Anna Rae Gwarjanski Portfolio |
“What I know is this: I chose recovery. It was a conscious decision, and not an easy one. That’s the common denominator among people I know who have recovered: they chose recovery, and they worked like hell for it, and they didn’t give up. Recovery isn’t easy, at first. It takes time. It takes more work, sometimes, than you think you’re willing to do. But it is worth every hard day, every tear, every terrified moment. It’s worth it, because the trade-off is this: you let go of your eating disorder, and you get back your life. As we come to the end of Mental Health Awareness Month, I have a confession to make… remember that blog post I wrote a while back that started off with “my brain is not prime real estate right now”? Yeah, let’s just say market value has fallen again.
I’m gonna come right out and say it: My eating disorder brain has snuck back up on me. While I haven’t officially had a relapse, I think I caught myself right on the verge of one. As I write this, I’m trying really hard not to feel like a failure, or a fraud, or like I’m letting a bunch of people (including myself) down. Overall, I think I’m mostly pissed; I keep thinking, “Ugh, this again??? I’m so freaking tired of fighting this battle.” In hindsight, there were lots of little signs this was coming. I should have known that a handful of relatively-short-but-soul-sucking depressive episodes (that I originally attributed to the seasonal depression but didn’t let up with more sunshine) combined with stress and upcoming change would cause problems. I also should have caught a few other mental red flags: an increase in mirror checks, body checks, body dysmorphia (I didn’t recognize myself in a photo because the person in the photo looked significantly thinner than I thought I was), withdrawing from family and friends (I have a whole lot of unreturned calls and texts right now; I’m really sorry if you’re one of them), feeling guilty/bad if I ate something different than my normal lunch (Safe Foods™ are back!), having trouble finding/listening to my body’s hunger cues, forgetting to eat, and even feeling kind of proud that I forgot to eat (yikes). There have been physical warnings that I missed/ignored too, like being constantly exhausted (I’m falling asleep on the couch at 8 every night and am still tired 10 hours later), having trouble regulating my temperature (I thought this was because the seasons are changing), my alcohol tolerance has decreased (I thought it was because I’m drinking less, which is probably part of it, but recently I’ve been getting buzzed off one drink), not enjoying my weightlifting workouts because I feel super weak (I thought I was out of lifting shape), and I noticed today that I have a cut on my hand from a few weeks ago that still hasn’t healed. On top of the mental and physical cues, my husband has gently mentioned more than a couple times that he thought I probably needed to eat more. I stubbornly brushed off his comments, but looking back, I’m ashamed that I didn’t take the concerns of someone who loves me and cares about me more seriously. For crying out loud, I even wrote the below in my diary on November 18, 2021: “I had a long day at work, as seems to be the theme of this fall. There was barely enough time to scarf down a Greek yogurt for lunch. That, plus another Greek yogurt and granola bar I had for breakfast, was all I’d eaten today. At 7:30 pm, I started fixing myself dinner. Listen. I have considered myself completely, fully, wholly recovered from my eating disorder for the past seven years. Seven. Years. I haven’t talked about it in a while because that part of my life just seems so distant. Yet, this is a thought I had right before I started cooking: ‘I bet we could make it ‘til the morning without eating. You don’t really need food right now.’” That was where I left that diary entry, but that night I remember thinking to myself, “man, that’s fucked up. Of course I need to eat right now. How weird that I thought that.” TWENTY-TWENTY-ONE. Nearly two years ago. I know hindsight is 20/20, but I frankly feel like an idiot for not noticing any of the above could be/were an issue. Then, around two weeks ago, I started having very strong compulsions to binge and purge that seemingly came out of nowhere (note: I didn’t do either, which is why I say I haven’t relapsed, but I do think I've been unconsciously restricting a little). I obviously recognized those impulses as a problem right away and immediately told my therapist, but honestly, that only adds to my feelings of idiocy – how long would it have taken me to comprehend what was happening if it hadn’t smacked me in the face? I’ve been saying for YEARS that I feel completely free from my eating disorder, and I’m a mix of embarrassed, sad, and scared that apparently I’m not. Indeed, that’s probably a big reason I may have willfully overlooked so many signs – if I was wrong about this, something that I considered a massive part of my identity, what else could I be wrong about? And because I considered my recovery a huge success and have found deep reserves of strength in, what would come crumbling down if the well ran dry? Lots of unknowns here, and I’m not comfortable with any of them. I’ve written before about how I have a tendency to talk about the past with rose-colored glasses; I like things to make sense, to have meaning, and I want it all tied up nicely with pretty wrapping paper and a bow. