How to be

Growing up, I learned a lot of things, but I feel like I never learned how to “be.” I know we all have stages where we feel out of place, but I remember walking across the school cafeteria painfully aware of my arms and how to swing them.

I can think of situations in my younger life where I literally did not know how to behave in that situation. I was so in my head second-and-third-guessing everything that everyone in that movement said and did and then second-and-third guessing everything I did as well.

I still have that feeling sometimes. The feeling that I don’t know how to “be.” What to do in some situations, or what I would truly do when faced with certain circumstances. I always try to remind myself that my life is the sum of both hard work and good fortune (or blessings, however you look at it). So there are things I have been blessed not to face.

We are the sum of a lot of different factors–generations of factors even–that have determined who our grandparents were, who their children became, and impacted us. Our health, responsibilities, resources, support network, access, resilience. Even, I think, some traumas that we carry that are probably manifested in unconscious patterns we pass down without even seeing it. This is why the field of epigenetics fascinates me.

We have all heard of “genes,” or “genetics.” Epigenetics deals with DNA. Rather than taking a “you get what you get” approach toward our health or skills, epigenetics says that certain factors can influence the way your genes are activated (or not).

Which means that nature and nurture make us who we are. And it’s possible that nurture might matter more. I know that can be a bleak thought to a lot of people who were dealt a difficult hand in life, but I like the idea that we get a say in our health and who we are. To me, it sounds like I can wake up every day and choose wellness (to the extent that my resources allow). I don’t have to have a temper because my parents did. I don’t have to have diabetes because my grandmother had it.

As time has gone on, I’ve learned more and more how to wake up every day and choose life, myself and the person I want to be. I’ve accepted parts of myself that I never thought I could, and I’ve learned how to walk unselfconsciously thanks to a decade of yoga.

All of this to say there is no one way to figure out how to be, but I think it is important work. For me, “how to be,” means what are you when all of your life roles are stripped off? It has occurred to me after nearly a decade since I left everything and everyone even remotely familiar and went to South Korea (woefully unprepared, I might add).

Although my romantic life has been its normal shitshow, the rest of my life is going pretty well (thank God). And I can spend time in the quiet, by myself. My first boyfriend as a baby adult (20-ish) once asked me why I was so loud. Of course I had no idea what he was talking about. Then he told me I was always making noise. There was always loud music playing or something, never silence.

That really struck me, and I’ve tried to lead a quieter life ever since, although of course I have massively failed in that area many times. Lately, though, it’s been quiet. In this quiet, I’ve had to listen to myself and dismantle my old life completely because it was not making me happy or well.

Listening to myself has been really difficult, but the more I do it the more I am certain that my best days are ahead of me. Because I’m the common denominator in my life. To anyone out there who is struggling, I know it can sound absolutely crushing to think that you are stuck with yourself for the rest of your life. My response is that the behaviors and patterns we have as adults are things that helped us survive when we were younger and dependent on other people. It’s not the same now.

As a species, we are designed to survive, so we are on our own side. There is no part of you that wants to destroy you, not even the one(s) that you or other people can’t understand. If you just start there, knowing that your body and mind are on your side, and responding in kind by changing your self talk or behaviors, you will start to feel better.

I’m not a therapist or anything, but this is what has been working for me. No more shaming any part of myself. Just who are you, what do you have to say, how are you trying to protect me?

It really has helped me learn more and more just how to be.

Self-Inflicted Pressure

I remember why I used to drink. It was to get away from the crushing weight of my own self-monitoring. I can feel the pressure I generate on myself. It sits in between my shoulderblades. It tightens my throat. It irritates my digestion. All of me taut and tight, vigilant against “bad decisions,” “imperfect conduct,” “undesirable behavior.”

I drank because alcohol marvelously, wholly, shut out that voice. Alcohol told me to chill, relax dude, look around, nobody cares, and everybody’s fucking up. It’s ok.

My rigid, type-A soul, with the full force its considerable willpower, threw itself completely into the bliss of what life could be on the other side. A life where my inner monitor was asleep on the job. A life where she was drunk, for godsakes!

I threw myself completely into this unmonitored life, like I always do with a new life project.

