadn't seen since.
I even obnoxiously (and mostly satirically) live-tweeted it all with my own hashtag and everything. (Shoutout to my tweeps who totally humored me on this. You are the real MVPs)

I loved every minute of it.

I've had a hard time giving good enough words to how this experience has made me feel, I think because part of me is still pretty surprised at myself for doing it. Surprising myself has become something of a theme lately. I don't think it's a secret that I've struggled a lot and for a long time with my self-image and self-worth. I've always had this negative, condescending view of myself: I've always thought of myself as this small, anxious, fearful, insecure person, and my self-talk has always erred on the side of unforgiving and critical. The more I'm learning about myself, the more I'm understanding exactly how distorted this view has been. I'm surprising myself over and over again by proving myself wrong. My comfort zone is turning out to be so much bigger than I thought it was. I am turning out to be so much bigger than I thought I was. Honestly, I think one of the most prominent things I'm feeling right now is pride. I'm really proud of myself for doing this. It's taken me a while to call it what it is because I don't actually know the last time I felt proud of myself. It feels completely amazing.

Sometimes I don't even recognize myself anymore.

I've said these things before. Usually I say them in attempt to encourage and convince myself. But today I can confidently say that I believe them to be true:

I am brave.

I am strong.

I can do hard things.

I can do scary things.
I can do impossible things.
&

I know I'm gonna be okay.

Time & Metaphors

It's been a year, two months, and a week now. Apparently I'm still counting, and not even really on purpose anymore. It's true what they say, that trauma changes the way you perceive time. Everything gets categorized and processed as either before or after. I'm so painfully aware of the reality of my particular after; especially when it feels like all I can do is impatiently wait for it to hopefully become a different kind of before someday.

It seems like waiting is all I ever do anymore.

I have this fear that moving on and being okay will somehow invalidate what I've been through. That this earth-shattering thing that happened to me, this thing that caused my gravity to shift and damn near killed me will fade into the background and somehow become null and void. This pain, this grief has been my lens for so long now. It's changed me. It's not nearly as big and ominous as it was in the beginning, but it's still my constant reality. Maybe I'm hanging on to things I shouldn't be; maybe the grief has become too familiar. Maybe it's the uncertainty of whatever is next that scares me. Until last August, I had a pretty good idea of how my life was going to turn out. Now, my future feels like a giant question mark, and that's terrifying. Everything I thought I had is gone, and I have no way of knowing if it will ever be replaced.

Please don't misunderstand me; I want to be okay. I want to heal and be whole and fall in love again. I ache for the day that this is all a distant memory; a before that hopefully precedes something loosely resembling a happily ever after. But I'm already watching the people around me forget. It's not that I need those people to stay constantly aware of it, but I am still constantly and very aware of it. It's hard when something that still feels so huge and difficult to me is becoming a thing of the past to other people.

This morning, I got a text from my mom sharing part of her morning devotional:

"I've heard that the hardest part of running a marathon isn't the end. It's the places along the 26.2 mile route where there is no one along the path cheering. The hardest sections are those places where you feel like you could quit running and no one would even notice. I've found the same is true in life." - Adam Weber

I'm a total sucker for metaphors, and this one rings so true for me. Realistically, I know I still have people cheering me on. That's the whole reason my mom texted me, to remind me of exactly that. But right now I feel like I'm running a part of the race most people can't see. Most people don't see how hard I'm still working or how tired I'm getting or how often I still feel like giving up. But somehow, my feet are still moving beneath me and I'm still breathing. I know that my people are still cheering me on, even if that looks different now than it did when I started.

And so here, again, is where I have no choice but to dig deep and find my stride. Where I wait and where I keep waiting. Where I remind myself that I am strong and brave and I can do hard things.

Because I can do this and I will do this. Because I've been doing it. Because I am doing it.

The Wild

I may never forgive you
For releasing me back into the Wild.
For leaving me stranded,
Alone.
It was a long walk back from nowhere,
And I'm still evolving.
Some days I thrive,
But most days
I only survive to spite you.