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t published any blog posts recently – if I can’t write something with a beautiful lesson and a happy ending, then I’m simply not gonna write. Unfortunately, though, that’s the recipe for a counteractive cycle: Writing is one of my biggest healers, so if I don’t write, I can’t heal, and if I don’t heal, it’s not a happy ending, so I won’t write. So here I am, trying to break the cycle by writing from the wound. It’s risky, this – I don’t want people to see this post as one long complaint or a desperate ploy for attention. I don’t want people to see it as a cry for help. I want to be clear that yeah, I’m upset, but I’m not just sitting in the shittiness; the nice thing about fighting a demon I already beat once is that I know what’s happening, and I have confidence I can beat him again. I’m getting ahead of things in therapy, and I had a long talk with myself in the grocery store about how, if I don’t eat enough this week, I am actively letting my team down* because we have nationals this weekend. Again, I’m resisting the urge to tie things up with the bow in this last paragraph. I want to write what I’ve said so many times: there are always lights in the tunnel, even if we can’t see them, and we must trust they’ll come back on. I want to write that, but I’m holding myself back because in some ways it seems toxically positive. But you know what? I’m gonna say it anyway, because it really is the truth – There are lights in my tunnel. I can’t see them now, but I know where they are, so that’s where I’m walking. And I promise to keep walking, no matter how tired I get. *I know some people might not agree with this mindset/say it’s too extrinsic and shame-focused to be healthy, but it’s working for me right now.
2 Comments
Note: I went back and forth on whether to write this post. Because we don’t know all the details around Katie Meyer’s death, I was conflicted on whether or not it would be disrespectful to write something relating my experiences to what happened. On top of that, suicide can be a triggering topic, and I never want to be responsible for causing someone harm, whether that be physical or emotional. However, talking about mental health lowers the risk of suicide, and that’s something I can’t ignore. I feel like sharing my experiences is how I can best contribute to reducing the stigma associated with mental illness; it’s how I make sense of my struggles. That sense of purpose eventually made my decision for me.
I didn’t know Katie Meyer, but the news of her death hit me hard. Ten years ago, during my sophomore year of college, I fell into a very deep, very dark, very scary hole. I’d had clinical depression my whole life, but this was different. I felt more thin-skinned and bone-tired than I ever had before. Tired of the everyday bullshit. Tired of the world. Tired of myself. Tired of life. Have you ever been scalded by water so hot that it almost felt cold? I know it’s an odd metaphor, but that’s the way my brain felt at the time. So singed, so on the fritz, that the nerves went haywire, that I couldn’t trust my body’s basic sense of survival. I remember feeling simultaneously numb and scorched. I also remember feeling adrift and alone – like no one on Earth could understand what I was going through, and no one on Earth would love me if they did. I thank God I had access to a therapist. I thank God I had already built a trusting relationship with her through my eating disorder treatment. I thank God something gave me the courage to share thoughts with her that I was too ashamed to share with anyone else. Because here’s the truth: I rarely talk about it, but from September to February of that year, I thought about dying every single day. I never had a plan, but I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. I couldn’t see what the point of anything was; all I could think was how much easier it would be not to be here. During my weekly therapy sessions, my therapist would remind me that these feelings were storms. And while they were powerful, nightmarish, seemingly infinite storms, they would pass. She promised they would. She told me my only job during this episode, however long it