This Moment.

An active mind can be a tyrant. I’ve spent a great deal of my life living on a cerebral level, always immersed in the thoughts that buzz like bees through the hive that is my brain. The bees themselves are not the problem. It is my attachment to these constant thoughts, doubts, judgments that keep me forever pulled in a thousand different directions. I imagine a little girl holding tight to the strings of several kites that are being tossed about in the winds of a storm raging above.

I find solace occasionally in Buddhist meditation and/or mindfulness practices which teach me to view my thoughts as passing clouds, acknowledging them as they pass by, but letting them go just as quickly. I’m taught to ground myself in something sensory, an anchor, such as my own pulse or rhythmic breathing. It helps, it does, but it is a practice I have yet to strengthen. And patience is not my strongest asset.

I yearn so much to be present in this moment. What life must be like for monks or other spiritual gurus who spend their lives pursuing to live there, in the present moment. How much more do they experience when they are not distracted by the noise of their minds? How much more salient are their senses? How much deeper are their capacities to feel? How much more peace do they feel on a daily basis?

Laying in bed with a beautiful person, I want so much to be there and only there, in that bed, with their energy wrapped so lovingly around me and yet, I can feel myself being pulled away. They tap my forehead with the pads of their fingers, asking me where I am. “I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. I want to be with them, completely present, in this moment. But the humming bees in my head have other plans.

The best I can do, I suppose, is try everyday to do better. Look out the window and collect the various shades of green created by the sun shining through the leaves on the trees. Ride the waves of dynamics in the concerto that sings through my earbuds. Taste the simultaneous bitterness and sweetness in a bite of dark chocolate. Relish the storm of goosebumps that rise in the wake of another’s fingertips tracing across my skin.

Presence. When did it become such a novel idea to be completely and consciously here? How do we find our way back to the present moment?

Still Standing

There’s a lot of merit to the Bob Marley quote: “You never know how strong you are until being strong if your only choice.”

Over the last year, I’ve continued my maladaptive behavior of overly leaning on others. And once again, I’ve been burned.

As a friend of mine says, we swing on a pendulum of opposites. Black and white. Hot and cold. Surrounded or alone. In my case, before I sought recovery, I leaned on no one and didn’t let anyone get close enough to really know me, to see the pain behind my eyes. I didn’t know what it was like to trust anyone, but myself (and even that relationship was far from honest). I wore an armor so thick that, at times, I could hardly find the “real” me beneath it. She very nearly disappeared before I gave her a chance to be known.

In recovery, we have no choice but to ask for help, to grow a network of those with whom we can confide in. We unleash years of secrets, bare our souls so long hidden in the dark. It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever been and it was terrifying. But alas, I did learn to trust others – a feat I never imagined possible. The more comfortable and safe I felt in the company of others, however, the less I felt capable of standing on my own two feet. I leaned so hard on others (and typically on one particular “safe person”) that the weight was too much for them. They had to let me go before their own feet began to sink in the soil.

It’s a lesson I’ve had to learn the hard way, the painful way. But I think I’m finally beginning to understand. “Balance” has always been such an ambiguous and elusive word for me. It’s been a mythical state that to me, felt inaccessible. But I believe I’m getting closer.

In the sudden removal of the ability to lean on one person, I’ve been forced to lean on myself. It. Has. Been. Terrifying. But you know what? I’m still fucking standing. Somewhere in the last few years, I’ve grown some strength of my own. Like a little girl without her training wheels, I’ve finally found steadiness inside myself. That seemingly-illusory idea of balance may actually exist.

Sitting with a friend yesterday, verbally processing the painful detachment I’ve felt over the last couple of weeks, I came to the realization that I am, indeed, okay. I may even, dare I say, be strong. I’ve never felt such gratitude.

I’m strong. I’m strong, because I have to be – but that doesn’t mean I can’t celebrate the hell out it. And I certainly intend to.

Love and hope to all still struggling.

 

Signs

Life is full of signs.