- kb

A Letter to the Loved Ones

I need you to know that this is a thing that happens. I can’t predict when, as much as I wish I could; the timing is often just as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. It might be prompted by something someone did or said, whether it was directed at me or not. It might be the stress of an event or deadline that is rapidly (or sometimes, not so rapidly) approaching. It might be, and often is, triggered by a simple thought; a “what if?” that came from no where in particular.

I need you to know that it gets away from me. It’s something I’m familiar with, but that I’ll never get used to. A minute ago nothing was wrong, but now my mind is racing and my chest feels tight and it’s getting harder to breathe. I’m having to focus hard on this to try not to make it obvious, the breathing. But that almost always makes it worse.

There’s something else I need you to know: it’s just as much physical as it is mental. It’s my fight or flight response completely out of context. I get that it catches you off guard. I’m so sorry for that. But I need you to know that a lot of the time it catches me off guard, too. Once it starts, I can't stop it. I can't redirect and I can't focus on anything else. It swallows me whole. 

It's completely terrifying.

I need you to know that I can't always explain it. It's not that I don't want to, it's just that not all feelings have words.

I need you to know that I’m working on it. I hate it even more than you do. Even when I feel okay, part of me is wondering when it will rear its ugly head again. I feel like a ticking time bomb. I’m afraid of how it makes me feel and act, and I worry it will make us fight. I know how confusing and frustrating it can be for you.

I need you to know that this is a thing that happens, and that it’s not your fault. I understand that you’re not sure what to do with it. Neither am I. But I need you to know that it’s not your fault, and that it’s not your responsibility to fix. All I need is for you to hold my hand and tell me something true and understand that this is a thing that happens. 

I need you to know that sometimes I have panic attacks, and I need you to know that I'm doing the best I can.

(2015)

They Told Me

They told me
That over time,
I would feel less
Poisoned by you.
I didn't believe them.

They told me
That time
Would help me heal.
But they couldn't
Tell me
How much.

They told me
To stay.
To wait.
Hang on.
Just breathe.

They told me
I wasn't ruined.
They told me
It wasn't
My fault.

They told me
I deserved
The moon
And at least
Ten thousand stars.

They told me
That the sun
Would shine again.
I didn't believe them.

But they were right.

- kb

The Wave Is Not The Sea

My therapist warned me early on that the pain, grief, rage, depression, etc. would come in waves, and it's true. She also warned me that when the waves came, there was really nothing I could do except be in it and feel it. Nothing would make it go away or stop or hurt less. As pessimistic as that sounds, it's just true, and it was helpful to know that it was simply out of my hands. Numbing and distracting (for me, in the form of self-harm) were dangerous options that I was trying my best to avoid.

At first, and for a long time, the waves were huge and came one right after the other, so close together that I couldn't even come up for air or catch a break in between. I've said before that I don't have very many memories of the first couple of months, and this is why. It's virtually impossible to be mentally present anywhere when your mind and heart are under water. Very, very gradually, the waves began to spread out ever so slightly, and the more times I got knocked down, the easier it got to stand back up after it passed.

I mentioned to my therapist at one point that I felt like the waves were starting to get smaller. She countered by saying she didn't believe that wasn't true; the waves weren't getting smaller, I was getting stronger and more capable of handling them.

I came across this quote last year and it has become something of a mantra for me:

"When our days are turbulent and troubled, our challenge is to remember that the wave is not the sea."   - Mark Nepo

These words have brought me so much hope, because for so long my life was nothing but turbulent and troubled. Nothing but huge, painful, devastating waves that felt completely impossible and unbearable. I couldn't even imagine an eventual version of myself that wasn't constantly being mercilessly thrashed around and pummeled by this. It felt like everything and it felt infinity and it felt like forever. But when I take a step back and look at how far I've come in the last year, I can appreciate the truth of these words. I still have days where I have to work hard to believe them, and the occasional day where I give up believing them completely. And therein lies the challenge.

