One of my grandmother's died today.

I don’t think I was really ready for that kind of news so early in the morning prior to starting my day. I was so caught off guard that it affected my morning pretty significantly. Usually when I’m encountered with someone’s passing I’m met with shock first. The disbelief that someone who was breathing is now a person waiting to be buried or cremated. I usually don’t have any emotions attached to that shock. I’m normally numb and it takes awhile for it to really hit me.

Today was a little different… well, very different. It hurt instantly. I could feel my heart drop, my body become heavy, weakness seep into every muscle fiber… But I overcame that feeling with becoming angry. I was angry this morning. Mad at everyone and everything that wasn’t going my way. Because anger is an easier emotion to deal with than sadness. It’s easier to yell and scream than it is to sit and cry and feel hurt. So I was angry. I was aggressive.

I’m thankful for people in my group and my extremely patient therapist that helped talk me through a lot of what was going on in my head. Because today I did have a craving to drink and I did have a craving to smoke, and instead, I went to group.

I guess that’s growth.

why did my seventh grade self want to die so badly?

I don’t know all the reasons why, but I’m trying to figure myself out. I am the type of person to keep track of everything by writing. I’ve always been a blogger, a journal keeper, a fiend for memories. That’s why it’s so hard for me to understand why reflecting on my seventh grade self, why was I so damn suicidal? How old would I have been, 12 or 13 years old? Meeting with 12 years old now, I can’t imagine any of them wanting to feel that way or having a reason to feel that way.

Then I think back to my first trauma as a child, I was 11 years old. I was 11 years old when I was sexually assaulted by an adult. All the feelings of worthlessness before that all happened were then fully engraved into my brain. I constantly (and still do) feel unsafe. I feel the need to hide myself. I hate myself. I want to peel my skin off somehow and throw it away. As if I could start new again that way. I’ve always pictured just carving chunks of myself away because I felt disgusting. Like a snake shedding it’s skin.

That’s almost 20 years of trauma that’s just living underneath everything I have. Every success, every happy memory, all built on top of a broken foundation of trust, self-worth, and love. Three things I have to consistently work on to feel something other than shame and guilt and disgust.

Why is it the norm for my culture to judge and belittle young children for what they look like? Why are we constantly judged by what the number on the scale is, or how well our clothes fit, or how light our skin is? Why is this the topic of discussion for every family gathering after not seeing each other for so long? How can one feel like they’re worthy of living if this is what goes through their head every day? I’m not good enough for my family because of how I look, but I’m good enough to be molested, but I’m also not good enough for help, so I have to maintain this image of perfection by hiding away the things that have hurt me.

“You have to forgive them, so you can heal and move on.” What if I don’t want to forgive them? What if I want them to suffer the consequences of their actions NOW, and not wait until they’re up for their judgment day? Why do THEY have to get away with it for me to move on? Can’t I heal and not forgive them?! Can’t I heal and still see them brought down to their knees for the heinous things they did? Fucking irritating.

God. fuck my life.

No one prepares you for the trauma; and no one prepares you for the healing

I’m pretty sure that no one is born with the expectations that traumatic things will happen to them. We’re taught from a young age that yes, there will be good and bad days. Some days are going to be tougher than others, and we can either “run from it or learn from it” as said in Lion King. You take those words as a kid and laugh at the fact that Simba got hit with a stick and said that it hurt. It’s all fun and games until it’s time for you to actually face your past and learn from it. Then you get hit with the metaphorical stick. And that shit hurts.

It’s taken almost 2 years of therapy to even get a small grip of what I’m going through and why I feel the way I do. My negative core beliefs about myself are the pillars to my personality. I’ve grown as a person because of these pillars. I’m comfortable with where I’m at most of the time… Until I started deciding that inside needed some serious renovation, and the pillars to my personality needed to come down. The wall needed to come down to make room for improvements. But what happens when you take the main support of a home down? It crumbles. It falls. And that’s what I feel like right now.

Unboxing… what? 17, almost 18 years of trauma induced anxiety, depression, stress… My core beliefs of feeling worthless and inefficient. My core beliefs of never being good enough for anyone or anything. The constant battle to motivate myself to “be better”. Showered in toxic positivity, but pushing all of my issues aside. Sweeping it under a beautiful rug to hide all of the nastiness that I’ve dealt with in my life. Looks nice and tidy. But I’m a mess inside.