took, was to find a tree inside me and hold on until the gale blew over. I believed her. I found my tree – the small, ragged but resolute voice in my soul that insisted this is not the end, it gets better – and I held on. And she was right. The storms passed, and it got better. As athletes, we’re taught to “tough it out.” That’s what happens when you’re immersed in a culture fixated on performance versus personal growth and overall wellness. Playing through injuries is a toxic badge of honor, one that I’ve certainly been guilty of feeling misplaced pride for wearing. What’s more, we forget that injuries can be mental as well as physical, and pushing through those can be just as harmful. Until we, as a society, accept that mental illnesses are valid and increase access to and affordability of mental healthcare, the pressures will continue to push people past the brink. I’ve pushed through a lot of physical injuries, but it’s the mental ones that almost took me out. If you’re struggling, please understand that this is not something you can overcome through sheer willpower. It’s ok to ask for help. There’s no shame or weakness in it; on the contrary, it’s a sign of fortitude and strength – the greatest gymnast of all time and one of the best tennis players in the world (Simone Biles and Naomi Osaki, respectively) took breaks or removed themselves from competitions entirely to focus on their mental health. No doubt, being vulnerable is HARD (I’ve been writing about my issues for almost a decade and it still makes me sweat to click “Publish”), but it’s the only alternative – if you bury difficult feelings, eventually, you bury yourself. "About a year ago I went off my medicine. I was just feeling so goodish and normalish and I decided it was time to try life again without meds. It’s a good decision sometimes. Sometimes medicine can be used as a life boat to get you from drowning to solid ground. I thought I was on solid ground. So anyway, I went off and had some good months. But then — do you remember this? Well — I kinda went downward from there, you guys. "It's clear your depression and anxiety are not under control."
I knew those words from my doctor were coming -- I'd already come to that conclusion myself -- but hearing them still stung. "I think we need to talk about medication again," she continued. Again, a conclusion I'd already come to, but I couldn't help but cry a little as she went on to add that based on my symptoms and history, she recommended I prepare myself to stay on them for the foreseeable future, possibly (probably?) the rest of my life. I know I shouldn't be upset. As a mental health activist and published researcher, I know medication is nothing to be ashamed about. I know mental illnesses should not be treated any differently than physical illnesses; when my asthma acts up, I don't have any problem puffing my inhalers. But for some reason, it still hurt to hear. I think a big part of me thought by taking Prozac again, I was "failing." I worked so hard to ease off my medication in January 2020. I wrote about that decision here, but in sum, although I’ve dealt with clinical depression for most of my life, I was only prescribed Prozac in 2012 to assist with my recovery from bulimia. Because I’ve been “in recovery” for the last few years and I feel like I have healed from my eating disorder, I wanted to see if I still needed medication. Looking back, even though I didn’t think I had internalized any stigmas, maybe a small part of me thought relying on meds made me weaker than other people, a little bit broken. Idk. Honestly, I think the overly optimistic, slightly arrogant, wannabe-hero side of me really liked the idea of being an ~*iNsPiRaTiOn*~ -- “Look at all these mental health struggles I’ve conquered! Anything is possible if you put your mind to it!! Health equals wealth!!! Hashtag blessed!!!!” Ugh. She annoys me sometimes. Anyway, I worked with my doctor to taper off my dosage, I focused on sleep, I rarely drank alcohol, I made sure I was eating enough, and I started regularly practicing yoga again. I was trying to be proactive, and I thought I was doing everything right. Unfortunately, I discovered for the millionth time that my brain chemistry needs help. Without medication, my mental health was in the shitter, to put it spiritually, for most of 2020 and early 2021. It's difficult to describe, but things were just… hard. Yes, I'm sure a global pandemic and a cross-country move didn't help, but honestly, it was more that small, everyday moments would build up. For example, I didn't tell anyone this, but driving had begun to terrify me. I had lung-crushing anxiety over tiny things -- what if that person merges over and hits me? What if I sneeze right when the car in front of me slams on their brakes and I hit them? What if there's no parking? What