So, remember:

The wave is not the sea:
This horrible, impossible thing you are doing or feeling is not everything and it's not forever.
(Even though it absolutely feels like it. That's okay. You can't see past it when you're in it).

The wave is not the sea:
What you're experiencing now is a part of a greater whole; a chapter, not the book.

The wave is not the sea:
There is so much more. There is hope.

The wave is not the sea:
Hold on. Give it time. Don't give up.

For me, it still comes in waves, but it looks very different now than it did a year ago. While all of the pain, anger, grief, etc. persist to varying degrees, and while waves still knock me down from time to time, now I can see the horizon. Now I know I can do this rather than just hope I can. And now I'm learning to skillfully swim at depths that I never thought possible.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

On August 24th, exactly one year since learning that my worst nightmare had become a reality, and on the day that my divorce was final, my sister and I got these words tattooed. In honor of their truth and of the fight to believe them. In honor of the breaking and the healing. In honor of the wave and of the sea and of each other. In honor of surviving. In honor of hope.

the wave is not the sea

Empathy Part II

Over the past six months, I've had this shift in perspective. Walking through something so painful and so seemingly impossible has made me extremely aware of the fact that every single person I encounter is dealing with pain to some degree. Maybe it's simply having to experience this great pain, or maybe it's the handful of people who have shown me such great empathy, but these are things that I have become almost constantly aware of lately and are becoming important parts of how I love people.

1.) Say what you see. This one is so simple but has been so huge for me. A genuine, heartfelt compliment can really go a long way, especially when someone is having a bad day. If you notice someone looking especially nice that day, tell them. Noticing things like that and keeping them to ourselves doesn't serve anyone. There is absolutely no sense in having a kind thought and letting it suffocate. Release it and let its magic surprise you! Draw attention to the good things. Sometimes acknowledging the seemingly small things is enough to draw attention away from the bad ones, if even for a little bit.

2.) Tell people when they're doing a good job. This seems like an obvious thing, but I really don't think we do it enough. I'm someone who tends to get stuck in my head a lot. Having my efforts acknowledged in a positive way, even if they're an expected part of the job I do every day, is huge for me. Being told, "good job" feels a little like being told, "hey, I see you," and being seen is one of the best feelings.

2.5.) Tell other people when someone is doing a good job. Manage people up!

3.) Acknowledge the hard things. It's okay to acknowledge that what someone's dealing with is hard. Personally, it's one of the very few things I never mind hearing, because it's always true. Hearing someone say something like, "I'm so sorry this is so hard" is unbelievably validating. When someone's doing something hard, acknowledge it and remind them how great they are for doing it. This type of validation should always be paralleled by encouragement.

4.) Say true things. This one isn't just about not lying. Be intentional about honoring what's true. Speak truth and speak life.

People are fragile, but we are also resilient. I'm finding strength I never dreamed I was capable of. I'm currently learning so much about who I am, what's important to me, and what I need, and I'm beginning to see how these things impact my relationships and interactions with other people. My heightened self-awareness is turning into a heightened awareness of the people around me.

We need each other. (Pass it on).

2017

The best thing I can say about 2016 is that it's over now. It was easily the worst year of my life. Did good things happen? Yes; but unfortunately if we're making lists, the bad far outweighs the good.

In 2016, I could have checked out. I've wanted to so many times. Checking out would have been the easy thing. I could have let this big, horrible, impossible thing swallow me whole. But here I am, on the brink of 2017, about to step into something completely new. A blank slate. The clock will strike midnight, and while it won't erase 2016, it will put it where it belongs: behind me.

I'm painfully aware of the fact that the new year doesn't actually change anything. It will still be the same going to bed and waking up and going to work that I did yesterday. But I need the symbolism, because I have had to fight hard for 2017. To me, 2017 is full of possibilities and trips and bucket list check marks because I desperately need it to be. I need to believe that 2017 can be better because I can't imagine how it can possibly be worse. Every day I'm fighting and clinging so tightly to hope that it hurts, and I need the newness, even if it's simply buying a new day planner and training my brain to write a 7 instead of a 6.