It’s been a stressful, emotional and tiring day. I’ve spent a large part of it focusing on what’s gone wrong. I’ve dwelled in insecurity, loneliness, fear for the future. I’ve worried about people and events outside of my control. I’ve cursed my luck and pitied myself for unfortunate things that happen. I’ve even gotten to the point where I’ve considered escaping through an unhealthy behavior. It was at this point that I started to notice some signs…

• I was rear-ended this afternoon on my way to an appointment, but slid forward on the ice beneath my tires slightly, the impact causing me to slide, but not to crash.

Instead of a head injury, I have only a stiff neck.

Just an icy road, or a sign?

• My head aching and my heart hurting, I sat in the dark watching TV. As my thoughts, too, filled with darkness, the lamp next to me turned on without a switch.

An electrical malfunction, or a sign?

• As my inner monologue repeated to me that I had no purpose, that no one cared… I was brought outside of myself by a message from a treatment friend asking me for help. The gift of service never fails to remind me that this is about so much more than just me.

A coincidental message, or another sign?

• At school today, in a moment of desperation, seeking an escape… My eyes fell upon a message of hope on the wall of the ladies’ restroom:

In psychology, we talk a lot about whether behaviors or events happen for a reason or whether they are simply due to chance. Statistics usually determine the answer to that question. But in life, I find that it’s up to us. Do I believe these signs (if that’s what they are) to be the mere result of chance? I don’t know, really. But whatever they are, they give me hope… and that means something.

…Life is full of signs.

Sometimes, it just takes a minute to notice them for what they are.

A Painful Purpose

Some of what I learn in Psychology is common-sense, facts that we would likely deduce from everyday knowledge and from daily experience of the world around us. Sometimes, though, when I come across it in a textbook or hear it in lecture, I’m surprised by how obvious something is when I haven’t already consciously recognized it. It makes so much sense that I find it shocking that it took so much time until now for psychologists and scientists to make the solid claim.

For example, I read the other day that there is evidence backing the idea that depression holds evolutionary purpose, that perhaps, it exists for a reason. I’ve always looked at this mood element of my history and recovery as confusing and often without precedence. When I would feel depressed, I would often find it difficult to come up with a reason for why I felt that way. Where did this cumbersome and draining emotional state come from? Was there an event in the recent past that led up to it? Is there a hidden resentment, fear or repressed emotion that is causing me to have these depressive symptoms? What is it that’s weighing me down so much that it takes all of my strength to get out of bed in the morning, to concentrate on my studies or daily routine, to engage in conversation or to escape from my own perilous thoughts? It would anger me so much to not have a definitive cause or reason for feeling this way.

But it turns out, there was a reason. It was just hiding beneath the surface of my awareness. My depression was alerting me to the need for change.

Evolutionary psychology focuses on the human behaviors that evolve or continue throughout generations for the purpose of maintaining the survival of our species. For survival, we have basic needs like food, water, safety and reproduction. We also have certain internal processes that encourage us to pursue these needs. Depending on our roles and relationships with others, some of us developed stronger aggressive tendencies which could be used for purposes such as protection of property, territory or families. Even a level of neuroticism and anxiety could be healthy because it keeps us alert of possible dangers, allows us to predict situations in which we may be vulnerable to threats, etc.

However, it was more difficult for me to consider that depression could actually serve a purpose in survival. In the extreme sense and in cases when it lasts for extended periods of time, depression is a painful, isolating, burdensome illness. I’ve dealt with depression since my early teens (and probably earlier) and I’ve been diagnosed in the past with Major Depressive Disorder. Depression came in unpredictable waves during which I saw no way out. I coped with the pain through unhealthy behaviors, trying everything to tear a hole in this blanket of darkness that seemed to trap me and keep me separated from the outside world. For months to years at a time, I would feel physically weighed down by my depression, every small movement using up all of my energy and resources. After dealing with it for most of my life, I grew tired and weary of the strength it took at times to merely exist. It seems counterintuitive, therefore, that depression could actually help me. How could this depression actually serve a purpose in keeping me alive when all I wanted to do while in the midst of it was give up?