if my phone dies and I get lost? Stupid little "what if" questions, but they got so overwhelming that my heart would race whenever I got in my car. I could and would do it -- I'm what doctors call "high functioning” LOL -- but it wasn't fun to live with. You see, for me at least, being "mentally ill" doesn't look the same as it does in the movies. No hallucinations, no psychotic break, no violence. It looks like debilitating anxiety that my brain can only turn off if all the light switches in my house are pointing the same direction. It looks like having a misunderstanding with my husband and immediately thinking he's going to leave me. It looks like ignoring phone calls and walling myself off from the people I care about. It looks like lying about how I'm fine, really! At my darkest, it looks like believing the world would be better off if I wasn't in it. It's fucking exhausting, is what it is. For me, and for people who love me. I started taking Prozac again in March, after the above conversation with my doctor, and I'm finally starting to feel like myself again, thank God. It was that last thought that made me call my doctor. I've been suicidal before, but not for many, many years, so when I started getting creeping thoughts like, "why are you here? Life is too hard. It would be so much easier not to be here," I knew I needed help. When I was off my medication, I wondered why I was so bone-tired. Why my sense of humor was gone. Why I was irritated and nervous all the time. Why I cried so much. Because I’d been on Prozac for almost a decade, I wondered if that was just my “real” personality. But it wasn’t. It was just a dark cloud that held my best qualities in shadow. It took a little while, but I had to remind myself who I was -- I am curious, I am adventurous, I am easygoing, and I love to laugh. Just because these qualities are smothered when I’m depressed doesn’t mean they’re not “me.” I deserve the best quality of life possible. I deserve to be free from the grayness that sometimes dims who I am. I deserve to experience this magical world in color. And if that takes medication for me, then so be it. So many people on my timeline are upset about the Confederate flag being taken out of Nascar and Confederate monuments being taken out of public places.
I don't get it. Story time: I remember learning about the Civil War when I was little, maybe 8 or so. Then, I believed it was 100% about states' rights. I loved my home state of Alabama and I loved being from the South (I still do). I read something about "heritage not hate," and my young mind bought into that. I was proud of where I was from, and the Confederate flag represents that, right? My mom and I went to Trade Day one weekend, and I saw a rebel flag sticker, or something similar (I don't remember exactly what it was). I told her I wanted to buy it. She explained to me, in simple terms, how seeing that flag is painful to some people, because it represents a time when they were cruelly considered less than human, brutally beaten, and murdered. When they see people wave that flag, it tells them that there are people who wish we could go back to that era, and it's hurtful, to say the very least. And that's all it took. I thought, "oh, ok, well I don't want to hurt anyone, so I can be proud of other things about where I'm from." I'm proud of the South's reputation of hospitality and generosity. I'm proud of growing up swimming in creeks and driving on gravel roads. I'm proud of my family's Thanksgiving recipes. I'm proud of my football team. I'm not proud of our country’s evil history of slavery. I'm not proud that people who looked like me used to own other people. Am I a slave owner? No. Did anyone in my family tree ever own slaves? I don't think so. But neither of those things negate the hurt it would spread if I started waving the Confederate flag. Because my undeveloped brain could understand how that flag is damaging, it's difficult for me to fathom how grown adults can uphold it. Those of you who do fly that flag or support its visibility, do you really consider it the epitome of what you'd like to celebrate about your heritage? Is that really what you're most proud of? You can love where you're from and still be appropriately ashamed of its ugly parts. You can want to make it better. I'm all for remembering history, but remnants of the Confederacy are just that -- history. They have no place in the 21st century. One year ago today, Craig and I ran our first (and probably only) marathon. I’m reminiscing and looking at photos, and I came across this one: Is it flattering? No, definitely not. A decade ago, I never would have been able to share a photo like this, and that just goes to show how much my vision has changed and reminds me what I was running for, the National Eating Disorders Foundation.
