How my Triggers Slowly Unravel my Mind: a Metacognitive Case Study

Ok, so here’s how it happens:

The initial trigger is usually a miscommunication or something unexpected that makes me question a relationship.

Then I start over analyzing everything that has happened. I start building walls to “protect” myself.

These walls make me intensely fragile to any and all (even the tiniest of) triggers. And therefore the triggers start to pile up. And I start to get overwhelmed.

I start to question things that I’ve already figured out. I start to take everything personally. I make a career out of over analyzing every interaction to build evidence against myself. I obsessively try to read people’s minds and find all the places I’ve slipped up. I fall into all of the traps I’ve laid out for myself. I second guess all of the steps I’ve taken to guard myself against those traps.

The next step is acting in ways I regret. I lash out at people when I’m really just projecting my own insecurities. I rehash every moment of my life where I’ve failed, or embarrassed myself. I make self destructive choices. I engage in self harm in several ways.

These behaviors, and the realization that I’ve once again lost control, catalyze the synthesis of all my various anxieties into a viscous depression.

Lethargic, apathetic, exhausted. Depression will become my partner, my lover, my identity. I won’t be able to keep my eyes open for very long. I’ll need breaks from social interactions; leaving places early, going silent, wandering off to pet a dog midway through a conversation I lost track of minutes ago. Effort becomes physically taxing, sometimes even painful. Especially if I’ve successfully resisted the temptation to self harm, as the withdrawal gives me body aches.

At which point it takes full time effort and some sincere grit to pull myself out of the hole I’ve dug. The difficult truth is: I do this to myself. This is my brain, and a combination of my genetics, and my trauma. This is me, reacting to triggers that are specific to my experience.

But here’s another truth I’ve learned:

Reacting to those triggers is not a measure of my “success” or “failure” as a good friend, a good partner, a good person.

I’m going to repeat that because I don’t entirely believe it yet.

Reacting to triggers is not a measure of success or failure.

Accepting that means accepting that I am responsible for my own mental health. That the reactions and feelings of others aren’t within my control, and often aren’t a reflection of how they feel about me.

How I’m working towards radical self-acceptance:

First and foremost, in order to accept these important truths about myself, and my mental health, and my strength, and my worth, I have to learn how to love myself. Without self love I’m never going to be able to accept anyone else’s love. Over the previous few months I’ve been slowly unearthing a fathoms deep sinkhole inside me I never knew existed. Each realization has triggered a grieving process that has not made coping with my social anxiety any easier. Each realization has simultaneously helped me recognize when my brain is lying to me because of my trauma. This is a good thing. This means every day I get better at recognizing when I’m projecting my own insecurities onto others. Which helps me catch myself like 80% of the time before I act on my anxious thoughts and become the burden I never want to be on all of my loved ones.

So I guess I need to give myself more credit. Yes, I am a fragile shell of my former self. And at the same time I’m practicing the skills I need to build the good kind of armor back around my soul. The thought patterns I need to trust my loved ones when they say they love me. To trust that their words and actions always come with the best intentions, and rarely reflect their feelings about me.

I think my point, more than anything, is that gratitude is one of the most powerful tools I’ve found in this whole process. I didn’t realize that was the message of this post, until I arrived here myself. But, without the people in my life who are willing to hold me down regardless, I wouldn’t be alive right now.

I’m not exaggerating for once. Suicide is always going to be present for me. A hard reality I’ve had to face is that I’ve traumatized my loved ones. I know that’s where their mind will go when I go off the rails like this. I can sense it in my partner as he starts to hover around me. He’ll become insistent on making plans for what I will do while he’s not home. I’ll get a few more random “I love you” texts than usual throughout the day. I’ll catch him staring at me, trying to hide the anxious look on his face.

And regardless of my guilt, he stays. And so do so many others. Not all of them, but quite a few. That’s what I mean by gratitude. Regardless of my fragility, my neediness, my constant rollercoaster, I have people who stay. Who have stayed. And continue to stay. My inability to fully understand why is part of the problem to begin with, but it doesn’t mean I’m not completely, entirely, utterly grateful for those in my life who continue to carry my heavy-ass-self nevertheless.

I’m Not Type A, I Just Have Anxiety

Those who have read my blog for a while are familiar with the fact that I’m an overachiever. I am a classic workaholic. Every personality test I’ve ever taken has told me I have a “Type A” personality.

I excelled at school. I’ve exceeded expectations in all of my jobs. I have a reputation of being highly efficient, learning fast, sacrificing whatever is necessary, going the extra distance, and raising the curve for my peers.

