Pray After Leaving

I stood on the patio of my downtown Los Angeles apartment and watched protestors cross Olvera street holding signs with the image of Michael Brown. My Facebook feed told a different story of that night as it filled with Fox News commentary and unsourced images of burning cars and destruction that wasn’t happening. The feed didn’t offer an ounce of empathy to people who were angry, hurting, and tired. The Facebook attacks came from a large range of evangelical church-goers from hometown evangelicals — who asked me if I was a lesbian during a visit home from school because I wasn’t dating anyone — to college non-denominational evangelicals — who drank beer during Bible studies and got tattoos with JRR Tolkien imagery. I had been fading from the evangelical church for awhile because I found my required college Bible classes endlessly boring and I hated going to church because everyone was so mean. The night of the Ferguson protests was when I finally stepped away. I didn’t stop believing in God, but I did stop believing in a military-industrial-complex god who we sang “Onward Christian Soldiers” to during Sunday school.

It has taken the past seven years to educate myself on the racist foundations of the United States and all the other ways the Abeka curriculum circled around the truth in the fields of literature, art, and science. I was 22 years old and still didn’t really know about sex or pregnancy. Someone told me it was a “special hug” and I never asked questions about it again. For seven years, I did a great job straddling the lines of evangelical dogma and yet to be labeled, whatever I believe now (I like just, Christian) because I was great at performing evangelicalism. My husband and I got married too young because we didn’t want to deal with our parents’ reaction to living together before marriage, I found a church so if someone came to visit us we had a place to take them. Despite being the academy award winner of evangelical performance, there was something I never could perform: prayer.

Prayer was unbelievably cringe to me even before I left the evangelical tradition. It’s hella awkward because we are there in total silence, sometimes people — in all seriousness — say, “Papa God”, and when you ask why you should pray you get a list of reasons that don’t really make logical sense, but boy are those responses canned and well-rehearsed. I already had terrible social anxiety as a teenager and now someone wants me to lead a small group in prayer? No, thank you.

I have had to adjust a lot of things in the past seven years. I’m open to learning new traditions and practices that help me grow as a member of my community and connect to God. Prayer just wasn’t one of them. It seemed so pointless.

Steven and I went to the Huntington Gardens in Pasadena the year before the pandemic. The docent walked our group to Henry Huntington’s rose garden. The rose garden was designed and influenced by the Chinese gardening tradition of using uneven lines and walkways to force contemplation. Each angle is a new perspective and a new image to contemplate or connect with the Creator.

A few weeks ago, I starting using Richard Rohr’s “Yes, And” as my daily devotional. His second passage is on prayer and I have been stuck on it everyday:

“Everything exposed to the light itself becomes light (Ephesians 5:13). In prayer, we merely keep returning the divine gaze and we become its reflection, almost in spite of ourselves (2 Corinthians 3:18). I use prayer as the umbrella word for any interior journeys or practices that allow us to experience faith, hope, and love within ourselves. It is not a technique for getting things, a pious exercise that somehow makes God happy, or a requirement for entry into heaven. It is much more like practicing heaven now.” — Richard Rohr

That cringe I always felt wasn’t prayer. It was the performance that made me uncomfortable. A performance I had mastered for so many years — it was inauthentic and motivated by self-preservation.

Prayer is the rose garden.

Prayer can be the words you use before you eat if that connects you to the Creator of life, prayer can be contemplation, a meaningful conversation with a friend, a TV show that makes you reflective (Ted Lasso, obviously for me), or prayer can be a personal discipline. Prayer is for internal growth, not performative words for a crowd. I do have a prayer life. Internal practices that I’m using to connect to God: I started to garden, I’m reading more, I write down things that I’ll never publish, I say the names of people who bother me in a meditation so I can improve my empathy and love, I sit in the sun for 5 minutes everyday — and I stopped performing.

When I Die, Make Me a Tree

When I die, I hope to be more grounded than I ever was when I was alive.

I want to put down roots and grow—flourish even.

I wonder if my tree hips will be as curvy as my human hips? Regardless, I would prefer to be a beautiful tree. Maybe I could be a fruit tree? Although, those can smell when the fruit starts to rot and that might push people away. For sure don’t make it a papaya tree because I wouldn’t want to hear all the sexual comments about what papayas look like, because even as a tree, I would still be very socially awkward. Nothing too scaly or lumpy either. I had acne my whole life, I’d hate to have that continue into my death. Let’s settle for a tree that blooms flowers in the spring. I’d like white flowers, but you can decide.

I want to create a space that brings people together—a landmark. “Meet us at the tree at the end of the sidewalk before you get to the benches.” A spot that is hidden enough at dusk so couples can etch their initials into the bark of my stomach and it should be near grass so families can gather for picnics or wanderers have a place to sleep. Please find a beautiful spot, but not too beautiful. I don’t need teens in prom dresses showing up every year just when my flowers are looking their best.

Do we know how public parks feel about planting trees? I did pay my taxes every year, so I think it is only fair that I am able to spend the rest of eternity in a park overlooking The Observatory. If it seems too expensive, I’ll settle for a spot near a Trader Joe’s. I need a placement that is secure. Picking up and moving to a new rental every year was exhausting, so it would be nice to finally own property somewhere in this city. I think I could really thrive if I stay in one place.

