Showing Up

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

I felt it placed upon my heart to write this post a few months ago, and it stirred up a lot of anxiety within me. A LOT. Like I started panicking about dying on a daily basis. The ground beneath me – mentally and emotionally – began to quake.

I awoke the beast.

So like I do with most things I dread/fear, I procrastinated. I’ll write this later. I’ve got other stuff to do.

You know, stuff like scroll through Instagram and Reddit over and over again every thirty minutes, bite my nails, find things to bitch at John about then pick fights over it, talk shit about people I don’t like (especially our current president and his administration), look at clothes I want to buy then whine because I don’t have the extra money to buy them, eat junk food, worry about my weight and almost start a new diet out of old habits die hard, and every other thing you do when you don’t want to face your bullshit head on.

In mid-January, this very clear voice that resounded through my whole being, a voice I heard 10 years ago when it told me to move to Atlanta, told me, Something bad is about to happen. It may have added, to you, but I can’t remember exactly. I thought, “Okay, anxiety, yes, of course, something bad will happen to me, that’s life. It’s like sitting outside and saying a gray Camry is going to drive by. It will eventually because those are very popular cars.”

But then, my best friend’s fiance of five years went AWOL for a week before it was determined it was all because he was too chickenshit to break up with her. Devastating for her though because he’d acted as if everything was fine just the day before he walked out the door and disappeared.

And now, we are in the midst of a global pandemic, I’m currently not working (but thankfully getting paid through April 6th), everything non-essential is shut down (well, 95% of it), and people everywhere are hoarding toilet paper, masks, hand sanitizer, and Clorox wipes.

I guess now I should probably write about the scarcity mentality because I’m feeling it even more acutely than ever and so is the rest of the world, or at least the greater Atlanta metro area.

Generally, the scarcity mentality is the feeling of never enough. Never having enough, being enough, doing enough, making enough, etc. Never enough.

It is ingrained in the American society for sure. Just watch TV for 30 minutes or scroll through Instagram and suddenly, you’re not thin enough, pretty enough, feminine or masculine enough, curvy enough, muscular enough, your hair isn’t shiny or long enough, you don’t make enough money, you’re not traveling enough, you’re not living enough, you’re not smart enough, blah blah blah. You need this diet, that hair treatment, this job, that dress, this amount of income, that amount of exercise, this bra size, those measurements, etc.

For me, the scarcity mentality thrived in various areas of my life growing up.

Money: I grew up somewhere along the middle-class income line. Not in the extreme poverty my dad was raised in, but also not wealthy by most American standards. Just right in the middle. We had the basics – shelter, food, clothing – and then a few luxuries thanks to my grandmother June – Nintendos and other game systems. We went to either the beach or the Smoky Mountains on vacation. My dad worked as a surgical equipment assembler and my mom worked as a labor and delivery registered nurse. Pretty average American middle-class family, financially.

But the scarcity mentality around money ran deep throughout my family growing up. Everyone had credit card debt (though that was and is pretty much “normal” in this country) at first, but then it grew out of control and soon, several family members, including my mom, had to file for bankruptcy. My dad’s home after he and my mom divorced was nearly foreclosed several times because he could barely make the mortgage payment on his own.

No one knew how to be responsible with their money because, like most families, there seemed to be this need for “just a little more” to feel safe and secure. Plus, they thought things like, If I just have [that car, house, outfit, amount of food, etc.], I will be satisfied. My dad’s upbringing in extreme, extreme poverty led him to blow his money left and right as soon as he started making any. I can remember many Fridays where he just cashed his paycheck and spent it while leaving my mom to pay all of their bills with her paycheck, which was considerably more than his but barely enough to cover everything.

Saving money was really unheard of in my family. I never heard anyone even mention having a savings account. It just seemed expected to have credit card debt, a mortgage, car payment, and owe money to someone for the rest of your life. Both of my parents cashed out their retirements to pay off debt, leaving very little for however many years they have left.

This deep-seated scarcity mindset around money has given me so much fear of debt, which has led me to budget down to the freaking wire whenever I’ve had a job in an attempt to just get out of debt because I don’t want to owe others for the rest of my life. I am probably one of the most frugal people most of my friends know. This has helped me in that I’ve paid off nearly $5K in credit card debt since January 2019 despite being either unemployed or underemployed, but I have stressed myself out to the point of chronic anxiety about money. Where I used to think, When I’m thin, life will be so much easier, I now often catch myself thinking, Omg, I will feel so much better once I’m no longer in debt. In either case, I tend to unconsciously put my life on hold until the goal is met, it isn’t met, and I feel resentful and envious and find myself violently swirling in the comparison cycle. That’s when the “woe is me” mentality kicks in and I feel like I can’t live the life I want because I can’t afford it.

Scarcity, scarcity, scarcity. I can’t be or do enough because I don’t have enough money.

Affection: This is a scarcity I didn’t realize I have until probably a few years into my relationship with John. Touch-starved is another name for it. My family wasn’t very affectionate and made being affectionate sound like a disorder and to want affectionate as being needy or too much.

I initiated a lot of the affection with my grandmother June, my parents, and my brothers. My dad is very solid and strong so it turned into me squeezing him as hard as I can because I can. My mom is very petite and feels so fragile that sometimes I feel like I’m going to break her if I hug her. She wasn’t very into hugs when I was a kid or older. My brother Adam is more like her about hugs, not so much into them, but Ben and Caleb are both very affectionate men. Our mom used to ask them if they wished I had a boyfriend so I’d stop hugging them so much, which made me feel bad, but because I was so affectionate with them, they are open emotionally and love to hug and be hugged unlike most of the men in our family and, really, our society. Including my husband.

Even though I had a friend in college who was very affectionate and loosened me up to being hugged by and hugging other people outside of my family, I still remained touch-starved throughout my twenties. I lived alone the majority of the time. Pretty much just went to work and came home. I saw my family probably once every two or three months after I moved to Georgia.

So when I met John in July 2011 and he was so affectionate with me for the first year of our relationship, it overwhelmed me. I’d never had someone want to touch me so much and not just sexually. He was forever touching my hair and face and holding my hand and hugging me. It was so far on the other end of the spectrum from the near lifetime of barely being touched or hugged that it frightened me in a way. But then it started to die down as the novelty of me wore off for him. Then I grieved that for a long time. I still do sometimes.

And now, with his night shift schedule of the past four years, the affection is less, but he still pulls me to him at night before he falls asleep, he kisses me before he goes to work, and holds my hand when we go to the grocery store and walk from the car to the store. Last night, he was lying on one end of the couch with me on the other and our dog Missy was behind his butt and next to me. When he tried to reach for her, my hand was in the way so he grabbed my hand. I said, “Aww, you’re holding my hand,” and he held onto it for a second, which made me feel warm and loved, then let go to pet Missy. Sometimes I really miss the guy who used to straddle me on the couch to make out with me or rub my hair and tell me how pretty he thinks I am.

At least we have our dogs now. They both love hugs and run to me to be picked up and hugged whenever I get home from work and love when I hold them and dance with them in my arms. That has been really nice and sometimes I want them to stop touching me, haha. So I guess I’m not touch-starved when it comes to dogs, just humans.

I sometimes feel like I never get held or touched enough.

Food: I am southern so the supply of food was never limited for me growing up. Someone, mostly my great-grandmother Lib, was always cooking something. However, my access to food was limited because everyone was so concerned about my weight as a child, especially as a female child. It was always so back and forth. My mom didn’t want me to eat dessert so she hid them and I found and snuck them. With her family, they were offended if I didn’t get seconds at dinner but then said “You’re getting too fat, don’t eat seconds” if I did, and always offered me candy, ice cream, and/or banana pudding for dessert. If I went on a diet, they were offended or ignored me. If I wasn’t, they criticized me. I couldn’t win.

In their act of trying to prevent me from eating sweets out of their fear of me getting fat, I learned to sneak and binge food. In doing this, I forgot how to eat intuitively (if I ever really knew how), could not slow down and enjoy food, and no matter what I ate, it never felt like enough. This food access scarcity created a lot of shame within me around food and my feelings of being out of control around it. Binge eating was an act of rebellion and anger towards my family for being so critical of my body and weight and telling me that I was a failure to them in their eyes and expectations. It became a coping method in my teens, and that was when I actually finally was fat after years of them projecting that fear onto me.