I've been seeing a lot of people worrying about gaining weight during quarantine. There are more than a few memes about it -- some of which are pretty funny! Maybe some people in the body-positive community will disagree with me, but I don't think light-hearted humor when coming from a light-hearted place is wrong. What's wrong is when it steps over the line into self-loathing. I fully believe there is a size your body wants to be, and it’s ridiculous to spend your whole life fighting it. When I swam competitively, I had a number in my head that my body needed to be under for me to be "fast" -- 170 pounds (and “fast” equaled “worthy,” but I’ve written other blog posts about that). A big part of my high school and college swimming experience was killing myself to be 165 pounds. I'd weigh myself every morning, and if I woke up at 171, I couldn't eat until I was under. I fought SO HARD to get my body at that arbitrary number, even though it was obvious, for whatever reason, that wasn't a healthy weight for me. (I want to mention that I swam my fastest times at my heaviest weight -- 185 -- but I digress. That's not that point of this post.) What seems so silly to me now is the fact that once I gave up trying to strive for a certain number and ate how I wanted and exercised how I wanted, my body settled at 170-175. I've played back-to-back 80-minute rugby games at this weight. I've run a marathon at this weight. I've competed in an olympic weightlifting meet at this weight. I now do crossfit at this weight. This is a comfortable mass for me, and it's only 5 pounds away from the weight that I was eating 1,000 calories and exercising 8 hours a day, six days a week for. In contrast, I don't track my food anymore, but I'm guessing I now eat about 2,500 calories a day, and I exercise 1-2 hours, four or five times a week. That fact blows my mind. From a nutritional and physiological standpoint, I don't really understand it. Calories in, calories out, right? But it's just the truth. If I'm honest, maybe I would trade this body in for one that's a little lighter, a little more toned, a little more lean. But then again, I don't know that I would. This body and I, we've been through so much together, and I love it too much to disrespect the space it takes up nowadays. I read somewhere that those last 5 pounds you're trying to lose is where you live your life. It's your late-night pizza after your sister's bachelorette party. It's your ice cream with a friend when she's feeling down. It's your one-more-glass-of-wine when you're on a date with your partner. Those 5-10 pounds are your favorite memories, your unforgettable trips, your celebrations of life. Those extra pounds are your spontaneity, your freedom, your love. I'm not willing to put those things on hold anymore. If you're feeling tied to an overbearing number, I challenge you to figure out why, and if it's worth it. Hint: It's probably not. There's no one in the Bible I relate to more than Doubting Thomas.
Thomas, one of Jesus’s 12 Apostles, was not present when Jesus first appeared after rising from the dead. When the other disciples told him what they’d seen, Thomas is famous for saying “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe” (John 20:25). Maybe this isn't the typical Easter message, but here's the truth: There's stuff in the Bible that doesn't sit right with me. There's a lot about God that, deep down, I'm a little skeptical about. To be frank, the logical researcher in me has a hard time with the concept of a resurrection, and that's literally the entire point of Christianity. In my teens and early 20s, I was ashamed of that. I was smart enough to memorize all the Sunday school answers, and I could parrot those to anyone who asked, but the fear of sacrilege kept me from really exploring my questions. In elementary school, I tested as “gifted.” (Is that still a thing?) From what I know, being gifted can often be synonymous with being curious. I read the difference between the bright child and the gifted child is that the bright child knows the answers, but the gifted child knows the questions. And that pretty much sums me up: questions. I’ve always had so many questions. It’s why I love books and research and the internet and interviewing people and just learning in general. Unfortunately, those questions don’t stop in academics; they carry over into my spiritual life as well. I wish I could be like those stalwart, obedient Christians who just know. Because I don’t. But the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. I try to be comfortable with the fact that God is beyond all-knowing, and Christianity by definition requires conviction in sights unseen, but it's human to crave certainty. Fortunately, the older I get, the more I understand and believe that Jesus has room for my questions. My prayer for the last, oh, decade has been, "I believe, Lord. Please help my unbelief." I'm thankful that I've been a messy, obstinate student, and He has still invited me into His classroom. I'm thankful He didn't ask me to have all the answers before I stepped in, just that I'd be willing to learn. I'm thankful He accepts me raising my hand an infinity amount of times. I'm thankful He's with me as I learn to not look away from the discomfort of my distrust. I'm thankful that He gives me the courage to sit with it. I'm thankful He continues to reaffirm my doubting faith. "The first chapter I wrote for Untamed was not the prologue -- it was Aches. Aches is the touch tree of the book. Aches is the touch tree of my life. I spent most of my life running from the deep ache inside me -- numbing it ignoring it denying deflecting it -- because I thought if I let it rise up, it would kill me. Today was a hard day. A day full of the “Aches,” as Glennon Doyle calls them. A day of worry, of fighting down panic, of wanting to curl up and block it all out with a blanket and a too-loud TV.
