Better, Not Bitter

  

Scars

It’s taken me a lifetime to realize this, but I’ve learned now that life isn’t about the scars. Sure, we get hurt, burned, stabbed, bruised, broken and damaged. And it’s important to give ourselves time to heal, to bandage the cuts, to rest and take care of ourselves. But it’s also important to remember that life is about more than healing. It’s about more than surviving. We shouldn’t live life by “getting through it.” We should live life to live.

For the last several years, probably longer, I’ve looked in the mirror and seen my scars. I’ve focused my eyes on the parts of me that were damaged, often because I needed to. I needed to acknowledge that I was hurting, in pain. But it’s time to move that focus. I’ve spent a long time healing what was broken. I’ve given myself time to recover, to rest. And though I’ll never be perfect, I’ll never be invincible, it’s important that I also realize that I am capable, I am strong.

Just as I can look at my body and see the scars that mar it’s surface, I can also appreciate all of the skin that isn’t, all of myself that remains untouched. I can also look at the places that once hurt and see that though they once bled, they are now healed. They may still sting at the touch, but they no longer agonize me the way they used to. They will always remind me of what I’ve been through, but today, they can also remind me of how far I’ve come. Just as new skin has grown over my cuts, so too, have I.

We are more than our scars.

I am more.

And it’s time for me to believe that.

Migration

It’s usually at this time of year that I start to envy the birds as they migrate.

…envy for the freedom of taking flight and leaving the world behind.

…envy for the escape from the familiar, the routine, the people, feelings, events that hold me captive.

…envy for the ability to flee from my problems.

But today, though I still have problems, I don’t feel the need to flee. When I look at the sky and see the v-shaped migrations flying south, I’m no longer filled with envy. I no longer need an escape. I no longer feel trapped. I no longer see the appeal in ignoring my reality, in abandoning my life.

Though there’s beauty in the idea of traveling the world, the wind beneath my wings, led by my instincts and innate sense of direction, I’ve realized something. I’ve realized that what I envied all along in the bird migrations at this time of year was…change. I wanted change. I needed change.

Birds migrate for several reasons: tropical food sources, breeding and safe habitats for offspring, avoidance of predators, or inability to survive in certain climate changes. As it gets colder, some species of birds don’t have the plumage (feather insulation) to survive low temperatures. Every one of these reasons supports one thing: survival.

…and like the birds, we need to change to survive.

The past was my winter. The dysfunction of my addictions created a habitat that was unlivable, perilous. The more I stayed in that noxious environment, the more feathers I lost, the colder and sicker I became. I envied the birds then, because I envied change. I wanted to fly away, because I knew I didn’t belong where I was.

But today, the sight of a bird flying south reminds me of the changes that I’ve already made in my own life, the battles I’ve fought for myself, for my own survival. If I look back to a year ago, so much has changed not only in my life, but inside of myself. I’ve grown stronger, less afraid, less doubtful and self-loathing. I’ve built up my feathers and know now that I can survive another winter if it comes again.

I’m alive today because I’ve changed.

I no longer look to the skies in envy…

…because I know today, I no longer need to fly away to change.

I have been flying for years and across great distances… but today, I’m grounded in the present. I anticipate change and I embrace it with every new day. Because I know today, that change is what keeps me alive. Change is survival.

…and I intend to keep surviving.

Falling Leaves

“Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.” – Chad Sugg

Fall is my favorite season. I love the coolness in the air, just enough to require a light jacket. Fireplaces are kindled for the first time all year. Corn mazes, apple orchards, haunted houses. Lattes are spiced with a bite of cinnamon and pumpkin. But my favorite part is the autumnal foliage that decorates the trees wherever I go.

At other times of the year, the scenery can be so easily overlooked. We grow so used to the green shades of spring and summer that it seldom draws our attention. In Fall, though, you can’t glance out the window without your gaze being caught by the many hues of burnt orange, ruby red or gold. Their beauty demands to be noticed.

I grew curious the other day about the function of the changing colors. Why do the leaves change just before they fall from their branches? Aside from providing the world’s inhabitants with a masterpiece on which to feast our eyes, what purpose does this transition serve to the world, to nature? I read in an article that much is still unknown about the purpose of the autumnal pigment of a leaf (anthocyanin), but that it comes about when a tree experiences environmental stress, such as a drop in temperature. It’s thought that the darker shade may be a form of protection against the cold, an insulation of sorts. I found this idea beautiful.

As I believe to be true for people, leaves are the most beautiful when they are vulnerable. When we encounter the stress of a changing environment, as leaves do often in the autumn, we use our inner strength to protect ourselves. But that strength requires vulnerability, accepting that we are powerless to stop the world from changing. And with that acceptance, we cope in whatever ways we can.

Maybe, we stay the same.

Maybe, we fall.

And maybe, we use the strength inside to change along with the world around us.