I never felt freedom with food. Never really felt allowed to enjoy food because being fat to my family meant I already “enjoyed” it too much. My body filled out but my insides were hollow and aching. Without affection or affirmation or permission to be wholly myself, I was numb inside. I lashed out at myself. I did not give myself what I was not given because I thought if others couldn’t give it to me, I did not deserve it. I could not give what I did not think I had.

Back then, I did not know then that validation must come from within and that I can’t rely on it from others. That took growing up and getting away from my family to realize. It is something I still remind myself of constantly.

Scarcity leads to insecurity which leads to fear, which leads to the need for control. And for me, with food, it caused me to rebel and often harm my own body in that act of rebellion. Like the whole thing about how holding anger towards others is like holding a hot rock in your hand. You’re the one who gets hurt/burned.

Autonomy: “You are not your own, you were bought at a price.” Growing up in the midst of the True Love Waits movement in the 1990s, I heard this constantly. I am not my own. My body is not my own. My thoughts are not my own. My heart is deceitful. I am not trustworthy. My body and heart are not trustworthy. To trust in myself was to be arrogant and believe I knew more than God. To defiantly eat from that Tree of Knowledge so that I could be on level with God. To question was to sin. I am nothing without God. Love does not exist outside of God. Freedom doesn’t exist outside of God. Separation from God equals imprisonment in the chains of sin and self-righteousness. I cannot belong to myself. I cannot trust myself. That intuition is God, not me.

This is the stuff I learned growing up in church and in my family. If you want a lifetime of feeling inadequate, evangelical Christianity is where it’s at. I did not know what grace meant growing up. I did not understand compassion or forgiveness or mercy either until I was older. Love was very conditional in my family and it was taught to me that the same applied with God, and I never measured up.

When there is a scarcity of autonomy, you are primed for toxic, abusive, and dysfunctional relationships and codependency issues. You take everyone else’s word about you over your own. You allow yourself to belong to everyone but yourself, and this is especially true in romantic relationships. You look to everyone else to tell you who you are, your worth, and who you’re meant to be, and trying to look inward for these answers leaves you feeling empty, ashamed, and broken. This is how abuse happens in the church, especially among male pastors and women and children in the church.

Also, self-accountability goes out the window. How can you hold yourself responsible when you’ve been told there is a constant war of good and evil going on inside of your body that is for your eternal soul? Your wins are really god’s wins, but your fuck ups…well, those are between you and the devil. God has nothing to do with that.

I often feel like I lived the first 30 years of my life outside of my body or maybe just inhabiting a small corner of my body or just inside of my head. Everything from the neck down was numb. I constantly prayed for forgiveness for when my body wanted things I was told were wrong to have, like sex or sexual thoughts, feelings, or behaviors outside of marriage. I felt so ashamed for all of my emotions and for being so outspoken with them. For not being quiet and submissive. For being curious and wanting to explore. For wanting to take up space. For wanting to experience joy and pleasure outloud. For not wanting to be told what to do. For just being fucking alive.

I know I seem really cynical about religion now. In a lot of ways, I am. Most of all though, I’m angry because being raised in it taught me that who I am in this body doesn’t really matter, that this life doesn’t matter (“we’re not home yet” is a popular saying in Christian pop culture), that love is a bargaining chip and manipulation tool. I was indoctrinated, taught a bunch of lies. My anger is not directed towards my family, but towards the institution of organized religion, specifically evangelical Christianity. But again, the hot rock in my hand is only burning me and I have to drop it or risk permanent damage.

I don’t believe I am alone in these feelings of scarcity and inadequacy. Like I said, it is a cancer in our society. It makes a few companies, religious institutions, and people a lot of money to keep us on this scarcity mindset train. If you don’t feel like something is missing, you have no reason to buy whatever bullshit society is selling. You are not the targeted audience. I wish we all were no longer the targeted audience because being alive and on a planet like ours is a fucking miracle. Rarest of rare. You could almost say our time is scarce, but that adds to the rush and inadequacies. No, we have an abundance of time and life, exactly enough.

When it comes to my scarcity issues with money, I try to think about all I “get to” have and do, not what I don’t have or can’t do. I get to have a nice apartment, hot water, food, a comfortable bed, electricity, internet, security, and safety. John and I have learned a lot of fun things to do without having a lot of money. Our relationship is what it is not because we’ve bought each other expensive gifts or go on fancy vacations together, but from taking long walks and cooking at home and finding fun, simple ways to entertain ourselves and each other, like YouTube videos, funny memes, card games, or just talking to each other. Even now, being home more often due to the Coronavirus, life isn’t that much different. We read, watch TV, play with the dogs, go for walks, and etc. We still have such an abundance even as health and money seem scarce all around us.

With affection, I am learning to ask for what I want or need. I ask John to give me a hug. I reach for his hand. I hug him from behind like I want him to hug me. I remind myself that hugging my dogs does count as affection and thankfully they love to be hugged and held. When/if John and I have children, I get to give them what I did not get growing up, which I read recently is a product of grace.

Re: food, this is an ongoing thing, but I’ve made so much progress in the past two years. I’m learning that my body is going to be exactly what it wants and needs to be and very little is within my control. It has done so much without much help from me, really. I’ve done a lot to harm it out of feelings of shame and inadequacy, and yet, it has never stopped working to keep me alive and as strong and healthy as it can. Since I have given myself permission to eat what I want and taken away the access scarcity, my way of eating has become more stabilized. I have slowed down. Listened to my cravings and honored instead of criticized them. The only time I feel rushed to eat something is if John is acting out of food scarcity and tries to eat something as quickly as we’ve bought it or I’ve made it, but even then, I have to remind myself, There is plenty more where that came from.

And as far as autonomy goes, I am still learning that the voice inside of me is my own. It is my guide, my intuition, a gift to me for this life, and it is trustworthy. My body is mine. I am accountable to me. My decisions are mine, as are the consequences of them. It is scary to realize my life is up to me in a large part – which is not the same as saying I am in control of everything – but it is also freeing. I am slowly inhabiting more and more of my body, which feels like a warmth or lights being turned on room by room in a large house. I feel more grounded. I value my life more because I realize this is likely all I’m going to have and it is sufficient. My body is trustworthy and always has been. Love is not about control but about freedom, and I have freedom in acknowledging the abundance of my autonomy.

With abundance comes responsibility. I can’t say, “I don’t have enough so I can’t be enough” anymore because this isn’t true and it never was. I have always had exactly enough to be enough, regardless of the circumstances in my life. I, like everyone else who feels this way, was sold a bunch of lies because scarcity is profitable and powerful to those who convince us that it is the truth.

And that’s where I am now. Learning the truth. Accepting my responsibilities. Owning up to my shit and the shit that was handed to me by people who had it handed to them. Learning that grace is giving myself space to find the freedom in acknowledging the abundance all around me and detangle myself from the limits and constraints of the scarcity mindset. Forgiveness is knowing this is not a one-and-done project, but a constant shifting of perception and awareness.

Aside from that clear as day voice I heard back in January that told me something bad is going to happen, my whole being has vibrated lately with the knowledge that everything as we’ve known it is ending or has ended. We can’t go back to life before this pandemic, just as I imagine the people who survived the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic – as well as countless others before and since then – could not. A massive shift/transformation is taking place.

Don’t let the scarcity mindset kick in though. Nothing you need is being taken from you in the long run. This is showing so many areas that need to be demolished and removed. Some of us have the privilege to rest during this time where we have been caught up in the capitalistic rat race our whole lives. This is slowing us down, holding us up to a mirror, and giving us the opportunity to address so many things we haven’t had the extra time or solitude to address.

This is a time for healing.

I am personally being reminded that there isn’t much we can be certain or in control of in life, but that is okay. It is also okay to be afraid right now or a whole slew of other emotions. It is okay to even numb out for now because the news is so overwhelming.

It is also a good reminder that fear and scarcity sell, just as I mentioned above. Don’t buy in when you can help it. Turn off the TV. Stop reading Reddit (note to self). Find something else to talk about, think about, look at, and do. Remember that even in seasons of death and despair, there is still so much life all around and within us.

Scarcity mindset gives you black and white thinking. Thinking from a perspective of abundance opens you up to the in-between. Both are filled with uncertainty and vulnerability, but shifting to a perspective of abundance opens you up to so much possibility and growth.

Don’t allow scarcity mindset to limit your vision of yourself and your life or cause you to throw away your money, time, life, love, talents, and independence.

We are enough and we are loved…just as we are.

