my new journey

“I look forward to being older, when what you look like becomes less and less an issue, and what you are is the point.” ~Susan Sarandon

My traumatic truth tells me that what I am is wrong.  I am not supposed to be having an existential crisis at 40.  This is the age I’m supposed to be self-aware and not give a single fuck.  Not the case.  Not the case at all.

I’m terrified to tell this story.  It means things are not perfect. The vacuum lines aren't correctly spaced.  Problems exist.

We cannot have not problems.  Ever.  "They" need to think we are just peachy.  "Those people, over there."

I’ve always been a writer.  Not necessarily a good one, but it’s something I have always loved to do.  For the last four years, it has been beyond my capability to put anything into words.  As I examine this today, I know that it’s because what I want to say, what I want to FEEL (because my writing is mostly making sense of what I feel, and it always has been), is a trigger for some people. 

Accordingly, I’m not supposed to feel how I do about certain things, and despite being caught up in certain circumstances, my observance and affect to some of those things aren’t valid to others, despite the fact that perception is reality and my reality has always needed to shift to make others comfortable.  

I’m not finding fault.  I need to look at things with which my younger self maybe wasn’t ready to deal, in a new light.  I need to feel those things again as an adult whose coping mechanisms are more evolved.

Making sure my perception doesn’t make anyone else uncomfortable has seriously fucked me over. It’s always been, “No one needs to know things are a mess.  Put on this mask of perfection and all will be ok in the world.  To those people ‘over there,’ everything looks fine, so it is.” 

I’ve fought depression since I was 16 years old.  Back then, the spiral began with the first adolescent rejection.  All of those fears of people knowing things were fucked-up, were validated in that single moment.  It only amplified when I left home for college my freshman year.  Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to sleep all damn day, miss class, make it to basketball practice, and still pull a 4.0.  Keep up the façade, if you will.

I’ve been in and out of therapy, been on and off countless medications, and done my fair share of self-medicating for the last 24 years.  But the kicker was a few months ago, when I realized I hadn’t slept more than 5 hours on any given night as I stepped out of the shower forcing myself to go to work.  

The thoughts in my head terrified me. So, I sat on the edge of the tub letting those thoughts surface.  I remember the last time I felt what I would call normal.  I was 25, and the only reason I left that counselor was because I moved and lost my insurance.  So, I called that guy.

It took me a couple of weeks to get back in, and the only reason I was able, was because they found my records from 15 years ago.

It was cold and windy that day.  It was my day off—usually a day I don’t worry about make-up or hair or what to wear.  But by God, I was showing up to that appointment put-together. 

 I am NOT crazy.  No one can KNOW I MIGHT be crazy. 

To be honest, my only gauge for crazy, is my judgement of other people.

So, I put on my best outfit, did my hair, made sure I didn’t ‘look depressed to those people over there,’  and did my best to walk stoically into the last place that acknowledged I was, actually, kinda nuts, but really did helped me.

As I was signing in, of course the line was FULL of people I didn’t expect, nor want to acknowledge.  

 Dude, we are 3 again; if I don’t see you, you don’t see me.  

It’s an understood code.  

It was kind of like the first experience buying weed in Colorado—all NO FUCKING WAY! THEY’RE ALL SO NORMAL!

First off, they make you see the psychiatrist…the medical person.  You do it, or they aren’t signing you up for counseling.  At least not if you have the chart I did WAY back then.

The room was exactly as I remembered.  Awesome antique furniture I am scared my fat ass will break accompanied by creepy antique dolls that make you convinced they move when no one is looking.  I’m waiting for the shrink when this tiny Rastafarian chick walks out and calls my name.

New person.

I have to talk to said person.   

I have to TELL her things. 

Of course, being NOT at all crazy, I have an anxiety attack and start to cry—BEFORE I EVEN GET TO THE DOOR OF THE ROOM WITH THE COUCH!  Because…ummm.. social interaction with someone that might judge? 

At this point, I don’t even know. 

At this point, I'm still pondering Kierkegaard, Sartre, and Camus, and wondering if Frederic Jameson's post modernism is in fact, flat.

I am not crazy. Dude, have you seen crazy?!  This is NOT crazy.

She’s very kind and nice…asking me all the questions.  I’m thinking, “cool.  I aced it!”  As if you can somehow ACE that shit?  Then, she says, “You can pick up your prescriptions at 11:00.” 

I cry harder.

Fuck.  I am not strong.  I need pills.  I AM CRAZY!

I pick up my prescriptions at Walgreens, which amounts to 6….fucking SIX prescriptions…so I can cope with counseling.  

I AM FUCKING NUTS!!

I decide work is not an option for the rest of the day.  Instead, I scrub my face, put on old PMS sweats and hold a good old-fashioned cry over actually being medicated.  Because, hey!  CRAZY!  

I allegedly ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and drank the rest of the worst beer ever made, left over from a Valentine’s Day ski trip with my mother.

At this point, I am NOT looking forward to the counselor.  The last time I went to counseling, she was shitty, yet highly recommended by friends.  Lots of money out…nothing worthwhile in. Same meaningless shit for the previous ones, too. As much as I hate admitting I’m certifiably nuts, it’s worse when they want you to pour money into a meaningless pit of here-read-a-book.

So, I again sit in the antique furniture, convinced if I make a sudden move it’s going to fall apart, and wait.“Jen, if that happens, everyone is going to know you are fat…just like that chick sophomore year.  You should’ve kicked her ass. ..stop it! Everyone knows you’re a lard ass.  You do own a mirror.”

The lady who calls my name is wearing the same skirt as me.  She’s wearing a hemp necklace. 

You can bet your sweet ass I’m sizing her up for all she is worth before she can assign ME as CRAZY.

There’s a Himalayan salt lamp in her office. A University of Idaho degree hung on the wall, bigger than her Ph.D. There’s a Grateful Dead stealy above the sink. Buddhas are everywhere. All I can think is, “Holy shit.  This person might relate to me.”

She says to me as I walk into her office, “sit wherever you like.”

I sink into the chair next to the door, mostly because I'm so far gone walking is a g-dang chore, and the tears start falling. 

I pretty much cry for an hour. I did not anticipate this.  I apologize many times over.

I am supposed to know my 'am' by now.  

People with there shit together don't do this.

More apologies.  

There are several uncomfortable pauses, and at the end of the hour she says, “healing is alright.  You’re hurt is really on the surface. I think I can help if you’ll do the hard work to make healing happen.” 

Healing.  It means acknowledging wounds. I’m so ready for that.

For the first time in in 15 years, I heard I can be healed.  

Healing.  Why has no one told me that is an option, and as a a self diagnosed, somewhat intelligent person, why the hell didn't I think of that?

Just saying the word...it's comforting.

I can accept hurt and be ok?  It's alright to heal?   

Suddenly, the freight train hit me.  Everything hasn't been 'fine,' but I CAN and will let it go.

This is my new journey.