A woman at work described Fall bitterly as “the season when everything dies.” I replied, “well, at least it dies beautifully.” She smiled and agreed, “the world’s last ‘hoorah.'” What a perfect phrase to describe this season. Sure, the leaves may be dying and falling to the ground one by one. But damn, do they go out strong. Fall, to me, is also a metaphor for hope. Because though it may signal the death of the leaves before the coming of winter, it does not mean the death of their hosts, the trees. There is hope that in the spring, new leaves will grow, flowers will blossom. So in a way, autumn symbolizes death with the promise of rebirth.

It’s the same for us. Life is difficult and stressful. At times, we are forced to use every last piece of strength that we hold inside of us. Like fall leaves, we may be forced to change ourselves in order to adjust to the world around us. We keep fighting to survive, to continue, to live. And there is so much beauty in that fight.

Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose and fall from our branches.

…But it’s okay, because even if we fall, there is always hope that we will grow again.

Simplicity

I wonder sometimes about how life became so complicated. If we think back to primitive times when our species was just developing, we focused only on our basic needs: nourishment, shelter, safety and reproduction. Sometimes I wish I could live back then, just for a day. I want to know what it’s like not to have to worry about money, a career, my weight and appearance, politics, social media. Of course, I know the early humans had their own concerns during their time. They were likely occupied with attempts to feel safe from predators, hunting and preparing food, providing for and protecting their families and offspring. I’m sure life wasn’t easy, but I just wonder if it was less busy, less draining. I wonder what it would be like to care only about our survival as opposed to caring about things such as success in our careers, good grades or paying rent.

There’s so much pressure these days to make our lives worth remembering, to achieve something remarkable, to be an inspiration to future generations. We’re taught to stand out, but not too much; to be different, but also the same as everyone else. There are so many expectations, so many of them contradictory. We seek fulfillment through society’s approval and acclaim. We use other people’s definitions for success to determine our own and often fail in doing so.

When did life become more about impressing than appreciating? When did we stop living our lives for ourselves? When did we start seeking to be remembered as opposed to seeking to remember? When did life become a race and not a journey?

When we’re constantly focused on gaining more from our lives, we fail to appreciate what we already have. When we’re focused on achieving the expectations that others hold for us, we overlook our own successes. And honestly, just surviving from day to day is something for which we deserve our own applause. That was the sole goal of the first humans. Just to survive. If you were alive by the end of the day, you succeeded. And that was all that mattered.

I truly admire people who can find happiness in simplicity, because it is such a rare occurrence today. I went on a mission trip to the Dominican Republic the summer after I graduated from high school. It was a beautiful experience. I helped to rebuild homes in villages that had been destroyed by the hurricane that had passed through earlier that year. In these villages, there were no phones, internet, transportation systems, press, franchises. There were just homes made of clay, wood and the occasional scrap of metal. A first-world country might consider this lifestyle “uncivilized” or “poor.” But to me, I had never seen a community so rich in its authenticity. I found that in the absence of the business of my normal life back home, I was able to appreciate every moment more fully. As the fruit’s taste was so much more fresh and flavorful, so too was life. These people, though of course they struggled for food, water, adequate shelter and safety, seemed so at ease. Weightless. When I was taking a water break from shoveling some mud, one of the little girls from the village handed me a wildflower, small and delicate just like the little girl herself. It was a light shade of yellow with a dark center, so simple, but so beautiful. I smiled at the girl and said one of the few Spanish words I knew, “bonito.” She giggled and smiled back at me. The joy in her eyes was contagious in its genuineness. With this tiny gift, she gave me so much more than a flower. She gave me appreciation and gratitude for the simple beauties in life, so many of which I take for granted because I’m so focused on other things that don’t really matter. 

In many obvious ways, we have advanced from the early periods of our human existence. But in others, we have grown ignorant. We have forgotten what’s important. It would be offensive to consider this little girl “primitive” in that her life is so simple compared to those of other little girls around the world. She is the opposite of primitive. In fact, she is wiser, she is richer, she is more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. She taught me more in that single moment than I will learn in any college classroom. She taught me what this world has forgotten, she taught me to appreciate the beauty in simplicity.

When you feel as if you’ve failed at something, like flunking a test, missing your chance at a promotion, not being able to pay your phone bill on time, put your hand over your heart. Feel the soft beat of life below your palm. Feel your chest rise and fall in time to your breathing. You are alive. Simple, yes, but vital. There was a time when being alive was all that mattered. Survival was all that mattered. I believe that if we’re still living and appreciating being alive, we’re never failing. If we’re still breathing at the end of the day, that’s a success. Don’t let anyone tell you that it isn’t. Because survival is an achievement, even if we aren’t facing dangerous animals or hunting for food on a daily basis. We have other challenges today, other predators (we are often our own). Appreciate your existence, your survival, your life. Because in the end, that’s all that really matters.

To many, a tiny, yellow flower is nothing more than a flower.