I don’t believe that death is the end, I know that somehow we continue. Maybe parts of our souls are scattered throughout the earth. I want to keep mine in something that can be a reminder that one day we will leave the world, but the world will forever be different because we existed in it—we’re never really gone. I have to admit that I am excited for the prospects of a life after this one. Please come too, it would be best to fill the park with friends or else I would be awfully lonely and you know how I get when I am alone. I used to believe in heaven and hell, but now I believe that anywhere can be heaven and all of us get the chance to go. Mine will be at the end of the sidewalk before the benches next to a sign that says “No prom pictures, please.” That will be bliss.

We're All Just Talking About Antidepressants Now

I can track most of my 20s by different anxiety disorders that I was diagnosed during that time in my life.

• 20 - 23: Social Anxiety

• 24 - 27: Panic Disorder

• 28 - 29: Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Each new layer of anxiety has brought different physical and emotional hurdles. Weight gain, weight loss, adult acne, food intolerances, starting new jobs and then immediately quitting because I would pass out before my shift, laziness, social media addiction, being pissed off at literally every thing that Steven does—like Oh my God, is he BREATHING? Why can I hear him breathe right now? As I am typing this I can hear him eating a bowl of rice in the other room and I am starting to sweat.

I wish I could say that I wasn’t always like this, but anxiety has been my oldest friend. If I woke up tomorrow completely free of anxiety, I would probably call my therapist and she would tell me that I’m suffering from abandonment issues due to my utter dependence on my anxiety. I’m not sure what my life would look like without my crippling fear that I’m the worst person who was ever given a human body. What would I even do at a party if I wasn’t standing in the doorway the whole time in case I needed a quick exit? Air travel would instantly become mundane and boring because I wouldn’t need to be wheeled on a stretcher through the Las Vegas airport after I passed out because the line was taking too long.

When I was in 6th grade, I started missing a lot of classes because I would get really bad chest pains. It got so bad that they ran an EKG for my heart and at one point an MRI on my brain. All I remember is that the technician told me that they were going to inject me with something that would make me feel like I just peed my pants. I thought, “yeah, right” and then almost immediately felt I just peed all over the table and started apologizing profusely. I’m sorry, I know you said it would feel like it, but I didn’t believe you. I think I actually did pee. I’m so sorry. All of those tests came back with zero information and after years of trying to figure out what was wrong, my doctor gave me a prescription for heartburn. I’m not kidding. HEARTBURN. Thankfully, my Mom has always had a healthy skepticism when it comes to prescribing 6th grade girls who just barely started their period with heartburn. She called the school office and gave them a bottle of multivitamins. She told me my “medicine” was there so if I ever started to feel a chest pain, then I could walk to the office and take it. She knew that getting me to walk out of whatever space was triggering my anxiety and talk with Mrs. Brown in the office while taking a secret multivitamin was probably more helpful than those damn heartburn pills.

I wasn’t officially diagnosed with anxiety until my early 20s. I still didn’t have great access to medication or therapy so I spent most of my teen and early adult years just wreaking havoc on my emotional health. I went on a Paleo diet which helped my general well-being a little, but also gave me some bad ideas for health. It also didn’t last long. One time I overheard a close friend tell someone that they hated when people had to make special food requests or could only eat at certain places. The next day I quit the Paleo diet and literally ate any food that caused my body pain because I hated the idea of being a burden more than I hated my skin breaking out or constant stomach aches and nausea. Instead of confronting my friend and telling them that those comments were hard for me to hear—why would I ever advocate for myself—I just did my best to blend in and carry on being a terrible friend. The idea of being alone terrified me, but it was also incredibly easy for me to push people away. I would bail on people, change plans last minute, or just ghost before we had the term for it in 2013. I figured no one would notice, but everyone always noticed which is the worst thing you could ever tell someone with social anxiety. One time a boy found out that I liked him and I apologized because I felt embarrassed for him that he would have to live with the knowledge that someone like me had a crush on him. God, your early 20s really are just the worst.

The first time I took medication I cried in my bed and fell asleep. It was a nap that felt like it was years in the making. It helped for awhile. I graduated, starting dating—which is honestly still shocking to me, got married, moved out of California, went to grad school, hated Denver and my life, moved back to California, and stopped going to therapy and taking medication along the way. Steven and I had marriage problems even before we got married. Most likely because I stopped treating my anxiety disorders and he refused to acknowledge his alcohol addiction. After nearly ready to call it quits on our marriage, I found a new therapist and she noted that I have “events” that trigger pretty severe reactions. Events include and are not limited to: airports, concerts, large events, small interpersonal events where I only know a few people, busy grocery stores, spending time with my in-laws, job interviews, working almost any job, vacations with no itinerary, or being stuck just about anywhere with no plan. She introduced me to Xanax which has prevented me from passing out in so many embarrassing places that I can’t even count. It was for emergencies only, but after a few years, I started to notice that every day was just a lot to get through. Steven and I can both acknowledge that I seem really difficult to deal with, but it’s mostly because I’m anxious about everything on a daily basis—like which room he is in when he is cutting his toe nails or racial injustice in America. I told my therapist and she was like, “Oh yeah, babe, that’s anxiety.” Note: My therapist does not call me babe, but I think it would be fun if she did. There is nothing cool about living with anxiety, despite what internet meme culture has made seem mysterious and edgy. I would love to be able to drink a little too much without the fear that I’ll be murdered because I got drunk one time or say yes to vacation without needing to type out a day to day plan of where we are going and how we will get there. Currently, I have notes in my phone for Scotland, Maui, and London in case we ever get the chance to travel again and my Mom calls me and tells me she’s using her timeshare, which like her paying for all my useless tests in 6th grade is a huge privilege. I can’t imagine a world just going into a grocery store for one item and not browsing the entire store in case you forgot something you needed or being able to ignore the guy in the movie theater who came in alone with a large backpack. Maybe this last one is everyone now? I’ll get back to you.