As I’ve learned in recovery and sobriety, however, desperation is often what we need to finally look for a solution. If I look at my past with depression alone, I’m sure I hit several different rock bottoms along the way, each one leaving me lower and more desperate than the last. But I do believe that it was those bottoms that alerted me to the fact that I needed help, that without them, I would have continued to dig my way out of this life.

Evolutionary psychologists have considered depression and pain, itself, to be a signal that something needs fixing. Like when you place your hand on a hot stove, the searing burn forces you to acknowledge that you’re being harmed, that you need to move. In that perspective, depression is a similar sign to change. As our nerve endings scream at us to remove our hands from the stove, perhaps our depression is also trying to tell us to move…to fix what needs fixing…to heal what’s been broken.

Though extreme cases can lead us into prolonged periods of depression, brief spurts of depression might be a signal that our bodies need rest and recuperation. That heaviness in our limbs, those storms of tears, that throbbing pain in our hearts… all of these might be signs that we need rest, we need time to process and to feel, we need to step back from life and to recognize what isn’t working, what needs to be changed in order for us to survive and prosper.

I’m grateful to study something that not only helps me to understand general human behavior, but also to better understand myself. I’ve often regretted the years I’ve spent immersed in my addictions and depression. I often spend a lot of time dwelling on the self-centered question of “why me?” But now I can consider the fact that perhaps those years of struggle actually helped me to take pause, to consider where that path was leading me and as a result, to change my route. Perhaps my depression led me to the point of desperation that in the end, alerted me to what needed to be fixed.

Perhaps the illness that I thought would lead to my death actually proved instrumental in helping me to reclaim my life.

Fight or Flight

I had a lecture yesterday about various brain structures and their functions in an individual’s personality. It was interesting to see how a certain part of the brain or the activity of a particular brain system could be the foundation of our personalities, our identities. The brain not only keeps us alive, coordinates physiological functions, enables us to attend to our basic needs… it also works differently in each of us, develops certain areas to be stronger or more active than they might be in someone else. Certain attributes we relate to ourselves are based in the chemical and structural makeups of this complex and vital organ. Even though I’m a person who appreciates the abstract, the aesthetic and meaningful, I can also revel at the intricacies involved in the human brain, this wrinkled, flesh-colored, slimy piece of anatomy that’s both inherently the same and vastly unique in every single one of us.

One part of the lecture in particular, caught my attention. It was about the brain structure called the amygdala. The speaker referred to this part as the basis of our personal defense system. It’s believed to control our emotional reactions to certain environmental stimuli, enabling the decision-making process involved in our “fight or flight” responses. For example, early in our ancestry, if we were walking in the woods at night and we heard a rustling of leaves behind us, that stimulus (the sound) would cause us to go on alert, to consider our options whether it be to turn and fight or to find an escape route.

Something that the lecturer said stuck in my mind: “The amygdala is biased towards the negative.” He meant that though this part of the brain reacts to both positive and negative encounters in life, it’s more likely to anticipate a threat. For obvious reasons, I can understand why we evolved this way. During times when humans were running amongst wild animals and predators, we needed to be constantly on guard, to be aware and to even expect danger at all times. Even today, it’s necessary to be wary of our environments. We look both ways before crossing the street, right? If we didn’t, we might not see an oblivious driver approaching the crosswalk at 30 mph.

In some ways, it’s practical to expect the negative. Fear serves a purpose: survival. It’s natural. Biological.

Society, however, has primed us to look at fear as cowardly, as weak. Condescending words are used such as: “spineless,” “baby,” “wimp,” “scaredy-cat,” “chicken,” or my least favorite, “pussy.” Of course, I don’t deny that bravery is admirable. I see beauty and inspiration when someone overcomes a fear and conquers a personal obstacle. But sometimes, media portrays bravery as involving no thought or hesitation. Disney shows the prince in Sleeping Beauty jumping into battle against a fire-breathing dragon without a moment’s contemplation of his potential demise. Most displays of heroism give no insight into the internal decision-making, probable fear and trepidation that precede those bold and valorous actions. If the hero is human and has a brain (and therefore, an amygdala), it’s almost impossible that the character performed this heroic act without thought or consideration of the consequences.