But then again, what more are we than breathing, living organisms? How are we any more real or important? How are we any more alive?

Don’t underestimate yourself. You are alive. You have survived every moment up until this point. That is a success more valuable than any other. A flower is more than just a flower. And you are more than just a person.

Appreciate yourself.

Appreciate the simplicity of being alive.

Survivor

A Story of My Life

By: Yours Truly

 

Born on her knees,

Her purpose to please,

She could never have guessed,

The pressure to be best.

 

A home made of strife,

Would anchor her life.

Try as she might,

They wouldn’t stop the fight.

 

In the midst of their rage,

She was locked in a cage.

What did “love” mean,

If it had never been seen?

 

Never a hug nor kiss,

What love was there to miss?

A “sinner” to her faith,

Did she deserve to feel safe?

 

Asking God at age five,

Why she was alive,

She continued to fail,

Hiding her truth beneath a veil.

 

To her body, she tried,

To match the pain inside.

Fighting her constant fear,

By suppressing every tear.

 

Starting a life of her own,

She faced her fears alone.

Knowing nothing but pain,

How could she choose sun over rain?

 

She refused to feel,

By avoiding every meal.

With every sip and smoke,

Her heart broke and broke.

 

She let the lust of men take,

What she no longer feared to break.

In pieces lay her heart,

She’d let fall every part.

 

She’d grown so, so tired,

She sought the strength she admired.

Could one day she find,

The self she’d left behind?

 

“I need help,” she finally said,

For a second chance, she pled.

So many times, she had said “good-bye,”

Said once more, it would not be a lie.

 

Could a stranger truly care,

Despite the shame she laid bare?

Having tried to fix with tape and glue,

Could her heart heal as if new?

 

For once, she let free,

The emotions she’d tried to flee.

She felt a tear on her cheek,

Her truth now allowed to speak.

 

So long deaf and blind,

She let the knot of pain unwind.

For once, she felt alive.

She could and would survive.

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.

Survive

Take a moment and think of all of the days through which you didn’t think you would survive. Look where you are now. Not only did you survive yesterday, and the day before. You survived every day that came before today.

That is amazing.

You are amazing.

If we made it through every day up until today, how can we not have hope that we can make it through one more?

♥

Survived

Alive

Sometimes I just have to marvel at the fact that I’m still alive.

I’ve had people tell me over and over, doctors, therapists, friends… that I’m lucky to be alive. Being still in my sick mind at those times, “lucky” seemed an inappropriate adjective for the subject. I had no gratitude for continuing to exist. I was fighting to die, not fighting to live.

But something has changed.

Today, as I look back on my life, I’m not only amazed, I am grateful. (Even writing that sentence feels strange to me… to admit that I appreciate the fact that I’m still alive means that I want this life. And that’s something I’ve never been able say, let alone believe.)

This past week, my sponsor gave me an assignment to make a list of all my near-death experiences. It was an arduous process, painful and humiliating. So many attempts to take my own life, so many reckless decisions that nearly led to my death, so many instances in which the only explanation for my survival must be from some power that is not me. I have no definition for whatever this power is, whether it be God, the universe, nature, etc. In my honest opinion, I don’t believe that divinity is meant to be understood or defined. It’s merely meant to be felt and to be believed in. And after making this list, my faith has strengthened. Though I remain ignorant to the reason or purpose that is being served by prolonging my life, I have come to believe that there is one. There must be, because if not, what the hell am I still doing here?

Something, whatever or whomever it may be, saved me. I was saved. Numerous times. And at last, I’m capable of being grateful.

Looking back on this list, I hold a lot of shame. While reading it to my sponsor, I raced through it, keeping my eyes glued to the paper in fear of seeing my sponsor’s reaction. I’ve told her that I’ve made attempts, but somehow, describing each one and exposing how many almost-attempts there have been in addition to those, how constant my desire for ending this life had been for those years, made me feel reprehensible. I admire her so much for her selflessness, her infallible faith, her unending gratitude. She is perhaps the strongest person I’ve ever known. How could she look at me now and not think of me as selfish, weak, pitiful? I know that I was sick, that I wasn’t thinking clearly, that I was in the midst of my addictions, but despite all of that, I still am responsible for the person that I was then. That person is still a part of me, and continues to show her face from time to time.

But then again, maybe that shame I have for my past is actually a sign of progress. I can use that shame to see how I’ve changed, how I’ve grown past that life. Back then, I’d destroyed my values, my dignity, my self-respect. I didn’t care what happened to me, what I did to others in my attempts to give up. But now, as I look back, I do care. I hold shame and regret now, because the contrast between the life I lead now and that of my past is so glaring. It’s the comparison between the person I was and the person I am today that causes shame.

If I was still the person of my past, my perspective of this list would be entirely different. I would hold anger and shame for an entirely different reason. That person would look at this as a list of all of the times I’d failed. But today, I see it as a list of all of the times that I’ve survived.