The thing that late 20s Becky has that early 20s Becky didn’t have—or at least didn’t recognize because she was a puddle of untreated mental illness—is friends who have gotten the help that they needed along the way and the camaraderie of feeling less alone in your own thoughts. My phone lit up a few weeks ago with a text from one of my closest friends,

“Was prescribed Ritalin this morning and LOL the pharmacy is trying to give me the generic for $250…Omg that prescription site you sent me saved me $150 - but LOL they don’t have in stock till next week.”

We texted about how shitty our healthcare system is and then made a plan for a night of wine where we all just talk about antidepressants now. It feels like we are finally opening packages that have been sitting under the Christmas tree for years. We peel back the layer of why we do something and learn how to change it while praising how much better we feel when we try a new prescription or therapist. Maybe I would be more calm and less sweaty without my anxiety, but at least with it, I know I’m not alone.

The Spiral

My husband reminded me that I need to write things down. I tend to circle around the same conversation with him over and over, but maybe that is a reflection of the Groundhog Day we are all living in at the moment. The same four walls in our small, Pasadena bungalow, the same two dogs looking out the window as our masked neighbors return from yet another evening walk, and the same face to have the same talks with night after night. It is hard to separate the days now—let alone the conversations.

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before.”

That has become a common phrase in our 2020 vernacular. A phrase that has led to misunderstandings, defensiveness, and boredom. In order for me to come to terms with my experience over the last 6 months, I had to identify the series of spirals:

First, the panic spiral. The week before spring break, I met with my students on a rainy and overcast morning. We sat in the classroom for what would be our final meeting and they finished their midterm. We got the email a week later that classes were pushed to online and I rushed to record podcasts and change lessons to better suite digital learning, but also what do I know because I have only been teaching for a little over a year. Each week felt like a load of bricks off my back (and the student’s too). The school year ended in May and I was relieved to make it through the semester, but then I stared at my empty bank account and a new wave of panic swept me away.

The second spiral was the heartbreak spiral. We started marriage counseling after our already fragile marriage couldn’t protect us from the debris left from untreated addictions. We cleared out our alcohol cabinets and committed to a life of recovery for my husband. Learning to support someone you love who has hurt you by their addictions is…complicated. More than complicated. There are millions of words in the English language and not one of them can describe the feeling of care, frustration, understanding, anger, sadness, support. Maybe one word…love. It’s easy to understand these new feelings in your head, but it’s harder to memorize them into your heart.

The control spiral picks up where my last paycheck left off—in the endless void of applications into a soulless computer screen. Who knew I would grow to hate that Apply button so much?

To the hiring manager, here is the story about why I care about this career but you’ll never read it. Here are my qualifications that are word for word from your job posting, but you won’t see this either. Here is a list of references who can vouch for those qualities and would be happy to talk with you, but you’ll never see their names.

I crave control. Control has become a safety net for me in order to not be hurt by the people around me. Applying for jobs during the middle of a pandemic is out of my control. Enter—stage left—the spiral. The need to be in control is paralyzing, but it is also paralyzing to budget out your expenses for the month and only hope you’ll be able to pay next months rent. So back to the job listings and writing cover letters and hitting send because the only way to find agency is to feed the system.

Those spirals led me to this one.

This spiral doesn’t have a name. It’s a feeling that lives in my chest and in my stomach—it’s hard to breathe, and feel, and remember the privilege I have that I am alive. It feels likes pain, fear, frustration, silence, loneliness. It’s the loss of control. It looks like crying myself to sleep or sitting in a fetal position on the couch—rocking back and forth slowly in order to feel my body again. The outbursts, the tears—those are apart of this spiral.

When does the spiral finally end?

That’s what I usually ask my husband during those circle conversations. When will COVID be done? When can we travel again? When will we be able to pay our bills? Will we ever be friends again? Did I bring you to LA for nothing? Are we happy? What are we doing?

The spiral continues.

I don’t know where to put this constant ache in my chest, but I know it will…end. It has to end because if we have watching anything in the last few months we should have seen that in the midst of everyone’s spirals, we are resilient. Our bodies have looked square into the face of oppression, sickness, loss, violence, fear, anxiety, and injustice and said, not f***** today.

We are here in the spiral or in between them—we are here.

My Rejected Tiny Love Story

It would have a been a long shot to get published in the New York Times, but I submitted anyway. Here is my rejected Tiny Love Story:

You’ve Got Email?
We met at a college event in 2013. In passing, I recommended he read Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly. Three months later, I got an email saying he read the book and recommended it to his sisters. We emailed over the summer, talking about our favorite tv shows, TED Talks, and books. I felt like a modern Meg Ryan. He was Tom Hanks, if Tom never learn what Facetime was or how to use Skype. At the start of the last semester, we bumped into each other outside the campus coffee shop, we didn’t say much in person. We continued to email throughout the semester with links to Youtube videos including the final table read from The Office cast. He said he cried. He asked for my number, put it into his flip phone, and we were married three years later.