Some of us are more privileged than others when it comes to food, money, health, housing, work, and freedom – there are real scarcities in those areas in many, too many, people’s lives. Scarcity mindset though teaches us every person for themselves, there’s not enough for me much less anyone else. Abundance – and I think we will see this happen more often in the near future – teaches many of us to give to others what we are privileged to have so much of because we see there is plenty more where that came from.

A new chapter in my life is starting, and I have a feeling this doesn’t just pertain to my own story. We are all shifting. Breaking up with the old scarcity mindset ways of thinking is so hard to do, but so necessary, and if we’ve ever needed hard evidence of why, it is sweeping across our globe as I write this.

Showing Up

Playing by the Rules

Last night at work, I inhaled helium from a balloon and heard my squeaky voice, which was hilarious. I have never done that before. I was even afraid to do it when my coworker passed me the balloon. Afraid of it making me sick. Afraid of getting in trouble. Afraid of breaking some rule.

I tried to smoke marijuana once when John and I lived in Chicago, but unlike our former president Bill Clinton, I did not inhale. I couldn’t bring myself to do it because I was scared of what might happen if I got high. Scared, even in my 30s, of my parents finding out and being disappointed in me. I also tried a small piece of cake that a former friend said had weed in it, also in Chicago. I was so scared to try it, but I did it, and then I waited to see what happened and took hypervigilance of my body to a whole other level. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Just before John and I moved to Chicago, my anxiety had reached such a severity that I could barely eat or drink anything because my throat would close up and I’d nearly choke every time I tried. I had panic attacks in the bathroom at work and while running along the Silver Comet Trail and cried nearly every single day. It finally reached the point I asked my doctor for a prescription for Xanax, and he gave me 10 pills. Those 10 pills lasted me two years.

It took me about 2 months to take the first pill because I was so afraid of what it might do to me. Right before we moved, while John was in Dallas for training at the job he’d accepted that moved us to Chicago, I had a panic attack all alone in our nearly empty apartment in Smyrna. Missy and Louie were with their grandma in Savannah, where they stayed until July 2016, and at that point, we were sleeping on our air mattress in the living room. Or I was, since John was in Texas.

I had to try it and see what happened because the anxiety was unbearable. So I swallowed the pill, laid down, and just hoped it didn’t make me sick because I’m terrified of vomiting even though I haven’t done it since I was 6 years old.

I fell asleep, had the craziest dream about vampires, woke up groggy, but I felt like the cacophony of racing thoughts in my head had dimmed to a dull roar. I could actually have a single thought for once! Still, I didn’t want to become addicted to Xanax or anything so I saved the pills and only took them when my anxiety was at its worst.

I never wanted to smoke growing up or as an adult because I watched how it sickened June and later killed her. I hated how I smelled from being around her. I hated that living with her for so long meant every cold or flu I got turned into bronchitis or pneumonia, something that continues to happen today.

When I went to college, I avoided the parties and alcohol because I didn’t want to get drunk and not be in control of myself, but I also did not want to throw up, and I especially didn’t want my dad to somehow find out about me drinking because he is so against drinking because his father was an alcoholic and alcoholism runs in his family.

I also didn’t date or hook up or even kiss anyone though I wanted to, so much. I was so curious about sex and wanted sexual experiences with others, but I’d been raised that it was wrong to do anything sexual before marriage so I avoided anything romantic with men pretty much until I met John, minus a couple of attempts at dates with total duds.

And even with John, I was terrified and guilt-ridden. I barely slept the first night we slept in the bed together and only kissed, and I might as well have been wearing a chastity belt because I normally sleep in just a tank top and panties, but I had a sleeved shirt, bra, pants, and panties on and kept my arms in front of me because God forbid I touch John or he touch me. And when he spent the weekend with me a few weeks later, and we did everything short of sex, I was a mess. I’d never been in that situation before and I’d waited a long time for it, but I’d broken THE rule: no sex or anything sexual before marriage. It really fucked with my head until and even after we got married, and it bothered me so much on our honeymoon that I was physically unable to have sex and instead cried in John’s arms in our beautiful honeymoon suite in St. Augustine, Florida.

I have lived with a lot of rules in my head and been afraid of anything that might put me in situations I can’t be totally in control of. Some of it came from church and all of the rules of religion, but a lot of it came from my dad.

My dad was so overprotective when my brothers and I were growing up, but it’s only as an adult that I see it was because he lives with a lot of fear inside of him, which probably started with his mother who was afraid of everything herself.

I really didn’t get to be curious about much growing up. I was not left alone for even two seconds when my dad was around. On the weekends when he was off work, my brother Adam and I couldn’t go outside. We had to sit on the couch in the living room while he snored and watched the back of his eyelids (slept) with some dumb Western movie on TV. He had to know where we were at all times.

I never got to have sleepovers or go to sleepovers or birthday parties until I was a senior in high school. The only person I could spend time away from home with was my grandmother June, and my dad didn’t really like me being there with all the fighting that went on.

I didn’t go to school dances. Finally got to go to football games my last year of high school. Didn’t go to prom (not that anyone asked me but that was probably because no one ever saw me anywhere but in school and they never really got to know me).

I was so afraid to do anything wrong or bad. My dad’s hypervigilance became my self-hypervigilance. I went off to college and kept to myself and wound up severely depressed and suicidal by my senior year because I’d stifled my desire to explore, make mistakes, and learn from them during these four years and I’d isolated myself out of fear and shame.

I dreamed last night about the guy I had such a crush on in college, and in the dream, his wife told me he never got over me, was still upset that nothing ever happened between us because we had such a connection back then. I still think about him sometimes. Not in a way like I wish I was with him or anything like that, but that I wish I hadn’t been afraid to kiss him and see what happened. I feel like I trapped my sexuality behind a wall with a boulder and turned off the lights when that part of me so naturally and so desperately wanted out, and it appeared as if I was asexual or not as sexually or romantically interested as I was.

That part of me still wants out. I’ve moved the boulder back a few inches at times but then slammed it shut again. But is it really me though or is it just shame from purity culture and about my fatness?

I am terrified of being in any situation where I can’t be fully aware or have some sense of control. Getting drunk, high, having sex, trying foods outside of my comfort zone that might not settle well in my body, flying, etc. all terrify me.

As an aside though, flying is exhilarating for me. I always break out in a huge grin when I feel the plane tilt back and begin to ascend. I’ve even cried before, it is such a rush.

I thought about this when I went to Chicago to visit my brother Ben and sister-in-law Sarah last month. Once I’m in the plane, everything else is out of my hands. I’m at the mercy of fate, jet streams, the pilot, the airplane carrying me, and if the plane crashes, there’s nothing I can do but go down with it.

I’ve never been blackout drunk before, but when I’ve been drunk with John or friends, it feels so similar. I’m floating. I’m giggly. I’m less inhibited sexually. I’m in a great mood and then I’m sleepy. Sometimes I wish alcohol didn’t have such a dire effect on my stomach and digestive system so I could have those feelings more often. I also wonder sometimes if my own tight grip on the control of my body isn’t the reason my stomach aches anytime I have the chance to try something unfamiliar or that might loosen me up.

I think I am scared to get high for the same reason.

As I’ve started trusting John more and seen him becoming more open and intimate with me, I’ve found myself letting go more during sex and getting more pleasure out of it, but it is only when he initiates. I cannot bring myself to initiate it myself. I still feel so held back when it comes to making my desires known when he has zero issue letting me know when he wants me.

I am a tightly wound coil. I was such a goody good church girl growing up that people tiptoed around me. To get around this persona, I developed a love for swearing like a sailor.

And that’s part of the rebel inside of me. The mischievous side that only comes out in swear words and dirty jokes. Or, you know, when people tell me I can’t or shouldn’t do something, and I’m like, hold my sparkling water (you know, since I can’t stomach beer).

I grew up with rules around food and my weight. No junk food so I learned how to sneak Little Debbie oatmeal creme pies without that cellophane wrapper making a single crinkle as I walked to the bathroom to basically inhale it as a giant “fuck you, I’ll eat what I want” to my parents. (It’s funny to me now how I snuck junk food at June’s house too when that was the one place where that food was bought for me to eat and I had all the permission, minus snarky comments about the size of my ass from my great-grandfather Brophy and my creepy uncle Charles, to eat as much of it as I wanted.)

As a Christian, I found myself constantly praying to be obedient, to rid myself of basically me and to be the submissive person I was told God made me to be. Always asking for forgiveness. Always ashamed of my thoughts and, often, my disbelief. Even as I tried to do all the right Christian things, so much of it felt hollow. That rebel in me wanted so badly to question everything I was told to believe, but I put her in the boulder-covered cave with my sexuality.