There’s been more than a few hard days over the last few weeks, despite being one of the lucky ones. My husband and I are both ok financially, our health is fine, and we have a good home to shelter in. I feel so much stress and anxiety over even having stress and anxiety. It’s a shitty, never-ending cycle. I’m hurting. People I love are hurting. I don’t know how to stop it. Maybe it can’t be stopped. Maybe it can only be made better. And the only way I know how to make things better is by writing. I wrote the following in my diary two-ish weeks ago. I almost published it then, but it felt too “me me me.” It still does, honestly. Plus, I couldn’t figure out the conclusion. It ends in a question, which I never like to do. I like to have answers, make absolute statements (don’t we all?). However, I’ve learned when I give myself a lot of reasons not to publish something, it normally means that’s the very thing I need to do. David Foster Wallace wrote, “Writing, at its best, is a bridge constructed across the abyss of human loneliness.” In my own words, I believe writing is a bridge across humanity that connects us to our collective human experience. I write to get things off my own chest, but more than that, I write as a way to connect to other people. Sometimes, by talking about ourselves and the way we’re feeling, it confirms to others that their feelings are also valid. That’s my hope, at least. _______________________ I felt it today -- the weight of everything that’s going on in the world. I’d been running from it. In the past 11 days I’ve been self-isolating, I have: Ordered a ukulele in an attempt to learn a new instrument. Made way too many bad jokes on Twitter. Cleaned and organized all the rooms in my house. Deleted a bunch of apps and photos and streamlined my phone. Worked out. Walked my dogs. I’m redecorating. I’d been ignoring it, but the truth is that none of those things on my to-do list completely hid the stress and anxiety I’ve been feeling. My patience is frayed and my skin is thin. I’m getting irritated at things that I typically have a much longer fuse for. My poor husband gets the worst of it. Normally, we never fight. We have disagreements, sure, but they look more like discussions than anything else. Recently, however, we’ve just been on completely separate communication pages. I notice him glance at me when he thinks I’m not looking, and I see the confusion written on his face. I hear myself speak shortly and I feel myself turning cold, but I can’t stop it. So I do more until I don’t have to notice it. But today, I was looking for a yoga practice on YouTube. I wanted something challenging and centering without being too reflective. I clicked on one I thought fit the bill. It started slowly, but I thought it would pick up… but no. It was long, slow movements with lots of meditation. (I almost changed it, but I hate leaving things unfinished. I don’t know if it’s an obsessive-compulsive thing or just a personality trait, but once I start something, like a video, show, movie, or book, it literally twists my stomach if I have to get up before it’s done). In any case, in one of the poses, the teacher said something that has stuck with me: “Be really honest and present with whatever is showing up.” “Ugh,” I thought. “No thank you.” But she kept us in that pose, and she kept urging us to feel whatever was there. And while the strain in my hip flexors was definitely showing up, the biggest presence was that of fear. And anxiousness. And a feeling of being caged. And, along with that, a feeling of needing to escape. Listen, I’m a homebody. I LOVE being home and doing nothing. I’m an EXPERT at it. On top of that, I’m so lucky to not be affected financially by this shut-down. I should have no reason to feel so fragile and be so stressed. So why am I? This class was at 11 a.m., and I have been searching inside myself all day. I’m still trying to figure it out -- God, emotions are hard -- but I think it’s because I’ve been “checked out” for the last several months. Scrolling mindlessly. Posting the same happy-go-lucky shit. Exercising without any real goals. Going to work. Watching the same TV shows. I focus on health, but not wellness. I talk about living fully, but I don’t walk the walk. I’ve become complacent, but not in a good way. It’s like being forced to quarantine has been a blaring alarm, and I’m waking up to the realization that this lifestyle doesn’t really feed me. Maybe that’s why I feel so… off. I feel everything, and it’s incredibly overwhelming if I’m tuned into it all the time. So I think I simply tuned out. There’s a balance to strive for in this, obviously, as in all things. It’s good to be awake to the world, not so good to be incapacitated by it. But it’s easier to be “checked out,” and I think that’s what I’ve unconsciously done. This isn’t the first time in my life I’ve had a wake-up call like this, so it’s a little shocking to me that I didn’t recognize what these feelings of frustration were really saying. 2020 marks a decade since I first went to therapy and started learning to feel my emotions in a healthy way. I hate that this is a lifetime learning experience. I got my masters degree in two years -- shouldn’t mental health work the same way? “I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kind of things. Also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in the silence, in the dark.” My brain is not prime real estate right now.