Running from Your Hometown and Straight into Trauma

“Well, Becky, to be perfectly honest, it sounds like you got screwed.” The voice of my therapist said over the phone during our weekly sessions. She is gentle when she speaks, probably common for most therapists, but she is brash and straightforward, like the conscious I wasn’t born with. She presses to uncover more parts of my teenage years that I have often talked about, but rarely understood.

“Well, there was the time a girl in my class yelled at me until I cried on the DC metro during our senior trip or the time when a spiritual mentor put me in the room with a bunch of friends who were allowed to say whatever they wanted about me and I couldn’t respond, they called it dissection.” I rattled them off like they were a “pick-your-own-adventure” story.

She gasped. She stuttered. She apologized.

I grew up in the small, conservative part of town. A place far from the urban life I have adopted in Los Angeles for the past eight years. I’m not unique, there are plenty of people in my neighborhood now that grew up in a town just like it. Usually those conversations drift to how inexpensive housing can be in the Midwest or the lack of traffic to get to the grocery store. “Do you ever miss it?” They ask. “No. I don’t miss it.” I respond.

I spent time there shortly after the 2016 election. I sat in the passenger seat looking out the window at the Trump banners that filled each yard and storefront. The shapes of the houses were like a haunted memory, I knew each one, but it felt different from countless drives I had seen them on before. I used this road every day to get to school, I drove past my dentist’s office and the old Chinese buffet on my way to Chelsea’s house. I barely recognize it now. We pass the church near Market Street. We were stuck at the light. I sat at that light my sophomore year trying to keep myself from crying after getting a letter that morning encouraging to end my life. I shoved it deeper into my backpack because I didn’t want my Mom to see it.

The streets were now filled with messages from a person I don’t agree with. It feels weird to see how things have shifted. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve changed. The town probably has too. I am no longer in it, but it is always apart of me.

“Oh, Becky…” her voice dropped. “I’m not quite sure what to say.”

I’m not sure what to say either. I’m not sure how to reckon the things I have experienced in my life. I have tried hard to rebuild this house on sand, but the waves keep washing it away.

The past few years have been filled with broken friendships, an unstable marriage, thoughts of self-harm, and loneliness because I was running as fast as I could to avoid being hurt again. Turns out I am actually running away from the freedom I have been seeking the whole time.

I asked my therapist, “Why would you say I got screwed?” She paused. “The things that happen to you weren’t because of you.” My body shifted on the sofa. I was quite (a rarity). I kicked my legs out onto the chaise. I felt uncomfortable. She had opened the box that I tucked so deeply under my bed that I refused to acknowledge it. I finally had a word for it. A word I never used before. Trauma. I could finally call it trauma. That’s a big step for me. A step necessary for me to finally move forward.

I’ve been living in reverse thinly vailed as hitting the gas. I ran to California. I ran into people. I ran into academics, but I never really had a plan on how to “get better”. That’s hard for me to say. I’ve had a version of this blog for almost 10 years, of course I’ve been trying to get better as a person. In honesty, what I was doing was confronting my past while trying to justify why it happened. You can’t justify trauma.

For the first time, I had to confront the hurt, the pain, the shit. I had to stop trying to figure out what I did to make these things happen to me. I didn’t do anything. They just happened. That sucks, but it releases the burden that I have been putting on myself for years. Years that I have spent torturing myself to watch every step, every move, because I might cause the hurt again.

“I’m not sure what moving forward looks like.” I teared up a little into the phone. That’s a new feeling for me too—not having an answer. For the first time, I’m okay with that.

I’m Just A Girl Standing in Front of The Internet Asking Them to Love Themselves No Matter What They Weigh

I sat up on the sofa and looked into the office where Steven was sitting on his computer. “Steven, I need to say something to you.” Eight words that I can only assume send a shiver up his spine. “Yeah?” He responded, unsure what to do with his hands, body, eyes as he tried to judge how serious this was going to get by the look on my face.

“Steven…”

He centered his body towards mine.

“I’m fat.”

He walked over to me on the sofa, let out a little laugh, and hugged my neck. It’s weird to let go of what seems to be an obvious secret to everyone else. Something that everyone likely knew, but it feels like it was buried so deep that no one would ever notice. Even though my junior high volleyball coach very much did notice when he started calling me the “big girl” during practices. (Needless to say, my volleyball career never really got off the ground and I quit after 8th grade.) I couldn’t share clothes with the girls in school and in most pictures of me, I am standing somewhere in the back, crossing my arms in an attempt to cover up my body. I have always felt hopelessly trapped inside my own skin. I spent years in the mirror looking at the skin hanging from my arms or the red bumps on the inside of my thighs from wearing tight jeans. For 27 years, I have felt total shame living in this body.

Steven put his hand around my face and said, “Do you feel better?”

To my surprise. I did.

We spend a lot of time talking about body positivity, but not a lot of time accepting it for ourselves. That is/was me. I’ve been watching old cycles of America’s Next Top Model and it is hella problematic sometimes, but I have been waiting for one of the big girls to get the top spot. Why do I want it? I want to feel represented. I want to feel like there is enough space in this world to hold my curvy body. I want to be given the permission to be accepted.

So, I gave myself permission.