So now, in the wake of leaving Christianity, I’ve thought, Okay, so all of these rules I’ve tried to follow all of my life don’t really mean anything anymore. What now? What now when it turns out I’m supposed to be me, not some temple for God, not some submissive, “pure” servant to John, not a lifelong child to my parents, but me – my desires, needs, talents, curiosity, knowledge, strengths, etc.? What do I do with this freedom?

I am still figuring that out. It is an inward battle because I was taught to be so vigilant, cautious, distrusting, to never walk into situations or put myself in situations where I don’t know exactly what’s going on, to never allow myself to be harmed or manipulated (oops, that happened constantly growing up where I had no safety or choice in the matter). I still worry too much about disappointing my parents even as I’ve seen my brothers do stupid shit and just shake it off and our parents still love them anyway.

I’m not saying I need to be able to get blackout drunk and puke all over the place or get high or whatever to say I’ve truly lived, but I want to adopt my attitude around flying with everything else in my life. To be able to let go and trust that it is okay for me to relax and to allow myself, my body, to loosen up and accept pleasure, joy, and freedom, and maybe lose myself in it from time to time. To accept that I absolutely am not in control of anything but how I react to life – and sometimes not even that – and THAT IS PERFECTLY FINE.

John asked me a few weeks ago if I’d want to know when and how I die. Part of me says yes so I could prepare for it, but most of me screams no because I’d be so apprehensive about it that I would not be able to enjoy any of my time left. I always want to plan and be prepared, and I’ve realized lately that all the preparation in the world, all the looking over my shoulders I want, will not prevent suffering or my eventual death, but it will prevent me from truly living my life and making the most of whatever time I have left. Nowadays when that little voice in my head says hey, you’re going to die someday, I respond, yeah, I know, so how about we enjoy life while we have it, huh?

John is the mischievous one of the two of us, which would probably surprise many because he is so quiet and often socially withdrawn. However, if we are walking somewhere and, say, I see a sign that says we can’t go past a certain point, I’ll say, “Wait, the sign says no” like the little rule follower I am. I can’t even finish pointing out the sign before John has already pushed past it and gone inside. I usually wind up following him even though I’m looking over my shoulder constantly hoping we don’t wind up getting arrested or shot.

This isn’t an often example – we don’t make a habit of trespassing – but it is an example of how John doesn’t let fear get in the way of his curiosity. He has so much confidence to do whatever it is he wants whereas I’m going through all of the worst case scenarios inside.

And I think it is good that I do have some of that mental preparation going on because it has kept us out of trouble, but I’d like to have more of his confidence. This is a good area of where we balance each other out. He trusts me and I trust him so we just follow each other along. He leads when it’s something I’m afraid to do and I lead when I’m not afraid (or I am but I’ve let the brave little rebel inside of me come out of the dark cave I’ve shoved her into).

I don’t really know where I am going with this, but it is all something I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about lately when it comes to unleashing myself from all of the fear and shame-based rules I grew up in from everything pleasurable in life and from the need for validation and approval from everyone else.

I want fun stories in my life. (I have fun stories of my life, though they’re hard to recall at times, especially when I listen to others talk about their high school, college, and early 20s years where they partied, traveled, and explored and I remember how I went right to the boring career and search for security and stability my family told me I needed to do.)

I am tired of writing about all of the bullshit and trauma I grew up with. I’m tired of clenching my butt cheeks so tightly, I could turn a lump of coal into a diamond in no time. I know most don’t see this side of me. I know I am fun to be around (most of the time), funny, adventurous, and laidback around others, especially those I’m comfortable with.

I want that outward expression of myself to spread more inward too. Baby steps though, I guess, unless I want to jump out of an airplane, which John has done but I do not feel the need to do myself.

My acts of “rebellion” have been tamer with rainbow hair and pierced cartilage in my ear and nose (piercings I no longer have) and having sex/living with my boyfriend now husband before marriage, haha. Oh, and drunkenly running through the sprinklers of a baseball field at 2a one time with another guy I sometimes wish I’d just kissed to see what would’ve happened with even though I know now that the way everything happened (or didn’t happen) is how I ended up where I am now. It isn’t perfect but it’s good. (My future retired self is also thankful for those early career years where I socked money away because I’m way ahead of a lot of people my age.)

This life is mine to live. This is my story to write. And all of those rules growing up are mine to break. I’m not telling fear to go away – or convincing myself it needs to in order for me to live a fulfilling life. I am breaking a generational habit or trauma or something of the sort. Sometimes I feel like I need to do it for those in my family who can’t break free, but then realize I can only live my life for me.

I don’t know. Just more rambling from all I’ve been thinking about lately. I’m not really writing to fix myself or figure everything out. I am writing to hear myself, to understand what I am thinking and feeling.

And what I’m thinking and feeling lately is it is time to forget all those rules enforced upon me out of fear (and love and wanting me to be safe) growing up and figure out what I want to do and how I want to live the rest of my life, on my terms but without such restriction.

Showing Up

Peace in Place of Chaos

My brain freaks out when things are going well. When life is calm and peaceful and every day is routine and the normal I craved growing up.

When there’s no drama or chaos, my brain sees it as a vacuum. Like something is wrong. Why is no one screaming? How is everyone getting along? This whole not fighting thing is fucking weird. It’s time to change that.

I become paranoid and the paranoia leads to me trying to control everything which leads to overthinking and catastrophizing to the extreme. Silently accusing John of hiding stuff from me. Thinking maybe he’s cheating on me or wants to divorce me or thinks I’m gross now because I’ve gained weight and can only have sex with me if it is dark outside and he can’t see me.

My brain has to find something. And when it creates something in the wake of not discovering anything to latch onto, I become resentful, bitter, mean, critical, angry, and my anxiety skyrockets because I’m so ashamed of the shit my brain has pinging around throughout my body that I am withdrawn and can’t talk about it. It shuts me up until it shuts me down and I feel like I’m being suffocated by my own mind and body.

I told John two weeks ago that my anxiety attacks were creeping back into my life, and he said he had no idea I was even anxious because I wasn’t talking about it and hadn’t shown any signs of distress. I told him it is because I am tired of telling people about my anxiety and feel like people are tired of hearing about it. Same old, lifelong song and dance. Amy is worrying again, tell her to stop because, you know, that works.

I have PTSD. I grew up in a battlefield. It was predictable in that fighting would occur but unpredictable in exactly how or when. I had to tiptoe around every word that I spoke because when someone in my family – often my parents – was in the mood to hurt someone because they needed to offset their pain, I was an easy target. One false move, one unintended tone, and I was belittled, shamed, gaslighted, projected upon, and criticized.

And it wasn’t just me. The air was so taut with tension that fights grew like thunderheads and clapped so violently they shook my great grandparents’ house, which was probably the closest thing to my childhood home since my parents moved us around so often. There was always something to fight about. The police knew my great grandparents’ and the uncle who almost always started the fights by name, they were called so often by neighbors.

Peace was superficial and temporary. When my great-grandfather Brophy died in 2004, my uncle Charles gathered us all in the living room of Brophy’s house and gave this moving speech – moving but inauthentic or maybe just ineffective – about how we had to get along from then on, that it’s what Brophy would want; that it was time for us to love each other. By nightfall, he and his sister, my aunt Carol, were cursing each other out in the dining room of the house, just feet from where he made that speech.

Peace doesn’t feel trustworthy. It doesn’t feel genuine. It doesn’t feel dependable. It feels like a set-up. Like if I set down my armor for a few minutes to rest and revel in the quiet, my head will be knocked cleanly off my shoulders.

Like right now…for the first time in now four years, I have a job that I really like with people I really enjoy working with. It is nice to look forward to going to work. Sure, I might have to deal with rude customers from time to time, but I have a boss who is fun to work with and who has my back.

John and I are getting along pretty well, have been more intimate and open with each other, and coming off the pill, I’ve never been more attracted to him. (Not sure if it is just getting adjusted to my own natural hormones again – more testosterone with my PCOS – after eight years of being on the pill, being in my late 30s and all aboard the last call on the baby train before menopause or both or just becoming more comfortable and settled in our marriage, but damn he’s been looking extra good to me lately.)

Things are good. We moved back to Smyrna. I love our apartment, love where it is located, love that my job allows me to schedule my shifts around John’s so we’re often off on the same days (though that is changing a bit with John’s new schedule that changes weekly), etc.