I’m currently in the process of coming off the antidepressants I’ve been on for the past eight years, and while I haven’t had any truly severe side effects, I haven’t exactly felt like myself. Creatively, I feel spent. This post will not be highly edited, well thought-out, or contain any clever answers, and I'm not happy with the title. I know writing is good for me when I’m in my head like this, but nothing comes out (or, at least nothing I like). The perfectionist side of me doesn't even want to post this (but her opinion isn't needed right now, so I'm posting anyway). Things I typically enjoy, like writing, take an absurd amount of energy to make myself do -- reading, walking my dogs, cooking, etc. It’s odd; this is kind of like depression, but without the melancholy. It’s just… tiredness (plus the body aches and headaches… so fun!). I’m not writing this blog post to be dramatic or to worry anyone, but because I try to live by something my therapist told me close to a decade ago: “Secrets have a lot less power when they’re out in the open.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been “secretive” about my mental health struggles, but it is still very easy for me to smooth over -- if not outright lie -- about how I’m doing. It’s always been hard for me to verbally talk about how I’m feeling, and I know I tend to ignore problems or numb myself to them (#Enneagram9Probz), so I’m writing it down. (Another reason I wanted to write this is because through this blog, I’ve been a huge advocate for mental wellness and not being afraid of the treatment it takes to get there. It felt a little hypocritical to not document all aspects of my own journey.) I will forever be grateful to antidepressants. I’ve written about it briefly, but I wrestled with taking them for a long time. The final straw was my college team doctor making me choose between in-patient treatment for my bulimia or trying medication (along with out-patient therapy). Taking Prozac was a huge part of my eating disorder recovery, as well as getting my depression under control. And I want to be clear: I’m not against going back on it if these side effects worsen. I think God gave us humans brilliant, inventive brains for a reason, and I fully support taking advantage of medical technology. However, I do not believe in taking medication just for the heck of it, and I think ideally, it should be a last resort. Also, I love to travel and camp, and remembering to pack enough medication can be a pain (as can the side effects if I forget). So, I’d like to see if, by using the tools I’ve gleaned, it’s now healthy for me to live without antidepressants. Maybe February in North Dakota isn’t the perfect situation for this (sunlight is hard to come by, and my body wants to go into hibernation with this extremely cold weather), but for whatever reason, I feel in my gut this is the right time to try. I put a lot of thought into this decision, and I’m taking steps to make it easier (forcing myself to exercise, avoiding alcohol, giving my body good food, trying to cut down on social media, trying to get enough sleep), but that doesn’t negate the fact that these next couple weeks might still be hard for me. This was just sort of a “checking in” blog post, so I’m struggling with writing a conclusion, but I guess the point is to say that we’re not always ~living our best life.~ If I'm being honest, I'm not right now. Being human is messy! It’s ok to feel down every now and then, as long as you don't keep it all inside. We're all struggling. Let's lean on each other to make it easier. “These times are hard, but I won't walk away jaded, darker, different. I feel. I cry to heal. If you saw me in those moments, maybe you'd think I was a mess. But I don't call it a mess. I call it strength. Like the rest of the world, I’ve been doing a lot of meditating on this decade. In 2009 I was 17, and in 2019 I’m 27. Those are formative years for anyone, but I can’t help but feel this particular decade has had a heck of an influence on me (so self-centered -- millennials, am I right?).