If the prince was real and was put into a situation in which he had the option to be brave and to save the princess, would he actually do it? Or would he retreat, jump back on his horse and ride off into the sunset?

If he chose the latter, would we blame him? Would we call him “cowardly”? If we choose to judge him for his choice to flee rather than fight, maybe we should consider the situation and how we would respond.

Don’t get me wrong, I like watching those predictably-heroic scenes as much as the next person. They’re intense. They’re exciting. They’re in a way, inspiring. I do wish, however, that heroes and heroines could be portrayed in a more realistic light. Perhaps, when they’re in the midst of battle, the directors could emphasize his or her fear. Shaking hands. Sweat. Buckling knees. Tears. Racing hearts. Screams of terror.

Because the real bravery isn’t in the act, itself. It’s in overcoming the natural, biological and emotional fear which lives inside every human brain. True bravery isn’t in impulsivity, it’s when we’re fully aware that we are terrified and yet, we believe enough in the cause that we see the threat of danger or death as worth the sacrifice.

We are wired physiologically and psychologically to be fearful creatures, to anticipate threats in our environment, to be wary and cautious at all times. It’s this very part of our nature that has likely allowed our species to survive.

Why then, do we criticize ourselves and others for being afraid?

After all, every single one of us has a brain, and therefore, has a natural tendency to feel fear. By saying it’s “weak” to be afraid, they’re saying the same of every person with a brain.

Fear is far from weakness. It is a strength of survival. It is often fear itself that keeps us alive in the end.

Pieces

In treatment, I became very close with a older woman who had what’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder (what used to be called Multiple Personality Disorder). I won’t use her real name, so let’s call her Debbie. From Wikipedia: “DID is a mental disorder on the dissociative spectrum characterized by at least two distinct and relatively enduring identities or dissociated personality states that alternately control a person’s behavior, and is accompanied by memory impairment for important information not explained by ordinary forgetfulness.” Yes, Debbie had multiple personalities. I met three that were separate parts of herself that came out when she was stressed or fearful. Sometimes she went to sleep as herself and woke up as someone else. Sometimes, mid-conversation, her behavior and body language would suddenly change dramatically as if she’d spontaneously transformed into another person. It was hard to predict who would show up on a daily basis or when she would turn into someone else.

Debbie, herself, was a very shy and insecure person, though incredibly sweet and caring. She has the biggest heart, supporting and loving each and every one of us, but always neglecting to love herself. She felt like a burden to her loved ones for the pain and stress she caused them and as a result, had learned to view herself as nothing more than a nuisance. One of the personalities was a more outgoing and bubbly version of Debbie. We’ll name her “Deb.” Deb was very confident and strong-willed. It seemed that she would take pride in overcoming Debbie in order to become the dominant personality for however long she was present. She was the bully, the conquerer, the dictator. Honestly, Deb scared me. She would make comments about her hatred for Debbie, calling her weak and inferior. At one point when I was talking with her, Deb threatened to kill Debbie.

Another personality that we’ll call “Deborah,” was a quiet and orderly person. She was constantly active, tidying the common room, putting away books and papers, throwing away trash. I didn’t see her as much as Deb, but when she was around, she would barely speak aside from saying short sentences like, “I need to clean,” “I’ll put that away,” “I can do that.”