Could I do it?

Could I drink my way out of this suffocating, crushing, presence that my inner monitor inflicts on me night and day?

Even my dreams were haunted by her: recurring dreams with themes like “you’re back at high school,” and “you’re fighting with your brother,” plague my subconscious mind, reminding me regularly that I don’t know what I’m doing in my life; that I somehow feel unprepared…

and that I never let go of the guilt I hold for the many ways I’ve failed my brother.

Lately I’ve been terrorizing myself money and how “little I have to show” for six years in the Gulf,

And although I know that after six years, I have given myself gifts that no one will ever be able to take from me because I’ve invested in my health, in my heart, and in my spirit.

And although I know that in five years I will look back at the me who is sitting here typing right now with love and gratitude and admiration for making the right choices for our future and giving myself what I truly needed to be able to enjoy life,

I

Still

Love/Hate

Myself.

The hate is winning today.

But I won’t have a drink.

Tough

TW: This post talks about trauma extensively.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My childhood was not easy. There was a lot of instability, and I grew up being afraid of everything.

One particularly acute fear I remember was the fear of getting into a fight. Now, as an adult, I realize that taking/giving a few punches to peers is not the most painful thing on the planet. I also realize that it’s OK, even a virtue, to be a pacifist,

but tell that to my 10-year-old mind.

As a result of these fears, plus the sensitivity that is a part of my personality, and I had a very mistaken image of myself. I believed I wasn’t “tough.”

Tough, in my childlike mind, became cemented as this image of some badass who was unafraid of being in a physical alteration. I compared myself to everyone I knew who was “tough.” I beat myself up for not living up to them.

I considered myself weak, as the difficulties of my late adolescence and early adulthood rained down on me. I berated myself for my inability to be stoic. My emotions would take me and I would boil over like a pot of milk.

Each time something like this happened and my repressed emotions boiled over, I berated myself incessantly. I tore myself apart blaming and pushing myself. Repeating a trauma program in my mind that the punishments, especially the strong kind, would result in discipline. Discipline would make me stop melting down.

This is not true, of course. Reliving something over and over, using as a weapon against yourself, only succeeds in keeping the trauma at the front of your consciousness, and it colors your perceptions of the experiences of your life. You cannot “will” your way out of a trauma response, but I didn’t know that then.

Self-punishment, despite the infinite amount I had to dole out on myself, would never work. I looked around and saw that others did not melt down and get stuck like me. I felt inferior. I felt weak. I didn’t feel tough, I felt broken and ashamed. I thought I had to keep this side of myself a secret so that I could be accepted, so I pushed it down juuuuuust enough that put it just out of sight, pick up my life, and “move on.”

Thank God that these cycles were always too much for me to bear alone, and I always had some form of help. One of the most shining blessings of my life is that I always had an incredible support network who would catch me when I fell, and help direct me toward a positive path.

Still, those meltdowns were always shrouded in a deep, deep shame.

Now, ten years after I started writing this blog, I revisit those memories. I am a woman who has seen a good bit of the world, and who has gotten to know a lot of people. I have been practicing yoga for 10 years (I think–either 9 or 10 for sure). I have lived and thrived in the US, South Korea, and Qatar. I managed to get a better job in a pandemic. I’m killin it.

I revisit those meltdowns with compassion, perspective, and knowledge. Trauma was not a word that I grew up with. In my family, we didn’t let things “get to us.” There were people who had things way worse than we did (which is true. I think if you have a safe place to sleep, internet and some money in your wallet, you’re in the top 25% wealthiest people in the world).

Until yoga slowly taught me how to feel my body, I lived entirely in my head, and I would push down everything that bothered me until I couldn’t feel it anymore. As time went by, I started to use alcohol to help me numb stay numb, which had the added bonus of producing “fun” Bryoney, who was worrisome in her recklessness.

Three years ago, I had an experience that was visceral. It hit at the oldest and deepest trauma I possessed, and I fell completely apart. That trauma happened in late August/early September, and I almost didn’t make it for real y’all. Except, that it made me work on my shit. I actively sought out counselors. I meditated. I did yoga. I reached out to the people I needed. And with this support, I was able to do some of the work to release this deep, preverbal, OG trauma.