I fucking hate healing. I hate therapy because I hate feeling the shit I’m feeling. I hate revisiting shit that I’ve tried so hard to push back into a deep nothingness. Can’t it be like Inside Out where those fucking memories just fade forever? Why isn’t it as easy to change my core memories as it was in that movie?

I’m just fucking tired.

What am I trying to accomplish this year?

Honestly, I’m so tired of the question, “what’s next? what are you going to do? what’s your next move?”

Don’t get me wrong because I am a woman of extensive planning. When I held a leadership position, I would have at least 3 courses of action in case one didn’t work. I almost demanded that my Soldiers had solutions to problems they brought to my attention because I needed to know that they could not only plan, but remain flexible. So when being asked what my next move is, it’s only normal to assume that I’ll have an articulate answer.

The thing is, I don’t. I have no idea what I want to do after all of this. My plan has already changed from getting out to staying in to complete a few things that I can’t leave undone. Do I want to continue nursing or has it really taken it’s toll on me? Have I waited too long to start healing where I can’t go through therapy and be a “productive” citizen? I hate the hustle culture. I was so engulfed by the “hustle hard” culture. Always comparing ourselves to our peers on who can achieve the most in one year. Constantly posting about our new years resolutions, our strategy for the year, our five year plans… Why does no one tell you to just take a breath and slow down to appreciate all that you’ve already done?

Why do accomplishments have to be things that land you a medal, award, promotion, or some big thing worth “celebrating”? What if my accomplishment is getting my kid dressed and fed in the morning while also remembering to eat breakfast and take my medications? What if my accomplishment for the day is not having a breakdown that ends up in my auditory hallucinations cussing me out and telling me to just off myself?

This year? My goal? Focus on my fucking self. Center myself. Find myself again. Explore what it is that truly gives me a reason to continue living. Take a fucking break for once because damn, this hustle shit gets exhausting. Constantly striving to be a star, to be the best, to land bullets on my evaluations to get awards, to be promoted, to show the perfect life to everyone on Instagram.

Ah, my life is fucking hard. My head is a mess. My goal is to not give a fuck this year about anything that doesn’t matter. What matters to me? My family. My mental health. My physical health. All of it has taken a toll from constantly being “on the go”. So let’s get it done ~ or not.

Jumping into parenthood: finally a party of just 3

We were really fortunate to have so much help from Sean’s parents last year. Due to COVID, my MIL and FIL’s stay was thoroughly extended to 9.5 months of help. This benefited us in being able to keep Maverick from enrolling into daycare at what seemed to be the faux-height of the pandemic. It also helped me a lot when I became anxious and stressed and sank into postpartum depression multiple times throughout the year. Now that we’ve welcomed a cousin into the picture, we have had to pass on our help elsewhere.

The most recent vacation we took was an extensive 5-day road trip from West Texas to Southern Washington. It was probably the longest 10-days (there and back) of my life. Confined to a car crammed with stuff, sitting next to my baby while he has Cocomelon on blast, my husband has music playing, and Maverick just screaming at the top of his lungs to come out of his car seat. It was not at all what I had expected the journey would be. Maverick used to sleep soundly in his car seat, but for whatever reason, he decided to change that Day 1 of vacation.

I’ve definitely had to strengthen my left arm lugging him around the house while multitasking chores, making myself coffee and lunch, and picking up all the things around the house. He’s in this phase where he’s on extreme stranger danger and is clingy as all hell to me. The moment I try to set him down I can feel his toes and his fingers sink into my skin for dear life, as if the floor was lava and he actually knew that it would swallow him whole.

Parenthood without help is not easy. I applaud all the parents, moms and dads, that do this on a daily basis. This stay at home thing is not for the feint of heart. I’m terrified about what the future brings because I know it’ll put distance between our family. Deployments are nothing new to Sean and I, but it’s definitely something that will be new to experience with a baby. I’m just hoping that everything works out in our favor, and we’re on our way home sooner than later…