Being a teacher came naturally to me because I can multitask like crazy. Someone on twitter once said that teachers make 1,500 decisions per day. I have no idea if that number is true or not, but it feels like it is. I am definitely competitive, a perfectionist, critical of myself, impatient, energetic, and aggressive when it comes to getting the job done. All of these qualities are necessary when you are trying to appear “highly effective” on paper for your district and the state, make sure all students actually have an equitable chance to learn, and mentor each individual student through the hardest three years of their life.

I took pride in my Type A personality. It made me excellent. I got honors. I won awards. I gave speeches.

I almost killed myself last October.

Honestly, our society values Type A personalities. They make someone highly efficient and productive; two things that fuel capitalism. What I’ve recently learned, though, is my Type A personality was made possible by unbridled anxiety.

I was a professional multitasker because I was obsessed with others’ approval. I literally felt like the approval of others was the only thing that gave me worth. I felt like once I had that approval, I had to continually prove I deserved it by earning it over and over again.

I lived on a hamster wheel, in constant fear that I would lose everything I had earned if I dared to stop and take a break. I told myself that every mistake was a failure, and that failure could kill me. I embodied the Talladega Nights “If you’re not first, you’re last” mentality.

Basically, I allowed my extreme anxiety free reign to run my life. I caught myself in the trap of constantly feeling worthless, not good enough. I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders when no one asked me to in the first place. I was miserable.

And, at the same time, why would anyone assume anything was wrong when I was doing so well? On the outside I was perfect. I was doing “it.” I was achieving my goals, supporting my family, and gaining approval from the people who “mattered.”

Isn’t that what success looks like?

Unfortunately, yes. This is what success in our society looks like. The narrative of the Type A personality is a convenient way to encourage at-all-costs productivity. As long as someone is productive, they are successful.

By explaining my extreme behavior away with my Type A personality, I was able to hide my mental illnesses. I could avoid dealing with any of my problems and my trauma by adding more work onto my plate and being rewarded for it by my superiors. If I just kept going, and never stopped, I would never have to face my anxiety for real.

I was winning awards based on my performance. My performance was fueled by my ability to pretend I wasn’t constantly on the edge of cracking, while I took on more and more work.

And then I finally cracked.

And I’ve finally realized my Type A personality was really anxiety. And my need for the approval of others was trapping me in toxic cycles of thoughts, behaviors, and emotions. So I’m officially letting my Type A self go.

Type A Renea is gone. I put her to rest in the name of mindfulness, happiness, self love, and stability.

I am already grieving her absence. It’s hard to let go of excellence. It’s hard to accept that living a healthier life means giving up what once made me great.

I am definitely going through a major transition right now. Living a mental health-focused life forced me to make a lot of changes. Living mindfully and focusing one day at a time isn’t conducive to success in a capitalist sense, but god damn am I much happier as a Type B.

Brain Dump: All of This is Probably Bullshit

How am I to create

Out of sawdust

And ruined plans

When these four walls hold me

Static

I’ve been thinking about history a lot lately

And the patterns that form

With the revolutions of

The earth around the sun

A sense of history

And womxnhood

And how when it feels like the world is coming to an end

It’s that, which has often been considered “womxn’s work” which will have to pull us back on track

That which has been considered “womxn’s work” due to the incorrect assumption that womxn were the only ones capable of being feminine.

Caring. Living communally. Feelings of connection, belonging, sharing, warmth. Banning together as a village to make sure everyone rises.

It is the work that, since the beginning of Western industrialism, has been considered less valid

Less relevant

Less valuable

Less worthy

But it is the work time and time again that salvages the world from the scraps left behind by the conquerors

Squabbling over resources that languish under abuse

And gives us a fighting chance.

Because the “us” is a living organism

Just like the individual.

I’ve lived a life feeling that industrial capitalism

was the only way to contribute anything of worth to society.

My worth would be measured in productivity.

My productivity measured by dollars.

My aggressive masculinity (separate from my biological sex) was the only side I felt comfortable showing to the world.

My individualism

My competitiveness

My desire to be the best, the favorite

The one with the most social currency

And everything else felt weak. Felt pathetic. Left me vulnerable to colonizers, conquerors, rapists

My femininity (separate from my biological sex) felt weak, felt unworthy, felt disposable.

My biological sex felt weak, felt vulnerable, felt ravaged, felt numb

So I grew a shell

And I tried to operate within an institution that I thought would allow me to use my

Magic

Connected to my

Femininity

And

Womxnhood

To still be excellent

In a capitalist sense

But that’s not what teaching is anymore.

I Freaked Out This Morning: Here’s why

I freaked out this morning.

Like full on, forgot all of my anxiety coping skills, spiralled into hopelessness, freaked out.