I gave myself permission to live in and outside my physical body. The permission to feed and care for my body with things that are good for it, but to also enjoy life, and wine, and chocolate. I gave myself permission to live free from my skin sag, my scale, and the size of my jeans. I can finally learn to embrace and love my body because our bodies can be incredible. They can grow life, fight battles, and offer a display of our love, sacrifices, scars, and victories--but they are just that--a display. I am not skin. We are so much more than skin. Our bodies are a canvas of our stories, but a canvas can change over time. If I gain 20 pounds or lose 50, can’t walk like I used to, or look like a damn supermodel that doesn’t change my identity. I would still be awkward as hell even if I looked like Gigi Hadid.

I’m just a girl with my 44-inch hips, size 12 wearing, 187-pound body standing in front of the internet asking them to love themselves.

I got lost in my skin for the first 27 years and I plan on owning my skin for the rest of the time that I am on this earth. I hope you learn to love and own yours too.

When Your Marriage Doesn't Look Good on Instagram

Forgive me. I do my best to leave cliche lines about social media out of my writing (and life too, honestly) so I feel you on the eye roll when you read this title. Trust me, I did too. I included it this time around because I can't think of a better way to convey to you where I am at in my marriage than through the lens of everyone's favorite photo sharing app. (That pun was not intentional, but now entirely necessary so I'm going to leave it.)

Don't believe everything that you see. Those words are so present every time we scroll through a photo or story. We know that every person is choosing to put their very best content out there. We know that no one has the perfect marriage, family, friend group or career. We know that we have spent too much time at dinner editing our photo on VSCO to match our profile page aesthetic. WE KNOW. 

So why am I here? I'm here to break up some of the best material with a few honest and transparent realities: my marriage can't even pretend to look good on my Instagram. 

It's no secret that Steven and I have had a rocky relationship since we got married. "Sure, marriage is hard, but honestly is it this hard?" is something I have considered tattooing onto my body because it feels connected to my skin. We got married. Let unresolved tension turn into growing resentment towards each other. Started fighting. Began to check out emotionally. Got angry and bitter. Didn't want to be together. Got lonely and made up. Never addressed issues. Implemented chore charts. Tried to figure out things we could do together. Fought again. Repeat. 

So we started counseling. We decided to find two different therapists because we needed to work on the shells of the people we had become over the past two years of endless misconnection. I've learned a lot about myself in my weekly 45-minute sessions. I've learned how I can move better throughout my home. I've learned how to cope when disappointment enters our conversations. I've learned that I still have work to do in my own life that will take many more talks on my therapist's brown, leather sofa to navigate. 

People say the first year can be tough. I'd beg to say it's the whole thing. 

The toughness makes us better people. The struggle to compromise and see each other more is never going to be a piece of cake. I think a really great marriage will be filled with a lot more hardships than good times because that is the only way to refine a relationship. It doesn't always feel worth it, but I know that I am becoming a stronger person even though some days can make me feel weak. 

Steven has been teaching his students what it means to be strong digital citizens. A quick definition--a responsible digital citizen uses technology to learn, create and showcase their experiences in a kind, truthful and informative way. We cannot separate our true selves from who we are online. My true self is very much struggling in marriage. My true self gets frustrated when the trash isn't taken out. My true self is exhausted. My true self wants to share her story in order to provide others a breath of air who feel like they are drowning.

So, yeah, my marriage isn't going to look good on my social media accounts for a while and I'm pretty sure that is okay. I'm a big believer in the idea that the more we share our stories the more power we have over our endings. So for everyone else that is tired of the endless scrolls of doubt, insecurity, failure, and resentment--I don't have practical solutions, but I can assure you that there are two people out there that are hustling to make a marriage work out of very broken pieces who look a lot like you.

Keep scrolling. Keep sharing. 

How The Gun Debate is Hurting the Mental Health Community

Before I begin this post, I must start by saying that I lament the tragedy that occurred over this week and the hundreds of similar stories we have heard like it over the years. Each of those who have been a victim of these acts of senseless violence deserve better from their communities and from our lawmakers. For this reason, I support the understanding of gun violence and prevention research. I believe our representatives should look at our gun policies and make a few changes. So, there is my bias. 

But, that is not why I am writing this.

I am writing this because of something that is often associated with these tragedies... 

Mental health.

In 2018, 1 in 5 American adults suffer from mental illness and depression and suicide rates have increased in youth over 3% since 2015. Since the passing of the Affordable Care Act in 2010, more Americans have had access to mental health care more than ever before, but the growing number of mental illness sufferers outpace the number of licensed mental health professionals including psychiatrists, psychiatric nurses, counselors, psychologists, and social workers combined. Our nation is in a mental health workforce shortage and many are going untreated due to lack of care available and stigma (Mental Health in America, 2018).

Stigmas around mental health include being hard to be friends with, believing the illness is self-inflicted, and that many sufferers were simply "making up" their symptoms. Although any stigma is problematic, one of the most common stigmas is that people with mental health disorders including alcohol dependency, schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder were dangerous (Crisp, Gelder, Rix, Meltzer et al., 2000; Bryne, 1997; Heginbotham, 1998). 

Untreated mental illness can lead to unemployment, separation from families or communities, abuse, but treatment allows most mental illness patients to lead normal and healthy lives. Knowing the importance of having mental health treatments and early detection, I support researching and finding new ways to tackle mental health in American. 

But before we lump the entire mental health community, gun violence, and evil into one...allow me to say a few things. 