So of course my brain is on the catastrophizing super speedway. All day long, it’s running through “what ifs” and scenarios where I could lose everything. I went through a two-week period in January, hot on the heels of finally deciding I don’t believe in Christianity anymore, where I was terrified I was going to die every single day. Not terrified of dying, though that was there too, but terrified it was actually going to happen then. Every ache in my body was a heart attack or cancer or kidney stone or something else waiting to kill me when it was really just being so tightly wound and clenched that my muscles ached. (I think a lot this started from some slightly abnormal bloodwork in December that I have to get retested for at the end of February that my doctor really isn’t concerned about, that is probably just something random.)

When my PTSD brain is tired of worrying about dying – or thinks mission accomplished – it moves on to worrying about my debt or weight or John leaving me. Anything it possibly can to stir up chaos around me since chaos was the “norm” for the first quarter or so of my life.

During this point, I am accused of being too negative, complaining too much, stuck in my head, overdramatic, and never satisfied. I feel myself grasping for something to control. I think about going on diets and trying to lose weight. I question John about what he’s doing on his phone or ask him about his finances and get mad when he won’t tell me anything. I ramble on about nothing. I forget what I’m talking about, what I’m doing, and find myself repeating myself or doing things like putting Missy’s medication in the fridge when it goes on top of the fridge.

Anxiety and PTSD leave me with a foggy head, upset stomach, and stiffness throughout my body. I am hypervigilant of my own body and everything around me, but then find myself with my car in two lanes on the way to work.

I am no longer at war or on the battlefield and haven’t been in over a decade now, but I still wear my armor and I still jump at anything that reminds me of war. Still have flashbacks. Take the way John responds to me at times as being exactly how my dad responded to me growing up even though they’re too very different people when it comes to their feelings and behaviors towards me. Feel self-conscious about my weight gain around my brothers and flinch at just the thought of them making fun of my size again (like my brother Adam addressing me as “fat” instead of my name for about a year there when we were in our late teens). Chastise myself for having a part-time job now when I “could” be making more money and being a better partner financially to John (even though what does that even mean and how am I better if I’m miserable?).

It sounds so melodramatic, but all I really knew was war growing up. The armor I developed to survive it has varying degrees of effectiveness from empathy, resiliency, and sense of humor to codependency, people-pleasing, and putting the need for approval and acceptance from others over my own self-validation. I told John tonight that my giving love language seems to be Acts of Service because I like doing things for him and giving things to him, which is good in its own right until it veers off into People-Pleasing territory where I’m suffocating him, he’s irritated and tells me to back off, and my feelings get hurt. I read recently that codependency’s roots lie in not feeling wanted so you decide to do all you can to feel needed. This is exactly how it started for me, especially with my mom.

Growing up, I was not taught to self-soothe. I was taught that if I cried, I’d be given something to cry about and that it wasn’t worth doing, didn’t accomplish anything, was childish and stupid. If I was afraid, I was taught to pray, read my Bible, or listen to church sermons on the radio, and that if I was afraid, it meant I didn’t trust God. If I was angry, that anger was shamed or matched and outdone. When John and I went through marriage counseling in 2017, our therapist told me I needed to learn how to self-soothe. I got some ideas on how to do it, but I think most of the time the only thing I have the energy to do when I’m upset is cry. At least I know now how healing and relieving it is to do that.

This week, while crying in the shower because I’ve been so overwhelmed with racing thoughts, paranoia, and panic, I thought, Amy, when are you going to take care of yourself? When will your approval of yourself matter most? When will you stop trying to be who you think everyone else wants to be and be yourself? When will you stop hiding your desires and needs because you don’t they deserve to be spoken or that they’ll be heard or acknowledged? When will you realize you have the same rights as everyone else around you to live your life in a way that makes you feel fulfilled and peaceful?

I can’t continue to respond to my anxiety the way my family did either: anger and criticism only serve to make it far worse and more shameful, which makes all of those fears that much stronger and more incapacitating. My mom still tells me to pray but 30+ years of it never really made it go away. I do miss talking outloud and the weight lifted off of me when I thought someone was listening to me even if the only person listening was actually me. Reading my Bible never helped and I haven’t owned one now for four years. Church helped some, but when you realize that it is religion and its associated legalism and shaming that has you feeling imprisoned and even more afraid to be yourself, that relief is temporary.

I know I need to go to therapy again, but I can’t afford it. I’ve looked on Open Path Collective for someone who specializes in trauma, but no one popped up. I still feel like this was some kind of filter error on my part because there has to be someone affordable in Atlanta, but I don’t know.

I think the silver lining is that I am self-aware. I understand what is happening. The lack of peace growing up makes it unfamiliar territory to a brain so used to chaos – whether from family or jobs or other relationships – and my brain, like most human brains, doesn’t like the unknown. Fears it. Our brains like predictable because predictable is safe. Or feels that way. The hell you know is better than the hell you don’t know, so the saying goes.

Writing it out always helps. Writing in my 20s is what helped me survive them, made me self-aware, and helped me break through the patterns I saw growing up. I guess it is a way of self-soothing because once I get everything in my brain out, my thoughts slow down to a somewhat manageable pace. I am keeping my blog as part of my Instagram of the same name but no longer broadcasting my posts so I can focus on more stream-of-consciousness writing and not curating my content for social media. I’m craving authenticity so much, and I feel unable to be wholly authentic when I know more people could be reading. It all goes back to the need for validation and approval mentioned above and not wanting to burden people with my pain or alarm them with my fears.

In the meantime, I am talking to myself more. Trying to find the right words and tone to help myself through all of the emotions and racing thoughts. I started snapping at myself to quit all of this “nonsense” earlier this week when I stopped myself and said, “I’m sorry. That was Daddy talking, not me. That was his voice. Those were his words. I’m not talking to you like he did because that was neither helpful nor loving.” Sometimes I feel crazy doing all of this, but I know how I talk to myself is going to be one of the best ways to work through the PTSD I have from all of the trauma I’ve incurred.

This is how I will learn to trust in the peace and calm and let go of the need for the familiar chaos.

Letters to Myself

Letters to Myself, #3 – Happy Birthday

I originally meant to write this blog post around my 37th birthday in mid-October, but between moving from Marietta back to Smyrna, going to Destin, spending time with my brother Caleb, getting adjusted into our new apartment, and finding and starting my new job, this post never happened past me uploading the photos included in the post. Maybe this is a good thing though because being 3 months out from turning 37, I have more to say to these younger mes.

This will be a very, very, very long post, so if I am the only one who ever reads it all, that is totally fine with me.

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October 1989:

Dear 7-year-old Amy:

Oh, sweet girl, happy birthday. I wish I remembered what I got for my birthday this year, but I’m sure it was something along the line of more Barbies for our 5-year-old brother Adam to rip the heads off of, dresses from June like the one in the picture above (as she was the only one who seemed to remember you are a little girl who should have pretty dresses and not be dressed like her brother), maybe some books.

This will be the year you start writing your own short stories, stories about tornadoes that you dreamed about and had to write down as soon as you woke up. Tornadoes are the shared fascination between you and Daddy, the one thing you can talk to each other about, the topic you get his attention on as you squeeze in next to him on his Lazyboy and watch hours of the Weather Channel together. The only other time you get his attention is when you are being yelled at for misbehaving, which usually involves fights with Adam. 

You’re going to be a big sister again soon too, and you will love it. At least at first. Ben will be your twin born seven years later in so many ways. He will be your baby. You will fall in love with him at first sight and even now, 30 years later, he still holds such a tender space in your heart even as all the things you dislike about yourself drive you crazy in him. 

I know you’re already worrying about your weight. What was it this morning? 60-something pounds? Amy, I wish this number wasn’t already so significant for you, but our mom, who struggles with her own body insecurities, can’t seem but help to pass them along to you.

I want you to know right now, in the middle of everything happening now and what’s to come – like your first major crush whom you’ve possibly met by now but whom you will befriend in the coming school year – you are so perfect just the way you are. Your bangs and straight hair with the flipped up ends are so sweet. Your mouth full of transformation and emptying of baby teeth is so adorable. I love your imagination, energy, singing voice, smile, tenacity, and sense of humor. I still smile when I think of the Barbie soap operas we came up with inspired by the soap operas June and Lib loved to watch. 