For the most part, I’ve been doing surprisingly well coping in a world with Covid-19. I’m not bragging, I just have done so much therapy I was weirdly prepared to put my head down and trudge through this type of trauma, rather than being thrown off my axis.

But this morning… Man, I freaked out.

I have officially been in quarantine for 57 days. That means 57 days of very little physical movement, very little physical contact with other human beings, no social contact outside of a screen, limited access to new experiences, little to no reason to groom myself, and increasingly similar tasting meals with decreasing nutritional content as rations dwindle.

Additionally, social media has become the center of what-feels-like-everyone’s social lives as it is really the only pandemic-approved way to connect. But even social media is fruit of the same poison tree as it is saturated with death counts, protesters demonstrating how little they care for their community, and the stress and depression of billions of people undergoing collective trauma.

I’m not here to complain. You know all of this. You’ve been in quarantine too.

I am also not looking for your pity, your sympathy, or your help as I have a lot of privilege that I am not trying to ignore. I have an income. I have a home. I have health insurance. I am white. I have lots of privilege (as usual, scroll down for links if you want to read more about how the impact of Covid-19 is imbalanced across communities and identities).

But even with my privilege and my skills, I have not been safe from this collective trauma. And I’m assuming you haven’t been either. And I’m here to tell you that it’s ok.

It’s ok, every now and then, to take a look around you and freak the fuck out. This is scary. This is stressful.

I, as it is, am on mental health leave from work because I recently tried to kill myself. I am having a full on identity crisis about my career at a time when the future of the economy is uncertain. I’m taking risks on a writing career that is the opposite of a “sure thing.” I am one individual going through so much shit and I’m also surviving an international pandemic.

And on top of it all: we.are.going.through.collective.trauma.

We all already have a whole lifetime’s worth of bullshit, and stress, and trauma. We have hard things in our lives that are already difficult to cope with. Racism still exists. The patriarchy is still out there. We are still holding a presidential election in November. Not to mention, all of these landscapes are shifting as well, because of the pandemic.

If I’m being completely honest, I’m writing this piece to try to make myself feel better about freaking out this morning. Since the start of quarantine, my main line on the situation has been “It is what it is. As long as I’m doing everything to help within my control, obsessing over the stressful parts will achieve nothing but a negative impact on my mental health.”

This is still absolutely true. I still believe that practicing radical acceptance is the only mindframe that will help us survive this mess with our sanity intact.

And, at the same time, there needs to be allowances for moments of weakness. For times when we just have to freak out. We need to be gentle with ourselves when it is just too difficult to accept and we need to spend our day under a weighted blanket.

Covid-19 impact across communities and identities:

Racial Disparities- The Washington Post

Racial Disparities –The Atlantic

Domestic Violence

Homelessness

Mental Health Maintenance

It’s weird.

I’ve been falling apart for a while. I almost killed myself in October, but my mental breakdown started far before that. And it came in waves. Honestly, I feel like I’ve been a hot ass mess since I got raped in 2010.

I have a brilliant support system, and everyone in my life has gotten used to my messiness by now. They have realized they can’t really count on me to show to social occasions. They’re familiar with my red, puffy, pale depression face and deadpan responses to small talk. They have come to expect my need to step away from the group to cope my way through panic attacks. They may not completely understand it, but they know. And with that, naturally comes a certain measure of emotional detachment. You see, I am not always the one who is stable enough to listen to their woes or give them advice. I have been the “broken friend” for a while, but I’ve started to own that.

The weird part is, lately I’ve been experiencing a subtle role-reversal.

Since Covid-19 came in and turned the world upside down, I have noticed that I seem better equipped than most of the people I know to handle the anxiety and depression triggered by such a catastrophe. It’s almost like the years I’ve spent in therapy, the roller coaster I’ve been on, the personal trauma I’ve gone through, have prepared me with the skills one needs to maintain mental health through quarantine.

Those who don’t suffer from mental illnesses (or haven’t sought help for them yet) on the other hand, have no idea how to cope with the shared trauma we are experiencing in our current context.

All of a sudden, I have gone from being the “broken” friend to being the friend giving advice about skills that can help everyone survive Covid-19 with their mental health intact.

As of now, our governor is considering extending the quarantine for even longer, and I’ve had 3 of these types of conversations with my friends over a 24 hour period this week. Therefore, I thought others may benefit from some of the materials I’ve made to help myself cope.

The links below are to downloadable google docs with journal pages I originally designed for myself. If you find them helpful, you can print and fill in the blanks, copy the prompts into your own journal, make a copy into your own drive and change it around to suit your own needs, etc.

Scroll down below each worksheet and find a model of how I’ve filled it out for myself.