The final personality that I met was that of a little girl. I only met her once and when I did, she was crying and shaking in my arms. It’s believed that DID evolves from childhood abuse of some kind, some trauma that seemingly broke the person’s identity into several pieces, like shards of broken glass. I believe that was true in Debbie’s case (though she claimed to remember nothing traumatic in her childhood), because on the night that I met this little girl, another woman in the treatment center had thrown a tantrum and started throwing things at the walls. When Debbie heard a loud bang, she suddenly shrieked, grabbed a hold of my arm and pulled me into an abandoned corner of the building in which we were lodged. She cowered in the shadows and pulled me into a tight hug, burying her head in my shoulder. I felt the tears seep through the fabric of my shirt. Every time she heard a noise or a footstep, she would whimper and jump. Over and over, in a tiny child-like voice, she would murmur “no, no, no.” I could tell from the shuddering of her body that shook my own with its sobs, that she was utterly terrified. It seemed from the occasional darting of her eyes and glances over her shoulder that she was waiting for someone, perhaps a past abuser.

My experience with Debbie was both frightening and heartbreaking. I loved this woman dearly and still do. She is such a beautiful, kind-hearted and gentle person whom I will always cherish having had the chance to know. She was a comfort to me during the most difficult part of my life whilst in treatment. She was my best friend behind those locked doors. I hated seeing her suffer. It pained me so much to tell her about times when she had been a different personality, events and periods of which she had no recollection whatsoever. The fear and shame in her eyes for being the way she was broke my heart even further than it had already been broken.

I’m writing about Debbie’s story not only to spread awareness about the reality and hardships experienced by those with mental illness, but also because I’ve found that I actually relate to her in many ways. Of course, I rarely dissociate or have periods of lost time, nor do I have personalities that are noticeably not my own or that exist completely outside of my consciousness… But I have felt as if there are different parts of myself that think and act in different ways. For example, I’ve struggled with dislodging what I’ve come to call my “sick identity,” that which wants me to stay in my addictions and disorders until they kill me. This identity abuses me in every way possible: verbally, psychologically, spiritually and physically. She didn’t want me to survive. She didn’t want me to feel joy, peace, hope. She wanted me dead. In recovery, I started to develop my healthy identity, that which could find small pieces of value in myself, appreciate my skills and talents. I started to consider that I deserved to live, to enjoy things, to love and be loved. Since then, it has felt sort of like two separate personalities. Certain days, I would hate myself and others, I would be okay with the person I was becoming. Sometimes, I would act on behaviors and hours later, I would feel regret and anger at the part of myself that motivated those behaviors. Thankfully, the healthy part of myself seems to becoming more and more dominant as I gain more time in recovery and sobriety. That other part of me, however, is not so easily subdued. She comes out from time to time, her voice echoes in my mind, egging me on to use behaviors or to drink.

Another part of Debbie’s story that I found relevant in my own life is the treatment for her condition, for DID. Therapists don’t necessarily intend to rid the person of these other personalities. Instead, they seek to integrate them, to unite them into one, solid identity. In a way, I feel like I have the same goal. I don’t really want to rid myself of my sick self completely. Though yes, she hurt me, she abused me, she damn near killed me… she also, in a way, saved me. My behaviors and using, though unhealthy in the long run, kept me alive in the moment, helped me to cope with what seemed to be unbearable. They were the only tools I had, the only ways I knew how to deal with pain and distress. Had I not had these behaviors, I might not have been able to endure the pain. I might have given up long ago. They made me feel secure the way order made Deborah feel secure, they made me feel confident the way jokes and attention made Deb feel that way, they made me feel protected the way hiding made the little girl feel protected. The irony in addiction is that what makes us feel safe is actually killing us. We just don’t know any better.

So instead of erasing that part of myself, I want to hold onto parts of her. I want to appreciate her for doing the best she could to help me to endure, to survive. I want to use her determination, focus and commitment towards recovery. I want to remember her and honor her, because though I no longer need her behaviors, she will always be a part of me. In the end, she has made me stronger.

I’m so grateful for having met “Debbie.” She showed me that hope can live on in the midst of the most desperate and agonizing circumstances. She showed me that despite having these illnesses, disorders, or addictions, we don’t have to let them define us. We are still ourselves underneath all of the pain and confusion.

Though so many of us are broken and fragmented due to our pasts, hope is the glue that can put all of the pieces back together. It is possible to become whole again.