I’m so sorry you’re being forced to behave as if everything is fine and no one understands that your acting out is your inability to live so inauthentically. I’m so sorry no one understands you are processing so much dysfunction between your parents and at Lib’s house and that your sensitive heart can’t help but absorb the anger, shame, and pain all around you. I’m so sorry you are characterized as the bad child because you cannot sit still and be quiet and passive like Adam. That you’re told that your stubbornness, needs for affection and attention you can’t get met, and your emotions are all “too much,” and Mama and Daddy don’t “know how to handle you.” 

This year, you have a schoolteacher named Ms. Taylor who will tell you and your parents how much she loves having you as a student in her second grade class. She will tell you how sweet and smart you are. Listen to her. Don’t listen to your dad asking you why can’t you be that well-behaved child she speaks of at home. You are that child; he just does not have the energy nor focus to see it. Ms. Taylor will plant and grow those seeds in you that develop your love for reading, writing, spelling, and grammar that you carry with you for the rest of your life. 

Please know that I see you even when Adam gets all of the attention at home, and I understand why you lash out at him even though he does not deserve to be bullied just as you didn’t. I want to spend time with you even as it seemed our parents did not want you around and always waited until you were away for the weekend with June to go out as a family with Adam. 

Mama doesn’t know how to “handle” you but that is not your fault. This is about her upbringing and insecurities. Daddy only demands perfection and quiet from you because it was beaten into him by his abusive father. You are not broken. You are not wrong. You deserve so much love that I know you don’t ever really feel, at least not from your parents. You belong even if you feel left out from your parents and Adam. You are a sweet, innocent, stubborn, fiery little second grader who is growing her own little world inside of her imagination and becoming the author of the story of her life. You are good enough. Your body is perfect the way it is, even your little pudgy belly and round cheeks. 

Thank you for plucking those story ideas out of your dreams and getting them on paper as fast as you can because you taught me that I am a writer. Your excitement for becoming a big sister again and your natural maternal instincts will help you not only raise your upcoming baby brother but the one who will follow him as well as help you nurture and care for friends and, mostly importantly, yourself. 

I love you so much just as you are, sweet girl. Happy 7th birthday. 

October 2000:

Dear 18-year-old Amy (because I couldn’t find a picture of 17-year-old Amy and had to skip ahead a year):

I still remember when this picture was taken in the student center at the University of South Alabama in Mobile. You’re a freshman in college now, living 182 miles away from home and about 45 miles from the beaches of Dauphin Island where you’re going to spend way too much time (but love the hell out of it). 

On this birthday, June drove by herself to take you out to TGI Friday’s both for your birthday and to comfort you because you didn’t make it as a Diamond Girl, basically a cheerleader for the USA Jaguars’ baseball team (because you weren’t a sorority girl or thin like the other girls who auditioned). Pretty sure June also took you to Sam’s Club and got you a pallet of Cherry Coke because she loves you and wants you to have whatever she can possibly buy you. Cherish this.

You’re physically free from all of the bullshit at home – your divorced parents who can’t seem to understand you are their daughter and not their mediator, your mom who chose her second husband over you and your brothers and who treats you like shit because you’re fat (and that’s the worst thing you can be to her) and likely because you’re now the mother she can’t be to Ben and your youngest brother Caleb, all of the fighting between Lib, Brophy, and Robert – but emotionally it’s like you never left. 

You’re numb, I know. After so many years of absorbing so much anger and shame, numb is your survival method. Well, that and your sense of humor and food. Your weight is less than it has been since it piled onto your body in high school, but it still isn’t enough for your parents to tell you that you’re worth loving and beautiful and that they are proud of you. Nothing is enough for that. Not your advanced diploma or good job after high school or getting into college or making the Dean’s List your first semester. The only person who calls and checks on you is June, who loves you but who gets annoyed because you don’t have enough going on to talk about daily. 

You have an awesome roommate named Kelly who is going to introduce you to a tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired junior with a nice smile and blue eyes whom she says is exactly your type. He will be. You will think “this is the guy I’m going to marry” as soon as you see him. You won’t talk to him until January 2001, but you’ll cross paths a few times. 

You will so badly want this tall former linebacker, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Christian man with a sense of humor like yours to like you back, but he won’t. Not the same way you like him. And it’s not because of anything about you, despite what your mom later tells you. Unlike what your mom says, you are not ugly or smelly, you don’t need to be thin to be loved or happy, and there is nothing wrong with your body. I know you want to dance and be more outgoing, but fear of being made fun like you have been your whole life plagues you. That’s okay. We will get there. I mean, we will actually get there, like, we will dance in front of 100+ people at a belly dance student show, and no, we won’t feel or look stupid. We will feel so proud and amazed. 

This year, you will start online journaling for the first time, mostly to write about that boy mentioned above and your struggles to lose weight, but soon it will progress to recording what is now the good, bad, and ugly of your family history. A record to back up their gaslighting that keeps you from buying their bullshit about you. The greatest gift of this blogging will be how much your self-awareness skyrockets. Yes, sometimes this makes us overanalytical, but overall, it makes us much more compassionate and empathetic. Over time, that numbness that plagues you will fade as you begin to validate your emotions and learn about your sensitive nature and what a gift it really is. 

You are so starved for attention and affection, but you will find friendships that give you some of both. You will give so much of both to Ben and Caleb that they will develop into men who are comfortable being both emotionally available and deeply affectionate. And that boy who breaks your heart so deeply is an unanswered prayer you will be grateful for in the future (though, eyeroll, I know you will think, I’m so sick of hearing this), trust me. 

You are doing so much better than you think. You are so beautiful, smart, funny, and kind. You can run circles around those skinny girls who think they’re in better shape than you because you’re heavier than them. You write like you think, and today, I’ve been told I write like I’m writing to a dear friend. This is all thanks to you. The fanfiction you’re in the middle of writing now is real writing and developing dialogue skills as well as your songwriting skills, an original in the type of fanfiction you’re writing. (Oh and guess what? You’re going to meet Nick Carter. Eeeeek, I know, right?! You won’t marry him though, sorry.) 

Keep writing those songs that come to you in the middle of the night like the stories did when we were seven years old. Keep singing in the shower and at your desk (even though you might want to keep it down at 2a). Enjoy your friendship with the boy who will love you but not the way you love him, but also don’t allow him to mistreat you because you are so much better than that (and he really, really, really doesn’t deserve you, I promise). 

Enough with this heavy shit though – happy 18th birthday, Amy! You’re legally an adult now though you’ve felt like one for the past four years! Go to the beach. Take in the quiet of the Gulf of Mexico at sunrise before you drive back to your dorm with the windows down to breathe in the salty air and pass out and miss your first of many classes over the next four years. Go dancing with your roommate and her friends. Enjoy dinner with June. Enjoy the first steps of your freedom. You are so ready for this.

And again, I love you dearly, sweet girl, just as you are. 

October 2009:

Happy 27th birthday, Amy. Wow, what a birthday. You are currently in Mobile with Mama, who invited you to come down with her for a nursing continuing education conference she signed up to attend. I know, things with her are so tumultuous right now, as they’ve been pretty much your whole life. Ugh, I also know that she is the middle of her affair with her married boyfriend and you’re trying so hard to convince to break up with him until he finally divorces his wife of 25+ years. (She won’t.)

Let’s not think about that right now. You are DAYS AWAY from quitting the state government job you’ve had since you graduated high school nine years ago, and in just about three weeks, you’re moving to Atlanta. Wow, so much going on. I really want to commend you for taking on a summer part-time job to make extra money as well as selling as much as you possibly could so that you have money saved up to help you in your first few weeks in Atlanta. I’m so grateful for Sia and Zach for taking you in and letting you live in their townhouse in your first few weeks as well because we really would not have done this without that. 

I know there are people in our family coming out of the woodworks at the news of you moving who are telling you how bad the economy is, how high unemployment is (because you obviously don’t know this working in the unemployment compensation division of the Department of Labor where these numbers originate), how you’re stupid for leaving a steady, stable government job, and blah blah blah, but their comments are about them, and these are people who haven’t seen or talked to you in over a decade so they don’t know what the hell they’re talking about or who the hell they’re telling all of this to. Disregard them.

Moving to Atlanta is going to change your whole life. Amy, you are on the cusp of finally, finally, finally being on your own and living a life that is yours and yours alone. I am so excited for you just thinking about it all. Yes, it will be so freaking hard, but you are going to start healing. All of your scars and wounds will become like the broken jars in the Chinese proverb that are put back together with gold which only makes them stronger. You are being filled in with gold, Amy, with strength, determination, courage, wisdom, and beauty. It hurts, it might always hurt, but it is what makes you real and makes me love you so much. And goddamn, you’re hilarious. That definitely won’t change. 