A note on sources: I created these materials myself based on what I learned by participating in a Partial Hospitalization Program at the University of Michigan Hospital. All of the skills I utilize in the worksheets are based on the work of Dr. Marsha Linehan in developing Dialectical Behavior Therapy.

Worksheet #1 (click here to see downloadable google doc): A set of questions/prompts to journal about over your morning coffee/tea/breakfast. These prompts help me practice Radical Acceptance, help me ground myself in a purpose every day, and give me ideas on how to spend my unstructured time that day.

Worksheet #2 (click here to see downloadable google doc): A worksheet I use for every individual emotion I struggle to cope with. I have made one of these babies for when I’m feeling depressed, anxious, socially anxious, triggered, and panicky. Yes, it’s a lot of work, but I keep my journal with me everywhere I go. And, as juvenile as it feels sometimes, I need to refer back to these pages when I’m overwhelmed with an emotion. It is not always easy to remember all your strategies “in the moment.”

Worksheet #2 is based on a strategy I learned for reframing cognitive distortions. If you have ever gone to a therapist that practices Cognitive Behavior Therapy, examining how your thoughts impact your emotions isn’t unfamiliar to you. While engaging in this kind of therapy, I’ve come to realize that my thoughts make patterns, and specific negative thoughts are recurring. This worksheet allows you to break down the process into a reference tool for dealing with the most common negative thoughts you have.

Of Pain and Penetration

I have been neglecting this writing space. I haven’t been doing it intentionally. I have to admit, quarantine is getting to me. The inability to go anywhere, see anyone, or have any sort of new experience is leaving me uninspired, unmotivated, apathetic, and depressed. I’m sure you, dear reader, are familiar with these feelings as well. The skills I’ve learned in therapy have helped me greatly throughout this ordeal. If you are struggling and need some resources – please reach out. I would love to share the specific skills that are helping me most right now!

Unfortunately, these feelings have resulted in an extraordinarily decreased ability to write things. An intense fear of the blank page is starting to set in as I try to push myself to create. Plus, what is there to write about when everything inside feels like wet cement?

Well, I found something. This morning I woke up to my endometriosis rearing its ugly, unpredictable head. What is endometriosis you ask? Well, endometriosis, how it impacts my life, as well as the fact that most people I meet have no idea what it is, is the topic of this post (if you’re interested in the scientific explanation of what endometriosis “is,” here is a link to information about it from the Mayo Clinic).

**You know how I love my trigger warnings: I’m about to get real honest and gritty about the following topics: menstruation, sex, pain, bodily functions, my experiences in the healthcare system. If any of these topics aren’t right for you, I understand. Thanks for stopping by**

I first started experiencing symptoms associated with my endometriosis – whom I lovingly refer to as my friend Endo – when I was 20 years old.

I had just had sex with my boyfriend. I was standing in my bathroom, brushing my teeth, when all of the sudden I felt like I was being ripped apart from the inside. People often ask me what the cramps feel like. I’ve never been disemboweled, but in my mind, Endo cramps feel similar to being disemboweled.

Pain. That’s the first really significant part of endometriosis. Endometriosis is super painful. With Endo, I get horrible, searing, ripping cramps both with menstruation, and with sex. And I’m extra lucky because I also have PCOS, which makes my periods irregular and unpredictable – further complicating my life living with Endo (PCOS could be the topic of a whole blog post in and of itself, if you’re curious, click the link).

How does this translate into my reality? Well, I am at risk of experiencing 10/10 level abdominal pain at any point in my life, with no ability to predict when it will strike. Brushing my teeth, standing at the front of a classroom while I’m teaching, in the middle of the night while I’m sleeping, standing in line at the post office, seeing a movie at the theater, while I’m driving…you get the point.

Like lightning, Endo will strike without mercy whenever the conditions are right, whenever she wants. I will be going about my day as usual, and suddenly Endo has me unable to stand up, breathless, tears in my eyes, crawling to somewhere, anywhere, anything that could possibly give me some measure of comfort. I will be contorted with this pain for anywhere from 20 minutes to three weeks (thanks, PCOS). I will have to find a way to go to work and function like a regular adult with the pain; let’s be real, who can afford to just call into work for three weeks because of a pain condition most people have no idea exists?

But that’s not all folx. Completely detached from my menstrual cycle (as if it matters for me anyway, thanks PCOS), I also have extreme pain during penetrative sex. After almost ten years of living with it, I have figured out which positions are better than others; but all penetration has the potential to be painful. “Painful sex” here refers to the feeling of being repeatedly punched in the stomach by that redhead MMA fighter people tell my partner he looks like. But like, through my vagina. Repeatedly, with the rhythm of the sex we’re having. It’s super fun being “that girl” who will potentially burst out crying during sex. Or who will have to stop halfway through because she just can’t anymore. Or who will be too embarrassed, too frustrated with herself, too sick of dealing with it to speak up, so she’ll just grit her teeth through it.