And it worked, and I healed a bit. I healed juuuuuuust enough to put it behind me, pick up my life, and “move on.” And, to “the work’s” credit, I have slowly healed. I’ve learned to feel my body–feel when it is healthy, and when it is off. Feel when it is tired and give myself permission to rest. Feel when its energetic and give myself permission to play. And I have decided that I want to show up and be present in my life, so I have been able to let go of alcohol completely (inshallah).

Problem is, this work does not go nearly as quickly as I want it to. I want to “work” “immediately.” If it doesn’t, if a setback occurs, I spiral into my trauma very quickly, and I become the same resentful, fearful girl who felt like she was the only person who feels things.

I want “the work” to be a linear march toward my “eureka” moment, when I am finally “healed” “for good.” But that is not how the healing process goes, at least not in my experience. In my experience, you do as much of “the work” as you can until you hit on a spot that is still very very raw and you get stuck in it. For me, I can almost always figure out what is going on with the help of my counselor, but knowing why you’re in pain doesn’t alleviate the pain.

Triggers and flashbacks are a normal part of trauma. You go back to that moment in some way, and you feel what you were feeling back then. The result of the work is that you feel it to lessening degrees.

This time of year is a trigger for me, and that weird guy I wrote about in the last post compounded this trigger so I was thrown into the emotions and experiences from this time three years ago.

And I sit or lay on the soft pink carpet I bought for my room. And I look out of the window of a stunning sea view. My friends/housmates/family are in the kitchen making lunch, and my sweet cat is poking about just behind me. And I’m proud.

Because if even feeling the somewhat healed, 3 years removed-version of this trauma was enough to have me on my ass all week and regress me back to the emotions of the fearful and angry child who lives inside of me for a bit,

I cannot believe I survived that. Repaired relationships after that. Furthered my education in yoga, made new friends, secured a job where I am really happy, and got a new Macbook after that. I am strong as hell.

If you are a person who continues to survive your traumas every day, and especially if you’re brave enough to face them and try to heal, then congratulations.

We are tough.

 

Maturity and mental health

Yesterday my friend/housemate and I were talking. He was saying how much he changed over the years. He said “I guess it’s maturity, but….”

I said, “no, that’s not maturity. It’s your own hard work.”

It’s true. The longer I live on this earth, the more I realize that your character is your choice. I know people who are in their mid-fifties who are still insecure and unwilling to look at themselves.

To me, this is not mature.

I also know people who have done the soul-wrenching work of confronting their toxic behaviors and patterns, getting at the root of what caused them, and making the effort to change. Yes it is a long process, but it is a conscious choice, not a by-product of simply having hung around on this earth long enough.

I started this (much-neglected) blog ten years ago and whew. A lot has happened in those ten years. I read over some of the posts and cringe, man. Being in your early twenties is embarrassing.

But I also read over some posts and it strikes me: how much I have grown.

I am absolutely the same human with the same sense of humor, and I am proud to say that I actually did most of the goals I wrote about wanting to do.

I have lived and worked abroad, traveled extensively, and I have been published internationally.

But one of the things that stands out the most to me is how much my mental health has improved. Ten years ago, I wrote about how I would have annual breakdowns. I wrote about them in a lighthearted way, but it was true. I went through a season in my life where each year, I would hold it together for–I don’t know–9/10 months. Then something would trigger me and I would have a debilitating bout of depression for the remaining months of the year. This was normally around springtime, and these crippling bouts of depression were as regular as the change in seasons itself.

I was exhausted, and I thought about ending my life more than once because it is just sooooo exhausting to know that no matter what you do to run away from the depression, it was always coming for you.

I’m not going to lie and say my mental health is absolutely perfect–no one’s is, I’m pretty sure. But I have invested in myself heavily over the last 10 years. I have seen counselors, I’ve read, I’ve journaled, I’ve meditated, I’ve prayed, and–finally–I broke down and started taking the meds (one of the best decisions of my life btw, in case you’re on the fence about it).

2020 has been, by all accounts, an absolute shitshow. It has been a strain on everyone’s physical and mental health. And I’m not gonna lie, I did have a depressive episode back in March.