Blaming violence solely on mental health can cause stigma and misunderstanding for those in the mental health community who are considering seeking treatment and those who have overcome important hurdles. 

As a suicide survivor, and depression and anxiety sufferer, I have never tried to hurt, injure, or harm someone and according to researchers, I am not alone. 

"The overwhelming majority of people with mental illnesses are not violent, just like the overwhelming majority of all people are not violent. Only 4 percent of the violence—not just gun violence, but any kind—in the United States is attributable to schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or depression (the three most-cited mental illnesses in conjunction with violence). In other words, 96 percent of the violence in America has nothing to do with mental illness." (NAMI, 2017)

Being diagnosed with a mental illness does NOT mean you are more prone to violent behaviors. 

There are many contributing factors to violent behavior beyond mental illness. Many researchers link long-term exposure to violent media may lead to aggressive behaviors. Highly aggressive children are unable to utilize empathy (hurting when someone else hurts) because they are developed in the same part of the brain. Think of aggression and empathy as playing a game of tug-o-war in the brain and only one can be the winner. Aggressive behaviors without the ability to be empathetic can lead to violent and unapologetic acts of violence or behavior. In contrast, some emerging research is finding that those in the mental health community who are or have sought treatment tend to be more empathetic than those who have not experienced a mental illness (Adrian Furnham, Ph.D.; Paula Sjokvist, BSc, UCL, 2017). 

Another thing to note is access to hate or militant groups online can negatively influence judgment and thought, and sex and power differences (93.3% of prisoners in federal prison are men). All of that is meant to say...we need more research to understand how society, media, environment, parenting, and communication is developing our behaviors (violent or otherwise). 

So where are we?

In order to move forward, we must stop painting a broad stroke of mental health. It only perpetuates stigmas that discourage people from getting the help they need. 

I want to say one thing that I think it is important for you to hear:

The depression, anguish, and disease that ended the life of Robin Williams IS NOT the same evil, distortion, and illness that walked into a school in Parkland, Florida and took the lives of 17 people.

There isn't an easy fix for understanding senseless violence, but we shouldn't punish the entire mental health community for the crimes of criminals in the same way we should not punish all gun holders. Even so, we must lean into the nuance. We need more research into how aggression is developed in Western culture, what sort of gun reforms might prevent violent crimes, and how we as communities can change. 

We must continue to fight for the mental health community, we must protect our homes and children, we must lobby for gun reform, we must fight hate and oppressive groups who exist on and offline, we must provide teachers with behavior de-escalation tactics, and we must fight for love, empathy, and truth.  

Choosing 10 More Years

10 years ago this week I attempted to end my life for the first time. 

The thought has crossed my mind again and again throughout the past 10 years. Those thoughts were followed by hospital visits, calls from resident advisors, medication increases, therapists, tears, sweat, phone calls, loneliness, driving restrictions, anger, late night pie runs, hitting walls, running from stigmas, defeat, cups of coffee, and me toos. 

Depression continues to lurk in every corner of my mind-finding new places to conquer on its never-ending quest to control my body. Depression has whispered to my hands to turn the wheel of my car while driving down dark and empty roads, depression has fixed my eyes on old prescriptions sitting in the back of my medicine cabinet, and depression has touched my skin to the sharp edge of a razor blade in hopes to find freedom and escape. 

But...

I am bigger than my depression. I am more than my illness. I am choosing to live. 

I chose 10 more birthdays. 

I chose 10 more Christmases. 

I chose 10 more years of finding friendship. 

I chose 10 more years of searching for love. 

I chose 10 more years of using my voice for the voiceless.

I chose 10 more years of battling the darkness inside of my body. 

I chose 10 more years of fighting for hope. 

Instead of choosing to die, I chose to be here. Just like you. Fighting the demons, celebrating the highs, and choosing each day to navigate the heavy and light.

If you or someone you know are experiencing suicidal thoughts please reach out to the National Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255 to talk to someone right now.

Your life has a meaning. I promise.

(Feature Image by Johnny Corcoran Photography)

A Letter from a Recovering Imposter

I first heard the term, imposter syndrome, while I was reading Sheryl Sandberg's Lean In. In the book, Sheryl wrote, 

"Many people, but especially women, feel fraudulent when they are praised for their accomplishments. Instead of feeling worthy of recognition, they feel undeserving and guilty, as if a mistake has been made. Despite being high achievers, even experts in their fields, women can't seem to shake the sense that it is only a matter of time until they are found out for who they really are-impostors with limited skills or abilities.”

After reading that paragraph, I knew deep down that this was describing me. I refused to admit it to myself, because admitting that I failed to take ownership of my accomplishments felt like a failure itself. Instead I exchanged humility for self-doubt, and it cost me so many unnecessary sacrifices in my personal life, marriage, relationships, and career. 

So, here I am, just a girl, who is in full acceptance that I suffer from imposter syndrome.

I retweet a lot of powerful people on Twitter, I have very passionate conversations with friends at coffee shops, and I work as a writer for a women's lifestyle publication, but most the time I fail to listen to the advice I give others. I want to empower other women, but I forgot to believe the same things for myself. I allowed my shyness and feelings of adequacy to keep me from getting ahead, breaking down walls, and changing culture. 

The very thing I encourage women to never fall victim to.

Maybe you feel the same.