Additionally, pain isn’t the only symptom of endometriosis. Just like with everything, not everyone has all the symptoms. Once again though, I’m lucky because I do! Below you will find a screenshot from the same Mayo Clinic page linked above with a list of the chronic symptoms of endometriosis:

I will spare you from the gross details of how each of these symptoms have impacted my life. But if you read through them and remember how these can occur to me whenever, wherever, and for however long, you could probably imagine those details yourself.

Now, at this point you may have noticed that living with endometriosis seems pretty intolerable, let alone scary. That morning when I was 20, my boyfriend ended up taking me to the emergency room. After which I spent months in and out of doctor’s offices, getting tests done, and having to fight for my voice to be heard. You see, the only way to diagnose endometriosis is through surgery. Therefore, Endo is what people often refer to as an “invisible disease.” Meaning that, it is very common for medical professionals to misdiagnose, ignore, underestimate, or straight up not believe the symptoms you’re describing. After 3-4 years of trial and error medical adventures, I decided to finally elect to have the diagnostic surgery so I wouldn’t have to feel like a science experiment anymore. I felt as though being officially diagnosed would help me take back control over my body, my pain, my life.

It didn’t. The only ways doctors seem to know how to manage endometriosis is birth control or a hysterectomy. It’s been 9 years. After changing doctors and offices numerous times I got so sick of hearing I’m “too young to really know whether or not I’ll want kids,” that I’ve stopped asking for a hysterectomy altogether.

I’ve also tried at least ten different types of birth control (I honestly lost count), all of which had really serious impacts on the rest of my health. Each birth control has a different combination of hormones with varying levels. This means each type of birth control has its own set of symptoms with their own varying degree of intensity depending on how it works in congress with your body chemistry. As I’ve cycled through an endless stream of birth control options over the years I have: gained weight, lost weight, grown boobs, lost boobs, put myself at serious risk of life-threatening blood clots, gotten acne, cured my acne, got acne again, lost hair in clumps (that thankfully grew back after switching BC again), had fainting spells, experienced intense mood swings, coped with migraines, and missed out on a whole lot of life.

At this point, I hope you are able to infer the impact this journey has had on my mental health. As an open anxiety and depression sufferer, endometriosis has had just as extreme of an impact on my mental health as any other trauma I’ve suffered. And, with a healthcare system run by the pharmaceutical industry, I have had to figure out ways to cope with and manage this pain on my own. I refuse to take any more opioid prescriptions from the numerous doctors I’ve gone to, all of whom (even the specialists) seem to be at a loss for how else to help.

So, where am I now? Well, I currently have the Mirena IUD. This is a device that gets implanted inside my uterus and replaced every five years. Mirena has improved my life by about 60% because it shuts down my menstrual cycle for the most part. It still isn’t perfect because my uterus is still in my body. My PCOS still makes my cycle weird and my period can break through the power of the Mirena and fuck me up with all the symptoms every now and then (like today). I also still have routinely painful penetrative sex.

But still, a life that is 40% shit is way better than a life that is 100% shit, so my journey to “fix” this thing inside of me for the most part has ceased. My medical journey for answers to my endometriosis became almost a full time job, and I just needed to move on with my life. After I turn 30, I’m considering opening the question of a hysterectomy again… Maybe being older will help convince medical professionals that I know what is best for my body?

As of now, I am on my couch with a hot water bottle on my abdomen. My cats and dog seem to always be able to sense when Endo has come to visit, so they’re all within touching distance as I write this. The nausea made it impossible to eat dinner last night so my stomach is growling, but I know any attempt to eat breakfast will be likewise futile; although my partner will make me try anyway.

At least we’re in quarantine, so I don’t have to call off work.

The Process of Processing

So I spoke my truth. The world knows about my assault and how it’s impacted me since.

So, now what? What do you do when you finally rip open your widest wound and wear it as a badge of honor on your sleeve?

Look everyone! Here it is! All my ugly dirty parts that I’ve been keeping hidden!

Here is what has defined so much of who I’ve been over the last decade! Here’s what I worked so desperately to keep the world from knowing about me!

I put so much thought, so much emotion, and so much preparation into the moment I would finally come out of hiding and speak my truth (about both my sexuality and my assault). And I did it. I finally did it. My story is on the internet and that means anyone who cares enough to find out can know these details about me.

I finally jumped that hurdle.

So, now what?

What do I do now?

Seriously, I’m asking for suggestions.

