Tug-of-War

It’s a game of tug-of-war.

A part of me holds each end.

It’s a constant fight…

Between wanting to be seen or to hide.

To indulge or to restrict.

To act or to sleep.

To control or be controlled.

To be loved or to be left alone.

To live or to die.

The rope is taut.

Tensed.

Being pulled evenly from both sides.

If either team lets go…

The other will fall.

But both sides are me.

If either falls, I will feel the bruise.

My own head will hit the ground.

The scraped knee will sting my heart.

But the game has to end.

My strength wanes.

I now only have enough to pull a single side.

And the rope wears thin.

Eventually, it will break in the middle.

Frayed, unraveled, broken.

But a severed rope might set me free.

From this unending game.

Of tug-of-war.

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.

Playing ‘Pretend’

I used to love to play “House” as a kid. My sisters and I played all of the time, constantly making up make-believe scenarios of these exciting and successful lives. We used to draw two-dimensional houses with chalk on the black-top driveway. I’d have my own apartment with my own kitchen, TV room and bedroom. I remember having pink and blue marks all over my blue jeans from lying in my chalk-drawn bed.

My sisters and I were always pretending. We were fortunate enough to have several dolls, barbies and beanie babies. We could play in the attic with our toys for hours on end, immersed in our fairytale worlds where nothing mattered but our own imaginations. Reality seemed to melt away alongside these alluring lives that we’d created inside our heads. Pretending was my reality back then. I spent almost every second of every day escaping from my own life to partake in that which was make-believe.

And you know what? I’m not sure I ever stopped.

That skill of escaping reality and “pretending” has proved very useful in my life as well as harmful. I learned to hide my real feelings, my real fears and worries inside my own head. It’s as if I turned myself inside-out. I pulled what was real, hurting, insecure inside to be hidden for years and pushed out this imaginary self that was perfect, unfeeling. Pretending was no longer a game. I was pretending to be someone that pleased everyone else. I was pretending to be okay.

Over the past year, I’ve been trying to stop the charade. I’ve been trying to dig deep inside myself, to release that which is true and genuine, to unveil the pain and emotion that I’ve repressed for most of my life. I’ve succeeded in letting some of it out, but parts still remain hidden. It’s almost as if I’ve buried them too deep for me to even reach. I fear that I may have even lost those parts of myself forever. As a result, I feel like I’m struggling to fill the missing pieces with validation from others. I wait for someone else to tell me if what I’m saying, doing or being is okay, acceptable. But I don’t really decide for myself.

Though I’m making progress towards becoming whole again, I still feel fragmented. I still catch myself pretending, acting as if everything is okay when it’s not. Around family, I refuse to confess that I’ve been struggling with my disorders again, that I’ve been depressed and lonely. They have so much confidence in me and I don’t want them to lose that. I want them to keep believing in me so that maybe one day, I can, too.

So here I am again, pretending. Smiling. Acting cheerful and worry-free. Laughing and joking. Some of it’s real, I think. But I still feel the pain beneath. I’m hurting. I’m struggling.

And I’m not sure how much longer I can go on pretending.

I may be fooling some, but I know the truth.

You can’t play pretend with yourself.

Someone Cares.

Pain

That’s the thing about pain. It demands to be felt.

John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

Blooming from Concrete

I try to give most of my posts a positive spin, because I know we each already have our own ongoing dismal commentary on life, constantly critical of ourselves, focusing on the negative. I like to spread the hope, not the fear or despair. But the truth is, recovery isn’t always hopeful, life isn’t always positive. There are heartbreaks. There are losses. There are times when you have little hope for the future.

Like life, recovery isn’t perfect and we shouldn’t expect it to be. Perfect isn’t real.

And though it’s important to have hope so that we can motivate ourselves to pursue health, it’s also important to occasionally acknowledge the pain. It helps us to either remember what it was like and try to prevent the past from reappearing in the present or by looking at the current distress, it can help us to see what needs to change. Pain can be a propellant, a catalyst for growth, like a flower struggling to grow through a crack in the concrete. The flower saw the light and reached out from the dark.

My point is, I don’t want to portray this image of a “perfect” recovery story. My story is far from perfect. I’m far from perfect. I’ve had many a relapse, many a slip and fall. And at many of those times, I haven’t wanted to get up, but I did. I’m still standing. And honestly, I write hope into my posts because I’m trying to believe it, myself. The hope is there for those who read and for me, who writes it. But if you’re not ready to take it, to believe, I get it. We all recover at our own pace. Just don’t forget that it’s there. It’s always there.

A Little Freudian Wisdom…