This year is about healing and taking good care of me. It's about challenging myself and putting myself out there and doing things I've always wanted to do, because why not? If not now, when? Right now, so much of this new year is a giant question mark. The only things I know for sure are the very few plans I've made, which is just the way of it, but it's still completely terrifying. I have no idea how a lot of things are going to shake out. So many things that I entered 2016 believing to be true have turned out otherwise. As necessary as the newness of 2017 feels, the uncertainty of it makes my head spin.

But.

I know that I can do it because I've been doing it and I am doing it. I am living and breathing and doing this thing that feels impossible. Who I am today is so much stronger than who I was at the beginning of this year, and that's a big deal. I still have a very long way to go, which is discouraging most of the time. The shitty thing about knowing that I can do this is the reality that I have to keep doing it. But recognizing how far I've come makes me excited to keep getting better.

So, here's hoping. Cheers to the year I fought for and to doing impossible things.

Anxiety is:

Anxiety is being indecisive, because you are convinced that there is always a right choice, and you're genuinely afraid of making the wrong one.

Anxiety is walking into a room and immediately feeling like the smallest, least qualified, or least important one there. Every. Single. Time.

Anxiety is assuming and expecting the worst, no matter how much evidence to the contrary.

Anxiety is reacting physically and emotionally to a "what if" scenario that may or may not even happen.

Anxiety is frantically filling in the blanks. (Silence is loud).

Anxiety is constantly worrying that all of your worst fears will suddenly come true.

Anxiety is carrying the weight of a bad dream into your day.

Anxiety is mental, emotional, physical.

Anxiety is being afraid that other people will notice.

Anxiety is being bombarded with a constant stream of lies about your identity and self-worth, and feeling as if you have no choice but to believe them.

Anxiety is believing you're the only one, that no one else could possibly understand what it's like.

Anxiety is feeling like at any given moment you're only barely holding it together.

Anxiety is believing you fall short of every expectation. Yours, and everyone else's.



Anxiety is a lot of things and it can look different for everyone. This is what anxiety looks like from my perspective.

Thoughts from Boston to Denver

There's something about flying, about looking down at the world from 40,000 feet that always tends to put me in a philosophical mood.

The past few months have tempted me to close myself off in so many ways. In crisis mode, it's self-protect, self-protect, self-protect, and avoid any and all situations that could potentially land me here again. It's living life on chronic defense: limit and/or eliminate all potential threats. But is that fair? Is it right? Is it really any way to live?

In Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, the main character, Newt Scamander, makes a simple comment that has stuck with me ever since I saw the movie: "My philosophy is that worrying means you suffer twice." I've heard similar phrases an annoying number of times before, and most of the time I'll still tell you that "don't worry" are the two most useless words you can possibly say to an anxiety-prone person. Maybe it's because of how blunt this particular word order is, or maybe it's simply because it was written by J.K. Rowling -- regardless, and for some reason, this thought has stayed with me.

I could easily construct a shell. I could live in such a way as to eliminate as much potential for pain as possible. I could let worrying about whether or not I'll wind up hurt again dictate how I live my life. It's the safer option, and honestly, it's the more appealing one most of the time.

Or.

I could live with my heart wide open. I could allow this experience to open me up instead of close me off. I could do all the things that terrify me, knowing full well that I could eventually wind up hurt again. I could put myself out there and claim what is rightfully mine: life to the fullest.

I want to be the kind of person who believes the best in people. Who gives the benefit of the doubt. Whose vulnerability inspires vulnerability in other people. Who comes out on the other side of pain and heartache stronger, kinder, and braver instead of weak, bitter, and fearful.