Happy 27th birthday, Amy. Happy first birthday to the rest of your beautiful life that is beginning now as you stare out at downtown Mobile and wonder if you’re doing the right thing. You are. You so are. This is the most right thing you have done your whole life, even now. Thank you for being so brave. I admire the hell out of you. 

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October 2009:

Happy 37th birthday, Amy. God, this has been a rough year. I know how tired you feel. Your lifelong faith in God has been severed completely, and now there’s a void along with a bit of anger at how Christianity has been used to belittle, demean, and shame you in every area of your life from your gender/femininity, sexuality, emotions, physical shape, marriage, finances, writing, speech, outgoing and strong-willed personality, and more.

There is also fear that you will be rejected and abandoned by those you love who aren’t on your deconversion journey, including John, or that their fear for your eternal soul will lead them to intentionally or not-intentionally gaslight and shame you in the hopes of “bringing you back to Jesus.” It is so hard to write these days because you don’t have it in you to deal with the feedback of others. Not about your lack of religious faith, four months now of unemployment, 50-pound weight gain, or really anything else. And really, does it even matter when Trump is going to get us all killed anyway? Oops, can’t talk about that either.

Everything feels so hard and dark right now, I know. You and John have had some horrible fights this year, and it feels like you will forever fight about the same things – sex, communication, how you’re in touch with your emotions and he’s not so yours seem overwhelming, and money. You both said “fuck you” to each other this year when you said years ago that would be a sign that something is deeply wrong and vowed to work through whatever led to that moment before things got that bad.

Nope, he said it, you said it back, he told you to leave, you did, and he didn’t come running after you or blow up your phone with texts or calls. He later apologized for not checking on you, for saying those words and telling you to leave, but that apology did nothing to change how deeply hurt and alone you felt and still often feel in this marriage. All it brought up and back was how much you felt like you and your feelings didn’t matter growing up and you heard your own mind gaslighting you and telling you that somehow this is all your fault and, oh, because you’re so much fatter now, he probably doesn’t love or want you or to be married to you anymore and now you’re screwed because you have no money of your own anymore. It feels so far away from the way your relationship started eight years ago, when he was so excited about you and couldn’t stop telling and showing you how happy he was to have you in his life, like maybe all of that never really happened or was all a ruse or maybe you just fucked it all up because you’re not that woman anymore, whoever he thought she was.

Take a deep breath, Amy. I will pause and breathe with you because that is some really hard, painful, heavy shit.

Let me remind you of what I wrote to 7-year-old Amy: you are not broken, there is nothing wrong with you, there is nothing about you that deems you unworthy of love, your words/feelings/everything about you matter even if no one else seems to acknowledge this, especially the ones you love most.

Right now, this year, has been a really shitty one. Let me validate something for you: You have experienced a shit-ton of trauma, you have PTSD, you have survived some really fucked up shit, and none of it was your fault. How others treat you is a reflection of them, not you. You are not responsible for their behavior or words towards you. You did not and do not deserve to be abused or mistreated.

You are so strong, Amy. Stronger than I think you will ever realize when you’re so lost in all of those critical thoughts from voices in your past who could, from their own pain, tell you they loved you but somehow also how wrong and inadequate you are in one breath and without apology. You are so brave to keep pushing through all of this trauma and pain, for picking each piece of your shattered heart, acknowledging its existence and searing pain, crying with and for it, and putting it all back together again. With so many broken pieces, this is a very lengthy, possibly lifelong process, but you are here for it, and that means so much for the future Amys, however many there will be.

I know that with the loss of faith in God, everything feels so meaningless right now. Nihilism feels comforting in a way. So this is it? I’m just a product of evolution, collection of atoms, pieces of the universe, and a speck on the plane of this universe and time? Great! So everything is temporary and nothing really matters and someday I will be oblivious to it all as I was before I was born. This has done wonders for my anxiety.

But seriously…that also seems so dark and hopeless too. 

Your life does have meaning even if there’s nothing else but this (and I’m not totally discounting spirituality here, just religion).

Amy, you’re a product of evolution, such a rare miracle! Do you know how many eggs and sperm that have ever existed in the bodies of all the humans who have ever walked this earth? Do you know how much had to come together (no pun intended) at just the right time and in the right way for you to be conceived, carried to term and delivered? How amazing it is that you’re alive today in your fragile body in a grueling, lethal environment? How many lives you’ve touched and made better just by being yourself? You are made of the same materials of this vast, infinite, magnificent, astounding, beautiful universe! You, and everyone else, are just as incredible to look at as the moon, stars, and planets in the sky. 

Yes, everything is temporary, but you matter. Your life matters. Your thoughts, feelings, voice, and words matter. Everything about you matters and is a miracle. Same with everyone else, even though their behavior doesn’t alway lend to feeling as such about them.

You are so smart and so well-read. You absorb knowledge like you absorb emotions, and you are thoughtful when discussing what you’ve learned. You’re still so funny, especially with all of the songs you make up about the dogs or to make fun of those dumb prescription drug commercials. John’s right, you’ve really missed your calling here. You’re introverted and need alone time to re-energize, but man, you come ALIVE when there are people to talk to. You are so good at encouraging others and making them smile and laugh, and this is going to come in handy in your new job. You really are charming, thick southern accent and all. It feels weird to say all of this about myself, but damn it, it is about time, and if no one else will, it is up to me to make you shine. 

Your body will change for the rest of your life in size, shape, height, width, wrinkles, lumps, bumps, colors, and more, but it is always working hard with and for you to keep you alive because it loves you unconditionally. I know the weight gain is hard for you and you miss your smaller belly, leaner arms and thighs, and seeing the dimples in your cheeks that have been covered over with your plumper face. I know everything and everyone around you screams that your body is wrong and you need to make it smaller ASAP. I know you’re hearing that inner critical voice tell you that there’s no way John could love or be attracted to you at this size, and this is putting you into survival and defense mode as you await his eventual criticism and rejection of you. (That voice is so wrong, I promise you.)

I know you feel so left behind now as another job failed to work out for you and you’re on what feels like year 50 of trying to pay off your debt and you can’t afford to travel or buy clothes and you feel so much guilt and shame because you’re not currently working and all of the financial burden is on John and you remember how that felt when it was on you and…. it all really fucking sucks, I know.

Some good news though: You’re about to move out of that almost literal sewage dump of an apartment in the middle of nowhere Marietta that you’ve hated for the past two years, you’re about to go to the beach (though that feels undeserved because John has to pay for it on top of all the moving stuff), and soon, you will have a new job, one that you really enjoy even though you will wish it paid more. And Amy!! You have stood up for yourself so hard in these past two “failed” jobs because after the office job before you moved to Chicago, you said no more to asshole bosses and jobs that don’t fulfill you, and you stood your ground and made the best decision for yourself: no more shitty, toxic office jobs with mean, narcissistic bosses. You saved enough money to help you pay your car payment and minimum credit card payments for these four months of unemployment too! And paid off half of your credit card debt before quitting!

I just had a thought: Do you remember your final summer semester at South Alabama when June promised you that if you put in the hard work, went to all of your classes, and made good grades, she’d take you to the beach? Do you remember how even though you put in more effort than the last several semesters combined, you still failed one class by merely not going to it enough and your grades, minus your nutrition class, were still shitty, but she took you anyway because she knew you needed the trip because she knew how fucking depressed you were and how you were hanging on by a tiny shred of a thread? 

That’s love and grace, Amy, and I am here to tell you that even though you feel like a loser, burden, and failure because you keep comparing yourself to everyone else and falling short, and you’re certain that you’re repeating all the mistakes you swore you never would growing up and that everything gone wrong is all your fault…you are loved, you’re not falling short, you’re tough as shit, you’re brave, and you deserve a fucking trip to the beach, no matter what else is going on right now.

What you don’t always see – and I totally understand why – is that no matter how much you feel like pain and sadness have filled your body, mind, and heart to the brim, and then some, you always have room for joy. Your smile always lights up any room you’re in. Your laughter is contagious and melodic, as cheesy as that sounds. You always find something to laugh at and something to admire. You rarely forget to look up at night, and you always notice something beautiful in your daily path, from the colors of the sky at sunset to your dogs’ sweet faces to how good and at home it feels when John puts his arms around you and holds you close whether it’s in bed as he’s falling asleep or you’re cooking dinner in the kitchen and how beautiful his eyes, smile, voice, and laughter are. (Remember how I said earlier that you dodged a bullet with that guy in college? John is everything that guy could never be and more even when there are struggles like you’re going through now. Also, he’s way better looking than that guy.)