There was a draft of this blog post where I divided each year into chapters and gave a brief-ish synopsis of what I learned, but I didn’t really like it. It seemed too focused on the past. That’s something I’ve always struggled with -- dwelling (wallowing?) on the past versus taking what I need from it and letting go. I used to say that I forgive easily, but I never forget. I don’t think that’s always a bad thing, but if your baggage starts to carve a chip into your shoulder, it may be time to set it down for a while. So, going into 2020, I'm looking back on every piece of luggage I've acquired, no matter how heavy, with gratitude. Some experiences I still don’t understand, but I’m trusting their purpose. There are some things I wish I handled better, but in all, I reflect on the Anna Rae of the 2010s with a great deal of fierce, protective pride. I see someone who simultaneously learned to lean on others, yet intrinsically trust herself. I see a lot of starting over. I see someone who’s found strength in grief. I see someone who’s determined to keep moving forward, always. I see a flood of grace and redemption. I see someone who learned to sit and breathe with pain, and in that, touch the sacred. There have been so many precious patchwork lessons that I now keep cloaked around me, but I guess the woven thread I’ll keep closest is, looking back, the one thing the hard years have in common is that those are the years I tried to travel alone. They’re the years I tried to cover up who I really was, or tried to numb what I really felt, or tried to bury my feelings instead of working through them, or felt ashamed and alone in my struggles, or tried to harden my heart to love. Some people, the world needs to shatter to see the truth about themselves and what they really need. It was that way for me. When I look back, I see a see a heart that had to be cracked open so the light could get inside. But now that it has, I never want it to be closed again. I wonder what 2029 Anna Rae will think of 2019 me. I wonder what lessons she’ll have learned. I wonder if, 10 years from now, she’ll be writing a similar blog post. Whoever she is, whatever she’s doing, I hope she still has a heart that’s been split wide open. I hope she never takes that gift for granted. Confession: I have been kinda-sorta-maybe-a-lot overwhelmed recently. My team has literally doubled this year, which is AWESOME and I am SO PUMPED about it... but figuring out the practice logistics for a 200+ swimmer team has been a little chaotic (an aquatic center would solve pretty much all of these issues *cough-city-of-Minot-cough*). I am a people pleaser and a little bit of a control freak when it comes to my work, so this hectic-ness -- even though I was prepared for it -- wears on me.
Perhaps more than that, though, is the self-doubt that has been my lifetime shadow. In my heart, I KNOW I'm living out my purpose. I KNOW I'm a good coach. I KNOW I know what I'm talking about. Most importantly, I KNOW I care about these kids as people, not just athletes, and my number one priority is their well-being... but imposter syndrome still kicks in. Am I ~really~ qualified for this job? Am I the best person for this job? Am I being a good role model for the kids? Am I leading this team the way they deserve to be led? Could I be doing more? How can I balance being the best coach I can be while still being the best wife, daughter, sister, friend, etc I can be? And so on and so forth. So, when one of my swimmers gave me this note, it made my eyes leak a little bit. He said one of his teachers assigned a project where they had to write a letter to someone who changed their lives. He chose me. This is definitely a season of growth, both for my team and for me personally. It kind of reminds me of my 7th grade summer, when I grew 6 inches in two months. Was it uncomfortable? Oh yeah. But I read somewhere growth and comfort cannot coexist -- it's ok to feel like things are over your head every now and then, because that's how you find out how tall you are. I wrote a blog post last year about the tattoo I have on my arm, "you may contribute a verse." This is my verse. It simultaneously boosts and humbles me. It has opened my heart. It challenges me, has helped me grow as a leader (and public speaker LOL) and at the end of the day, brings me satisfaction and contentment. In the words of Marie Kondo, it sparks so much joy. I have doubts, but thank God, I also have faith. And my faith tells me that yes, things might be a bit messy in the short-term, but this is what I'm meant to be doing. Is it going to be perfect all the time? No. But I'm trying to remember I'm doing my best -- we all are -- and our best is enough. |
About the AuthorConfessions of a failed southern lady. I've got messy hair and a thirsty heart. Writer, photographer, career wanderer. Archives
May 2023
Categories |