I first came upon the following quote while reading Brené Brown's Daring Greatly, which I very highly recommend if you haven't read it. It paints a powerful picture and has really been challenging my way of thinking as of late.

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly..."
- Theodore Roosevelt, "Citizenship in a Republic" (emphasis mine)

This is how I want to live my life: daring greatly. Bravely. Courageously. BIG. Closing myself off would serve no one, least of all me. Could I get hurt again? Sure. But something tells me it's a risk worth taking.

Disclaimer: this is not a consistent desire right now. Most of the time I still prefer the idea of closing myself off so I never have to feel anything this terrible ever again. But I'm working on it. I don't want to live scared. I don't want to operate primarily out of fear. What's the point of a life lived carefully? I want to heal and I want every good thing life has to offer me. I want the joy that matches this deep despair. And I'll get there.

I'm already on my way.

Feeling Deeply

I am a feeler. I feel a lot of things and I feel them deeply. You could call me emotional, but I'm not sure that's entirely fair in this particular context. I am, in fact, emotional. I always have been. It might even be the truest thing about me. But I believe that I am emotional as a result of my feeling deeply. Labeling someone as "emotional" almost always has a negative connotation attached, hence the unfair part. What's wrong with feeling deeply? Can't "emotional" be a symptom of having a big heart instead of a dismissal?

I'm learning that there are a lot of different ways to carry emotion. It's not something to hide behind. For a long time I let the fact that I am "emotional" be my banner, but feeling deeply is not and cannot be an excuse for inappropriate or manipulative behavior. Emotions can be completely valid and also completely subjective. I tend to be about 80/20 when it comes to emotions and logic. I think that can be okay as long as I learn to tread wisely.

I'm currently reading Rising Strong by Brené Brown. Early on in the book, she uses the phrase "the stories we make up" pretty cavalierly, and as soon I read it, all the lights went on. It was one of my biggest ah ha! moments in a long time:

Other people do it too.

I've always referred to it as "filling in the blanks." When I'm anxious or afraid or worried, or if I don't have all the details about something, or if something's making me feel uneasy, I fill in the blanks. I make up stories with the information I don't have. This is something that has always come so easily to me. I make up stories and I believe them. I react emotionally, even physically to them. A lot of the time, once the story starts to take shape, I almost instantly accept it as truth. I behave as though it's the truth. And in my head, it makes sense (of course it does, I'm the one who made it up). But once the story is there, it's as if nothing else could possibly be true instead. There is no alternative.

This is a very dangerous and painful habit.

I've known for a while that I do this, and I've slowly been working on unlearning some bad habits. In Rising Strong, Brené talks about meetings she has with her colleagues, and how they all routinely use the phrase "this story I'm making up is..." in order to be transparent and honest with one another. She raves about how much stronger this tactic makes her team and how much respect they all have for each other's honesty. Not to mention the fact that it often helps to clear up simple misunderstandings. I'm slowly learning to do that. I'm learning to ask direct questions instead of make assumptions, and I'm learning to be honest (and sometimes blunt) about what I'm feeling or afraid of in order to be understood. It's weird and it's hard and it really goes against the grain for me. It's uncomfortably vulnerable. But the peace that follows clarifying things I don't understand and knowing what's true is infinitely better than the downward spiral that is believing the stories I make up. I'm always telling the patients I discharge, "If you're unsure about something or you have a question, don't hesitate to call your doctor. Even if it feels small or silly or it's the middle of the night, it's better to know than to wonder and worry." I'm realizing as I type this that I need to do a better job of taking my own advice. It's better to know than to wonder and worry.

Although maybe on varying levels, making up stories is something we all do. Knowing that feels so unbelievably validating. Acknowledging and understanding it for what it is is huge, and it feels like a big step forward for me. It feels like getting better.

The thing about feeling deeply is that while I feel things for valid reasons, I also feel deeply as a result of the stories I make up. It's emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausting, and at times it has caused me hurt the people I love. To feel deeply, whether a blessing or a curse, inevitably results in feeling deep pain. I often scrape the bottom of the barrel, so to speak. But I want to believe that that means that my emotional range goes both ways, that I am also capable of feeling joy unspeakable.