But do you know how long it lasted?

A couple of weeks.

It was triggered because I got cocky. I was out of medicine, and I pulled the classic “it can wait, I feel fine.”

It could not wait, I did not feel fine.

It culminated over a week of drinking too much, making poor choices, and sleeping for about 40 hours straight until I could finally get to my mental health clinic. I spoke to my doctor, got my medicine sorted, made some phone calls and some apologies, endured my own embarrassment at having gone off the rails…

….and then I felt better.

And when quarantine happened, it did not break me. And when I was terminated from my job, it did not break me. And when I had to move, when I was running all over the country trying to get my visa paperwork sorted, when I was uncertain where I would live, when I was applying for jobs and waiting/accepting rejections, not once did I experience a depressive episode, nor did I particularly lash out against my housemates or loved ones.

Did I drink a bit too much? Yes, of course. Did I eat too much, and eat unhealthy food? Yes, obviously. Did I sometimes cry from the stress? Yes.

But did I take to my bed one day and find myself unable to get out of it? No. Did I turn on myself and slip into thought patterns of self-hate and self-abuse? No. Did I lash out against my loved ones, did I let my irritation spill into my daily life with my housemates and cause damage to relationships? No–I’m not perfect, and we were a bit irritated with each other, but we handled it and came out of quarantine with even stronger bonds.

This is a product of having done “the work,” not from simply having been on earth long enough.

“The work” is not easy. It is messy and embarrassing and painful. You have to face things about yourself that you absolutely hate, and you have to learn to not only love them, but to appreciate them as well because everything in your body and mind–even the things you find absolutely abhorrent–developed as a way to keep you alive. And it worked, because you are still here.

“The work” is a combination of caring for your physical health and releasing traumas that you do not want to fucking feel again. “The work” means opening yourself up on a deep and painful level, and it is not something I recommend that anyone do alone. It is important, in my opinion, that people have an experienced professional to help guide them through “the work,” and to help them contextualize the things they uncover.

I am not more mature because I have been alive longer. I am more mature because I made the choice to get better from my illness, and the only reason I made that choice is because my illness would have killed me. If I had only been “a little” depressed; if I could have kept running from my depression and anxiety, I would have.

Thank God the depression and anxiety caught up to me and forced me to face the reality. Thank God my life fell apart one too many times and I could not put it back together on my own. Thank God for the loved ones in my life who stood by me, accepted me, and helped guide me toward lasting and true treatment.

Thank God for a mind that has always been on my side, even when it was berating me. It was berating me because it didn’t know another way to keep me safe because as a child I did have to be nearly perfect and that did mean anticipating every way I could avoid having done “something wrong.”

Thank God my beautiful, analytical mind has always been my friend. And that it always will be.

Thank God I have realized that the sum of who I am as a human being covers more than my thoughts or my physical body.

The sum of who you are as a human covers more than your thoughts or your physical body too. We are not our mistakes. Our characters are the sum of the thousands of tiny choices we make, again and again, as we solidify who we are.

Thank God that we can always “wake up,” take stock of our lives, and decide that we are or are not who we want to be. And we can take the steps to rectify that.

These days, social media can be an incredible blessing because there is a bevy of true and correct information about how to help ourselves move toward recovery in our mental illnesses. Even if you cannot afford to see a doctor, if you have an internet connection, you can go onto instagram and follow hashtags like #selfhealers, #mentalhealth or #traumainformed. You can also follow “The Hollistic Psychologist,” who is (in my opinion) a very accessible person who gives helpful information about trauma recovery and re-parenting our inner children. This plus a journal is a very cheap starting point.

There is no shame in admitting to yourself that you are not where you want to be. There is no shame in being insecure. There is no shame in needing help. We are not meant to simply eat our pain and keep going.

The only true and real love, the only love that matters, is the love we have for self.

You can always also reach out to me, and I will do my best to help you (but please bear in mind that I am not a professional by any means. But it’s possible I can point you toward some different resources).

If you need help, get help. If you know someone who needs help, the best thing that you can do for them is believe them, hold space, and reassure them that even in their darkest hours, they are loved and lovable.

We can heal.