(Below, find a poem I wrote to express how this all feels right now)

There are certain memories

that fill my guts with wet cement

They weigh me down,

and leave me

to get stale on the shelf

And I feel that

I feel stale

Soggy

Like someone’s dirty bandage

that fell off

and ended up

in the filter of a public pool

These memories

they stall me

I could be on fire

flying high

taking on the world

And, like ingrown hair, one of these memories will start to fester.

Until it’s all I can think about

And all I can see is beige

And my mouth fills with sand

And my will deflates

And my soul becomes hollow

And my guts fill with wet cement

And I’m left

on the shelf

to get stale

Something Simple to Meditate on: Saturday afternoon edition

I used to have intense conversations with myself in the shower.

I thought about them in my head as speeches.

I would stand there in the steamy jet, meditating on someone or something that had really been lighting my fire lately.

I would get out my imaginary soap box. I would gather, in my imagination, the people who I wanted to hear my words the most.

I would prepare my most dramatic and emphatic stage whisper – so my family and/or roommates wouldn’t think I was a nerd – and I would

Speak

Heart

Out

(I own up to my reputation as a too-long shower-taker. It’s my most shameful vice).

Until one day I realized I wasn’t giving speeches.

I was speaking poems.

So I got a waterproof phone case and started bringing my phone into the shower with me so I could write my thoughts down in my notes. And I’ve done it every day since.

How did I never know I wanted to be a writer?

I’ve Always Been a Pain in Someone’s Ass

Something that I will always be able to admit to is that I’m a brat. I’ve never not been a brat, I always will be a brat, it’s kind of just part of who I am. I’m sincerely just a pouty mermaid at heart. At this point in my life, I am able to honor and accept my flaws.

I got a lot of grief growing up about being a brat. It’s understandable. Without any knowledge of how to set or honor boundaries, without socio-emotional education around how to compromise, express my emotions appropriately, and be diplomatic, of course my brattiness was a burden.

I’ve always been a pain in someone’s ass.

But here’s the thing, my brain is not “normal.” I have ADHD, anxiety, and depression. All of which manifests in my personality and made me behave in my youth “differently” than you would expect from a “normal child.”

I will never forget how scarily relatable it was in The Joker, 2019, when I watched Joaquin Phoenix write down, “The worst thing about having a mental illness is people expect you to behave as if you don’t.”

The way my brain is wired made me behave in ways dominant society deems inappropriate or negative in little girls. For example, my anxiety makes it difficult for me to cope with extreme sensory experiences; bright lights, repetitive noises, tight clothing, strong smells, etc. Therefore, the fluorescent lights at school gave me severe headaches all through elementary and middle school before I had the power to dose myself with ibuprofen. My headaches made me cranky and I would often be short with people when I would respond to things, leading to being labeled with an “attitude problem” or as a “bitch.” All I desperately needed was alone time in a quiet darkened room, but I had no ability or knowledge to help me express that.

The most difficult parts of my personality, though, are associated with my ADHD. My ADHD, although not a mental illness, is closely linked to my anxiety and depression in that it had a lot of impact on my self esteem. Therefore, a lot of the triggers I have for my anxiety and depression come from personality quirks associated with my ADHD.

With ADHD I: zone out and get distracted easily, have moments of extreme hyperactivity, can be SUPER LOUD, have difficulty finishing tasks, can’t stay organized, get super excited over seemingly small things, exaggerate all the time, and can’t sit still. The consistent negative feedback I received as a child as a result of these quirks showed me how ill suited I was to many traditional institutions. This resulted in me suppressing all of these parts of my personality in order to be accepted by those traditional institutions. This suppression doubled down on my anxiety and depression.

Eventually I wanted to kill myself.

Let me give you some examples of what I’m talking about:

Example: My habit of exaggerating and getting excited about things means I am a really passionate person. This means that when I start something new, I am super passionate (ok, maybe a little obsessive) about it. Same thing goes for: new friendships, new relationships, new projects, new goals, new jobs, etc.

It took me a lot of social missteps throughout my life to learn a balance so I don’t come on too strong.

See, social boundaries like that are something everyone assumes people just have. When really, my ADHD means I’m not necessarily naturally equipped with the understanding around those boundaries. And since everyone just expected me to know them, no one ever really taught me about them.

I had to learn through repeated rejection.

We live in a harsh world.

Then, my anxiety and depression kicked in, and all of the sudden other peoples’ approval became tied to my self worth. I developed a mindset where I felt I had to change everything about myself to get approval, or it would prove I was worthless. I suppressed my passion for other people. I became aloof. I made relationships impossible.

A second example: My abstract mind.