I'm learning, and it's helping me hope.

I Can See the Sun

I need to believe in better things
All I can see is the ocean inside of me
And I'm drowning
I never meant to need so much
Or be so hard to love
All I've ever wanted is to be whole

Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun

Is silence too much to ask for?
I only hear the ghosts that haunt me
And they're screaming
I didn't hear you whispering my name until you stopped
I need you more than ever now

Tell me something true
Give me something to hold on to
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun
On a good day, I can see the sun

Please don't go
Say you'll never leave
This heart is much too heavy
Will you hold it for a while?
Because I'm drowning
But I can see the sun

- k.n.

(2015)

Broken

This morning I read a devotional by Ann Voskamp and came across this thought:

"Never be afraid of being a broken thing...unless a seed breaks, there is no life."

I have two initial reactions to this:

The first is encouragement, because I feel so broken. I so badly want life to come from this brokenness, and I want to be comforted by believing it will come. But the second reaction is bigger and is exactly the opposite: discouragement, because I feel so broken. There is a lot of fear surrounding that for me. It's so much easier to say something like "don't be afraid of being broken" if you're not broken, or if you were broken a long time ago. But if you're in the thick of it? When every single day feels like the waves are beating you against the rocks, but you can't escape and you can't drown? When your only option is just to feel it?

The small part of my heart that is capable of hope loves this idea. But my heart is still very much in the breaking process, and a large part of me feels like this statement belittles that in some ways. I want this break to result in life, I'm just not in a place where I can see that yet. One of the hardest things in the world for me has been hoping for something that I can't believe is true. Hoping for life and healing when all evidence is to the contrary, when all I feel is pain and anger and grief. And I find myself wondering, what good has getting my hopes up ever done me anyway?

My perspective on this flips constantly. This is far and away the hardest thing I've ever done. I've never hurt this badly. Pessimism and hopelessness are so easy, and they're comfortable. Familiar. I am grieving, heartbroken, and angry all at once. There is absolutely no pattern or system, so I never know how I'm going to wake up feeling, or when it's going to change, or when something will trigger some random memory or realization to add to the giant pile of things I'm having to process. I never knew it was possible to feel and believe two (or more) completely opposing emotions at the same time. Let me tell you, it absolutely is. Most of the time I feel completely crazy.

But there are glimmers of hope. When I feel discouraged, and when I think about how impossible this all seems, and when I don't feel like I'm strong enough, I remember that I am doing this thing that feels impossible. I've been doing it for months now. Has it been pretty? Not even close. Have I done and said things I regret? Absolutely. But I am stumbling, tripping, falling, and crawling my way through this the only way I know how. One minute at a time. I'm stronger now than I was in August. Knowing that is encouraging, but also exhausting, because I still have a long way to go. But I'm doing it.

When I think about a seed breaking and a sprout forcing it's way out of that hard shell, I think there's no way that wouldn't be painful. Probably unbearable, actually, if plants felt pain. But the process is necessary and the result is worth it.

And I so desperately hope that's true for me too.

Title

even so

I struggle with pretty significant anxiety, and I have for a long time. I remember several months ago, my anxiety got so bad that I started to tell myself that even if all of my worst fears came true, and even if every "what if?" turned out to be real, it wouldn't kill me. I would be okay. I would survive. I can very clearly remember sitting on the back patio one evening and telling this to my husband, and even saying that I thought it would be cool to get a tattoo that said "even if." (The fact that I remember this so well is saying something, because due to the fact that my anxiety tends to make my entire thought process blurry, I don't usually form very clear memories). Even if was my banner, and sometimes telling myself this was all that could get me through a bad day or a panic attack: the simple thought of, "At least I won't die."

In August, my worst nightmare turned out to be a reality. Every single fear was confirmed, every single "what if?" was validated.