Allow me to assure you the power that honesty can have in moving you forward. You are powerful and strong, and it is okay to show it. Recovering will probably lend itself to a few failures along the way, but those are the parts that grow us-not hold us back from our seat at the table. 

"Was it Hard to Love Her?" & Other Weird Things People Have Asked My Mother About Adoption

I tend to frame my writings around my mother.

As I grow older, I am beginning to recognize her traits in myself.  Some traits very different, some very much the same.

She is a college-educated, well-read history buff, who leaned Republican most of her life because of her small business, rarely has an ill word to say about another person, carries coupons wherever she goes, can’t say the word Netflix right (She says, Net Flick) and is always inclined to help out people who are often seen as society’s outcasts.

My experience as an adopted child has been a central narrative in the way that I view and relate to my mother.  I rarely asked questions when I was young about my mother’s journey as an adoptive parent. She and my Dad were unable to have children biologically, and decided to use adoption to grow their family. My brother, Ricky, was adopted in 1986. I came along six years later after several years of radio silence from the adoption agency. That summed up how my family was created and my understanding of how families were built.

I called my Mom a few months ago to tell her about Netflix’s Grace and Frankie. I thought the humor was clever, but they had a storyline revolving around adoption that I thought my mother would find relatable. Grace (Jane Fonda) had two children biologically, and Frankie (Lily Tomlin) adopted two sons. Towards the end of one particular episode, Grace turns to Frankie and says:

“You know, I became a mother the first time I held my baby.”

Frankie responds,

“Me too.”

I told my Mom about the plot of the episode and repeated those lines to her over the phone. Her voice began to crack. She said, “That’s exactly right.”

No one had ever given my Mom the narrative of what it was like to be an adoptive mother.

I had never even asked. Until that moment.

“What another sort of experiences did you have when I was little?” I asked.

My Mom said she was frequently asked how much we cost, or if she had a hard time loving us right away. She knew these weren’t questions that were asked to mothers who gave birth to their children.

I believe my experience as an adopted child was shaped by the language used by others. The demonization that adopted meant different, and different was not okay was paralyzing as a child. Each time a person laughed at a “You’re adopted” joke on television, I felt like a mistake. I realized now the same language shaped my mother’s story. We have romanticized the experience of childbirth through our words, and have equated natal experiences to motherhood. Building a family through good genes and DNA has become an idol to many people. There is absolutely nothing wrong about building a family biologically, but there can be harmful affects when it is believed that it is the ideal way to build one. When adoption is viewed as a subsidiary way to grow your family, language like "After I have my own..." can promote negative sociological views of how healthy family units are determined.

I believe it is incredible that human life can grow inside of a woman, and I am cautious to write words that negate that experience. However, for millions of parents who choose or cannot grow life inside them, these singular descriptions of family building can be hurtful and negative to families that look different than your own. Motherhood is not growing a child; motherhood is showing up for your child.

Steven and I have no plans to biologically build a family. If we decide to grow our family, we will foster and we will adopt. It is rare to share this idea with someone who don’t respond by saying, “I don’t know, you might change your mind.” Unless it is my Mom, because she knows a secret that most people don’t…there is not one way to create a family. 

Why I Got Tatted: Two

Fall always seems to be a rough time for me. Growing out of friendships, finding out my Mom had cancer, to walking through my first heartbreak -- each year seems to take another swing at my soul. 

Heavy + Light. 

Those are the two words that describe my season in life. The heaviness of feeling lost doesn't kill you because the chance of newness and adventure sits around the corner. At the same time, the ability to jump face first into the next chapter is haunted by lingering thoughts of feeling alone and unwanted. 

Heavy + Light.

I was able to write a piece for To Write Love On Her Arms earlier this year, and the theme for the organization were these two very words pulled from this theme:

"Our hearts are heavy and light. We laugh and scream and sing."  

The words have resonated with me all year. Dealing with darkness is not something you just get through overnight. It is something that has its good and bad days and each one teaches you another part to your story. Life is a movement through heavy and light. It's trying anti-depressants for the first time, having your heart broken, getting good news about graduate programs, packing up apartments to move to a new place, meeting new people, rebuilding old friendships, it is all our story. Bad moments and good moments are not isolated instances, they only exist when the other has been experienced.  

In my heaviness, I want to scream, "This isn't fair!" But, then I remember words I read on a blog last year. "I hate how true the phrase 'life isn't fair' is for some people, and I want to do something to help them." Those were obviously the words of the guy I had the pleasure of dating for a year and why my heart is so heavy because he's a really cool dude. I hope that my realization that life isn't fair pushes me to not live selfishly, but desire for others a better world.

In my lightness, I want to follow this truth: 

"If you wish to travel far and fast, travel light. Take off all your envies, jealousies, unforgiveness, selfishness, and fears." That's what this story is for the new illustration on my skin. It means to embrace the heavy and light. That one teaches you about yourself and the other pushes you to love other people. 

I want to see others in their heavy and light. I want to share with them my story in hopes they find safety to share their own. We are no strangers to pain or to joy, so sharing each with others is the key to unlocking glimpses of the next world.

One Last Thing

I am often asked in interviews, what is the book about? You may be able to answer that question: Oh, just some girl who cries too much at Lifetime movies! That is (sadly) 100% correct, but I also hope this story – in all its madness – reflects your story. My desire for you is to walk away from this book and know that your story is important. You are no mere coincidence or hiccup placed at random in the world. You were born in the right decade, at the right moment, for an extraordinary reason. As your life shifts and changes, you have the beauty of discovering the story of you. The story is wrapped up in humility and packaged to the community in order to inspire and offer hope to others who haven’t been able to find their own voice. That is why I wrote this book, and I hope that is why you share your story, too.