My mind moves really quickly. I am also an extremely analytical thinker. This means I process information at an extraordinary rate. I am also able to see connections and patterns across information quickly. Basically, I am on Step E before most people finish reading and processing the directions to Step A.

This also means I have a great ability to have empathy and see nuance because I see many different contributing factors and extenuating circumstances in every situation. I explore everything through multiple perspectives.

Therefore, I usually want to discuss decisions, assumptions, and conclusions so we can all reach a consensus that would be best for everyone involved.

The problem is, no one ever taught me that people in authority expect deference to their status and respect for their position when suggesting counterpoints to their confident, absolute, assertions. No one ever taught me about social politics, or about the types of bias people carry with them that will change how they look at you.

No one ever told me about the privileges I have in this regard, nor taught me how to sense in a situation when it’s actually time for me to be quiet.

I had to learn the hard way through being called a “know it all” and a “bitch.” Being told I’m “difficult,” “ abrasive.”

Or, “People would listen to you more if you just worked on your tone.”

I didn’t realize speaking to you as if I’m your equal was offensive to you.

I was taught to shut up. By the people on whom my voice was a burden.

A pain in the ass.

They used their power to stifle my voice because they didn’t like what they heard.

People with authority over me bristled at my arguing. They became apoplectic at my persistence, and convulsed at my constant questioning.

I learned how to turn my voice off ALL the time, just to be safe. So I could avoid upsetting what felt like everyone.

I forced myself to come off as demur, submissive, “laid back” *cough*easy.*

I forced myself to disappear.

I was miserable.

I almost killed myself.

We live in a harsh world.

Sidebar: Luckily I’ve started to figure out when it truly is not my turn to speak from the voices of people who have been brave enough, generous enough, and thought highly enough of me, to tell me when I need to shut up and listen. The people who shouldn’t have had to be the ones to teach me this, but did anyway. The people to whom I have unending respect and gratitude. The people whom traditional societal institutions have failed even worse than they’ve failed me. Find a list of resources to explore more diverse voices below.

“Normal” institutions and structures in our society have never served everyone, even before Corona came and fucked them up.

And I am a voice with a lot of privilege in this regard.***

But my brain is different than the “normal” student our school system is designed for. I learn differently. I have a different set of natural interpersonal skills. I am sensitive. I am intensely moral. I am passionate. I am bisexual. I live outside of binaries.

Dominant society takes what is unique about people, that which separates them from the status quo, and punishes them for it. We break people down, strip them of their joy, their culture. We force them to assimilate.

I am one of the lucky ones.

Being able to suppress everything about myself in order to be accepted by the status quo is a privilege I have, as my “otherness” is not visible.

And even with that being the case, I still felt so alone,

unlovable,

dirty,

different,

weird,

worthless,

broken,

that I wanted to kill myself.

As we approach our lives moving forward after Covid-19, I hope we can take all of this into consideration.

Covid-19 is scary. There are so many unknowns and variables here. It really sucks to feel as though you are trapped in something you can’t get out of.

The anxiety is real. Honor that. Process that. Seek therapy. Take care of yourself, please.

Then, when we’re ready, let’s take a critical look at our values and needs as a society moving forward. With many institutions falling apart around us we have an opportunity here.

An opportunity to potentially build a socio-emotionally focused education system that takes mental health, learning style, race, language, LGBTQ+ status, social class, access to technology, culture, etc, into consideration when designing policies, processes, and curriculum.

We have an opportunity to fight for a health system funded by taxes from the people who have made great shows of donating money to hospitals and other relief organizations… because maybe if the tax funding was there, the medical supplies and food would have been there before people started getting sick in the first place (gasp! But isn’t this socialism? Yes. Yes it is… But can you guess who has socialized healthcare? South Korea. Can you guess who has also successfully managed and moved past the Covid-19 pandemic? South Korea******).

I realize I am being hella idealistic here. But I feel like it’s about time someone was.

Because people who have been failed by society this whole time already know what it feels like to live in a perpetual state of anxiety and survival. So this feeling isn’t new for them…

—————————-

Over the course of my life I have felt my otherness, and therefore suppressed my otherness. I hid in my privilege and fooled even myself into thinking I was perfect. And no one called me a brat for like 15 years.

So my bratty-ass self is back and I’ve finally unleashed her full power. I will assert what I want and need because I deserve to be happy and successful as myself, just as everyone else does. I am fragile and I am sensitive and I am dramatic, and everyone is just going to have to deal with it.

This time around though, therapy has given me the skills I need to balance my many needs with my desire to love and be a good support system for others.

This time around, I have the education I need to build and maintain healthy boundaries.

This time around, I am working on how I can make myself feel seen, validated, and loved.

Just like everyone else right now, I am still in my struggle.