There are still times when it feels like this is killing me. It has actually occurred to me that this might be what dying feels like. I am convinced that it is.

But I am alive.

Sometimes it feels like the only thing I have going for me is the fact that I'm not dead. But then when you think about it, even if that were true, being alive in and of itself is a pretty big deal.

I am alive.

My even if became an even so. It's been almost three months, and here I am. Sometimes barely, but here just the same.

This thing feels completely impossible, but I'm doing it. When it feels like I can't do it anymore, I remind myself that I am doing it. I've been doing it. I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

I have watched my entire life and everything I thought was real burn to the ground around me.

Even so, I am alive.

Even so, I am standing up under this.

Even so, I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

Even so, I will heal.

Even so, I will be okay.

Self-Love & Superhero PJs

Before I left for Cancun back in September, my sister bought me a pair of superhero pajamas for my trip. They are super cute, and I tend to love all things Marvel; plus I wanted something to sleep in that wasn't an old t-shirt from high school. But beyond that, I've found that there is something strangely symbolic to me about wearing superhero pajamas to bed as I stumble along doing this thing that feels impossible. Nights are still generally the hardest, but back in September they were so much worse. I wasn't sleeping. If I did sleep, it was a direct result of crying so hard and for so long that I was too physically drained to stay awake. When I slept, I had nightmares. It is for this reason that wearing superhero pajamas feels symbolic. They make me feel like I can do it. Maybe that's silly and dorky, but I am silly and dorky, and I kind of love that about myself. Yesterday, I bought a second pair of superhero pajamas. I'm a big believer in retail therapy, so purchasing them gave me a little burst of happy. Putting them on last night gave me another little burst of happy. I live for my little bursts of happy these days.

Let me explain: My life right now is a big, messy cycle of emotions and questions. Grief, anger, despair, fear, hopelessness...just to name a few. Life really is like a box of chocolates, only in my case it's that you never know when the entire box is going to spontaneously combust. My thoughts, emotions, and questions feel like a constant and literal weight, and they tend to cast a shadow over everything. I'm learning to be okay with the fact that right now, it is what it is, and there's not much I can do except the next thing. All that to say, I still find things to laugh about or that temporarily lift my spirits, and that is a big deal. These are my little bursts of happy. Sometimes it's just a moment or a flicker, and sometimes it sticks around a little longer than that. I am so grateful for them all the same. My little bursts of happy are also my little bursts of hope.

My superhero pajamas are not necessary for me to make it through the night. But they help. They are a simple statement to myself of, "I'm strong and I can do this." Wearing them is such a small thing, but it's something I can do to improve my mood. It's me taking care of me, and that is an act of self-love. The self-love thing is new to me, but it is so important and so necessary. Especially now.

Great Pain

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.

And yet.

Here I am. I suppose that "creating" technically applies to what's happening here, but my emphasis tends to be on the great pain as opposed to the great art. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have hopes and dreams for this, but as a general rule, hopes and dreams feel more like a "someday" thing to me as of late. So for now, let's just call this what it is: a start.

So far, my great pain has not inspired me to channel whatever creative energy is lurking within me. Perhaps that will change. I hope it does. For now, though, my great pain is doing a stand-up job of making itself known, every minute of every day. As one of my all-time favorite authors writes, "Pain demands to be felt." No five words have ever felt truer to me than these. However, most of the time, there isn't any verbiage (in the English language, anyway) that could adequately describe what I'm feeling. Assigning words makes it feel smaller than it is. Containable. Words don't even begin to do it justice.

And yet.

Here I am, dedicating a blog to the seemingly indescribable. Is that ridiculous? Maybe. Is it 1:04 in the morning? Yes. Yes, it is. I'm not entirely sure how or where this will go. Maybe poorly and nowhere, but maybe great and somewhere important. I don't have anything to lose, so I'm going for it. Shooting for the moon, if you will.

Maybe that in itself qualifies as great art.