There is an important note to make about this idea of story. In order to keep the romance of it all at bay, I will say this: Your story will continue. For those who feel stuck and cannot imagine a day when it will be different – your story will continue. For those who believe you have arrived to the top of the mountain – your story will continue.

I remember sitting in the garage of Tommy’s house, a few weeks before we graduated from college. Tommy is a lover of knowledge. He is always in constant search of a good book and stimulating conversation. As we often shared our anxieties with each other, that night was no different when he began to question what post-grad life might look like for us.

“How do we learn after college?”

He raised a valid point. We had only known a world set up by an education system. We hadn’t experienced learning without homework or teachers since we sat on our living room floor with our parents coaching us on animal sounds. I didn’t answer in the moment and allowed space for the rhetorical comment to float around our heads for a bit. Throughout the last few days of school, I kept the question in the back of my mind. I thought about the first time I stepped onto my college campus as an eager transfer student with all the worldviews I had cultivated and a firm grip on everything I thought to be true. Then I walked across the stage, a completely different human being. What was the reason for the change? Sure, I took some great classes and found some great mentors. There were good books that I (sometimes) read for homework, and smart speakers who showed up for our weekly chapels. The real change, however, was listening to a world of stories saturated in hope.

To understand story is to understand a world beyond the four walls of an academic institution and embrace the adventure of other worlds, languages, and cultures. We must listen to the stories of others, and be brave to contribute our own. There is significance and power in the story of us. We learn to fight for those whose voices have gone numb from shouting so loud into an empty chasm. We’re humbled by those who are unlike us and have given so much to a world that never gives them anything in return. We embrace the ones that we do not understand, and we surrender to the love that has been built into the story of humanity.

One more thing I want to make sure you have sealed in the inner lining of your soul before you set this book on your shelf and it collects dust until your next garage sale: We are not alone. Slow down, take a deep breathe, and take a moment to think about the faces of those who have crossed your path over the course of your life. Remember the laughter, the tears, the late-night donut runs, the births, the deaths, the wedding receptions that you danced to “Come on Eileen,” the nights you forgot your medication, and the mornings that faith woke you up to, and remember – remember this forever – we are the story of humanity. We’re all just sort of running in the dark. (Did you see what I did there?)

Dealing with Darkness: A College Kid's Story of Depression, Social Phobia, and Finding a Good Book Club

Featured on To Write Love on Her Arms

I’m not much of a “journal-er.” In fact, I own a handful of journals with the first page dedicated to how I will force myself into journaling, and the rest is filled with blank, white pages. Recently, I found a few pages written on painful nights that prompted me to write this post. 

This is an excerpt from one of those nights: 

“Why do I hate the very thought of myself? The thought that I’m gulping the air from someone else’s lungs, someone else who is much more worthy of this oxygen than I, pains me to believe. I know truth, but truth doesn’t seem to matter in this moment. Why am I unable to feel truth? Why am I unable to feel? Would this world really be a better world without me? 

These thoughts are usually followed by silence. It’s a painful silence, and it comes with an apathetic stillness that hinders rational thinking and universal truth and causes my body to ache. 

My struggle with depression and social anxiety began at an early age, stemming from the abandonment I faced after my adoption. I was painfully shy when I started school, and my difficulties adapting to peers left me, often times, socially stunted. I hit my lowest point at the age of 16 when I attempted suicide for the first time. 

Depression makes living hard. I lose interest in things I was once passionate about, have difficulties controlling my emotions, and feel completely unhappy sometimes. There is still a stigma in society surrounding the issue of mental illness. People often oversimplify or misunderstand these struggles, reducing it to statements like, “Oh, they are just sad sometimes. It’s not a big deal.” 

The truth is that it is a big deal. I believe it’s a part of being human for some of us. The things we face in life are, in the truest sense, a “big deal.” Thankfully, the art of vulnerability allows us to see one another and be there for each other in the greatest moments of life. 

Being vulnerable with my community has become my greatest encouragement today. I remember a night walking into my friend’s house after a really tough day. As I entered the doorway, you could still see the traces of tears on my face. My friend looked at me and motioned for me to sit down. I remember his comforting words after I tearfully told him of the struggle that was surrounding my heart. 

“It’s hard,” I said. 

“The door’s unlocked,” he replied. 

This was what it meant to see each other. This was community. 

I believe we can share in our experiences. I choose to not look at my depression as an impossible hurdle but as a rare door that opens my eyes to see and understand people. We are not broken, but fully alive when we do life together. 

There is no perfect mold that we should fit into to be human. We each play a special role in the world in communicating love to one another. Sometimes struggling allows us to see the world in a new way. I believe that the anxiety and depression I deal with can be used for good, and I want to use my hardships to understand those who are hurting and aid them through seasons of doubt. The greatest connections I’ve made with people begin with the words, “I’ve never told anyone this before…” 

If someone opens up to you about whatever is a big deal in their life, don’t worry about having the perfect answer. Just be part of their community. Don’t ignore it. Don’t dismiss those in life you don’t understand. Just commit to sitting down with someone, in the midst of their darkest moments, and love that person. This is where people are seen.