But I am working on it.

*** I mentioned several times above that when considering how societal institutions have failed us, I am a voice of privilege. Below you will find resources to learn about how the education and healthcare systems have failed a diverse range of voices (I figured you should hear about these experiences from the actual source:

LGBTQ+ students

LGBTQ+ healthcare

Decolonizing Reproductive Health

Weight bias in healthcare

The 1619 Project and healthcare

****** I recognize this situation is far more complex than I am making it appear here. I just want to remind you how I use hyperbole in the artistic craft of my writing. If anyone has any reliable sources on the actual details of the way South Korea handled their Covid-19 situation, comment a link?

The Soundtrack of my Trauma

TRIGGER WARNING: The following contains a description of a sexual assault. As much as I try to avoid peddling in trauma, sharing my story is something I’ve realized recently that I need to do. The following traumatic experience was the most formative experience of my young adult life. It has held me stuck, stripped me of my power, kept me from my life, and potentially ended my career.

Well, that chapter officially needs to be over. And my therapist says one way to process through trauma is exposure to it. In other words, sharing my story. Hearing it. Reading it. Discussing it. So my brain can file this information away differently and my body doesn’t have to perpetually live in fight or flight mode. Selective mutism has kept me from speaking these words out loud, even to my therapist. That hasn’t changed. I still can’t speak about these things out loud (like, literally, physically can’t). Which means I’m not going to be able to answer questions associated with this post quite yet either.

So, as usual, I’m using this online space as an experiment in being open and vulnerable, and hopefully therefore, a bridge to healing. My tarot reading this morning gave me the confidence to feel like today is the day for step 1… so here we go…

If you feel like you can’t handle reading the specifics, I see you and I respect you, thanks for stopping by.

I was in college. It was Halloween. I was dressed like a bird. Earlier that week a boy had stopped by my apartment looking for his mail as he had been the previous tenant. I thought he was cute and we flirted a little bit before he took his mail and left. Imagine my sense of it’s-a-small-world surprise when he walked into the Halloween party I was at a few days later. He immediately struck up a conversation with me. He told me I had pretty eyes and fed me a fifth of Bacardi Razz. I, on my college budget and underdeveloped prefrontal cortex, had only eaten white rice that day. The alcohol quickly took control as it traveled through my empty stomach into my bloodstream. I remember talking to him. I remember kissing him. I remember following him upstairs. Then we were in the bathroom and I was sitting on the sink and he slid his hand up my skirt and took off my panties. At that point I had a breathtaking moment of lucidity where my brain cut through the alcohol fog and I realized what was about to happen. And I didn’t want it to happen. I did not want to have sex with this stranger.

I slid off the counter.

I gently pushed him away from me.

I said I needed to find my friends.

I said I was sorry

I said I had to go

I said please stop

I said I was sorry

I pushed him away a little harder

I reached around him for the doorknob he grabbed my wrist he turned me around he pinned me against the counter he pushed up my skirt.

From the moment of penetration on I don’t remember feeling him inside me. I remember numbness. I remember hearing his breathing in my left ear. I remember staring into my own eyes in the mirror over the dirty sink.

The next thing I remember I was waking up on the couch in my friends’ dark apartment and my friend-with-benefits-hook-up-buddy-who-really-wanted-to-be-my-boyfriend came to get me. As I descended the exterior stairs down from the third floor apartment – riding fireman style on my fwb’s shoulder – I vomited white rice everywhere. I remember looking at it and thinking “no one will even know this is vomit, it just looks like someone spilled some rice.” I laughed about it to myself.

The next morning I remembered nothing. My brain had initially blacked out everything that had taken place once the fifth of Bacardi was empty. It wasn’t until a days-later conversation with a friend who was at the party that it all came rushing back to me. You see, she revealed my rapist had come down from the bathroom that night, and told everyone in attendance we had had sex.

I went to Planned Parenthood. When they asked if there had been a recent occurrence that made me want to get tested for all STDs including HIV I told them “no.” I stopped going out with my friends and practically moved in with my fwb who was rapidly becoming my partner. I stopped eating. I cried every night. I convinced everyone it was because I missed high-school-boyfriend with whom I had broken up a couple months before. People thought I was just conflicted over my feelings for new boy. People had no idea I was falling apart. People had no idea I was going back to Planned Parenthood every 3 months to get tested for HIV. People had no idea because I never told them. I never told anyone until 2 years later after then-friend-with-benefits had turned into boyfriend and I realized that I loved him and that I was safe with him. I felt guilty keeping this secret from him, like I was damaged goods and he didn’t even know. Like keeping it from him was duping him into falling in love with someone who wasn’t worth any more than what he could get from her body.