Nothing is perfect, yet everything is. I know I am rambling on now, but I also know I tend to talk to you less in this way during these more introspective times; instead, echoing the vitriol, anger, and shame that still sits deeply within me though it has been over a decade since I unwillingly soaked it all up like a bone-dry sponge dropped in a basin of dirty water and filthy dishes. 

I’m only three months from this birthday, so I am still in the trenches with you, but I can feel things improving little by little. This is yet another mountain to climb and I am trudging along, knowing I can’t stop because continuing to move forward is the only way I will get home.

I love you so much for the girl you were and the woman you are now. We are one and the same. You matter, you are perfect just the way you are, and all that matters is how you think and feel about you. You are my most important relationship, and I will continue doing all I can to make it the best one. Here’s to many more birthdays and many more versions of us to come.

Love, 

Amy

 

Letters to Myself, Showing Up

Letters to Myself, # 2 – Slow Down (They Don’t Love You Like I Love You)

Quotes about gratitude

(Thanks, Beyonce, for the title inspiration from your song, “Hold Up” from your best album yet, Lemonade)

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Dear Me:

Hey there, it’s me again. I want to thank you for your response in the first letter when you reminded me throughout a really stressful, busy week last week to find and hold on to my joy.

Thanks for allowing Happier Us to stick by my side through apartment A/C issues (and getting the property manager & maintenance supervisor to realize we needed a new unit), babysitting two small, very fun and active girls two days in a row, traveling to and from Savannah in about a 36-hour period (and keeping Cynical Us from screaming “We’re going to die!” as a very exhausted us and John tried to navigate the last 30 miles home in early morning Atlanta traffic), not getting really good quality sleep, and it being so damn hot outside.

In this letter, I want to talk about something else I’ve noticed directing our life and decisions: Scarcity Mindset. The feeling that there is never enough and we are never enough. The way it makes us settle for shit we don’t want, ignore our intuition, mistreat our body, envy others whom we think have what we can’t have because they have it, pushes us so hard to try to make money any way we can to pay off our debt and be financially secure (knowing that in this mindset, no amount of money will ever make us feel secure), and keeps us trapped in comparison and feeds our feelings of inadequacy.

It isn’t our fault. We were raised in a scarcity-based environment. In America, it is called capitalism. Being shamed for our so-called inadequacies, told we can have “it all” if we just work hard enough or have enough money to buy it (ignoring all of the privileges many have that a lot were not given or born with), and being told to rest is to be lazy, worthless, and dumb.

In our family, we were taught that money is scarce as we watched our family members go into massive credit card debt and then one bankruptcy after another and saw no one ever had enough to be happy. We were taught to fear money or see it as evil. We were never taught how to be responsible with it or how to give ourselves the power over it and not the other way around.

We were taught that appearances matter most. Not who we truly were or how we truly felt, but what we and our lives looked like.

Our family tried so hard to seem financially well off and like everyone had their shit together and there were never any conflicts or issues.

Don’t you remember how Daddy was so mean to Mama, the boys, and us on the way to church and how as soon as we got out of the van and walked in the church doors, he became the man all our youth group girl friends wished their father was like, who the women Mama knew in their Sunday School group wished their husbands were like? And how as soon as we were back in the van, his friendly, warm smile returned to a sneer and his honey-dipped words returned to venom?

Or how Lib, June, Brophy, and Robert congregated on the porch, laughing and talking whenever the police showed up because someone (sometimes us) called 911 because their violent fights were so loud and frightening?

From around kindergarten up, we learned that food wasn’t a security either. It isn’t that we were really ever short on food, but it was the shame around being told we couldn’t eat the food we wanted because it was “making us fat” and being a fat girl was a vicious, dreadful sin. It ruined our “appearance” of how a thinner body was seen as beautiful, smart, hardworking, and cared for, and our fat body only showed neglect, laziness, gluttony, and lacking self-care, self-respect, self-esteem, and intelligence.

The more food was held as forbidden to us and the more we were told our body was “wrong,” the more scarce food felt to us and the more we rebelled, binged on it, and hated our self.

And in puberty, not developing breasts or round hips and instead developing rounder, broader shoulders and a rounder version of the pot belly we’ve had since infancy made us even more of a disappointment and eyesore. Here, we learned that love, acceptance, desirability, and attractiveness was scarce, and we were to blame for it.

In these times of scarcity, or perceived scarcity, we are conditioned to rush. Rush to sneak the “forbidden” food and shove it down our throat thoughtlessly, without enjoyment, and riddled with shame and self-loathing. Rush to lose weight in whatever means possible so we can finally be considered attractive, lovable, and worthwhile. Rush to do whatever we can to please others, regardless of the way we neglect our self and our needs in the meantime. And then rush to numb our pain, shame, sadness, and anger by whatever means necessary, which for us was/is food and spending too much time scrolling through the internet and social media.

There is no slowing down in this scarcity mindset. No time to think. No time to consider. There is so much to do to finally get enough so we are finally considered enough, and with every step we take, the ruler measuring success, achievement, control, safety, adequacy, and being considered worthy of love and acceptance is pushed a little further out.

Driven by this mindset, we went to a college we didn’t really like, settled on toxic behavior by men we were attracted to and wanted to feel noticed and wanted by, accepted the crumbs of attention from toxic friendships out of deep loneliness, a deep mother and father wound, and always being taught to feel worthless and like we had to take whatever we could get.

We settled on one job after another because we were told it was “smart” and secure even though they stifled our creativity and left us feeling miserable and lost.

This scarcity mindset taught us love is scarce and we could lose it at anytime so we better not do anything to “rock the boat.”

Things like:

  • Don’t speak up about your hurts and anger.
  • Don’t do or say anything that could be seen as critical or he’s going to leave.
  • Always be pleasant.
  • Don’t talk too much.
  • Don’t be needy.
  • Don’t speak up for yourself.
  • Squelch those emotions, you know you have too many of them.
  • Don’t do anything that could make you seem like a burden.
  • And for God’s sake, lose the fucking gut already, no man wants to look at that.
  • Always remember that whatever has been given can and likely will be taken away.
  • Don’t get too comfortable.

You know, this mindset keeps me up at night worrying about dying and never getting to live the life I want many years to live. Makes me so afraid we will die young and miss out on all life has to offer us. Makes me feel sick to my stomach at thinking about John moving on, finding someone else, and realizing we were never the woman he thought we were or that he ever really loved.

I get angry too, thinking about everything we want to do and how we never seem to have the money to do it because we can’t find or keep a job in a healthy, fun, creative environment. It makes me think of friends and family who are traveling where I want us to travel, doing jobs I want us to do, having money I wish we had, and comparing way too much of myself and life to everyone else.

Where there is a scarcity mindset, there is a focus on what we don’t have and a furious impatience to get it. To have control. To know what’s coming next, how to get it, when it’ll arrive, and how happy we’ll “finally” be when it arrives. I mean, isn’t that all the lie of every diet and/or exercise program we ever try? Every book or movie or TV show about finding “the one”? The sales pitch behind every beauty product and fashion line?

Scarcity mindset is the mindset that sells and makes billions of dollars in marketing and advertising for every possible thing you can think of from diets to religion to fashion to cars to homes and etc. “Let me tell you what you lack, how others perceive your lacking, and how buying this product will finally make you happy.”

Where there is scarcity, there is depression, war, greed, famine, sexual/physical/emotional violence, addiction, infidelity, genocide, treating people who don’t look like us as an “other” and dehumanizing them, anxiety, power-grabbing, fear-mongering, and depravity. Scarcity makes us take whatever we can get, however we can get it, no matter who – including ourselves – gets hurt.

Most of all, it takes us out of the present and robs us of joy, peace, love, and gratitude. It clouds our intuition and depletes the quality of our life. And quality always matters more important than quantity.

Amy, we are enough. Our life is happening as it is meant to, in the timeline it is meant to be on. There is no one set timeline for everyone. There is no need to rush.

We don’t have to worry about not having enough or being enough. There’s nothing we need to do or change about us to be worthy of love. Our very name, Amy, MEANS “beloved.”

If there is anything we can hold on to in our constantly evolving spiritual faith and what we learned in church growing up, it is to not allow ourselves to get wrapped up in the trappings of this world. Everything is temporary but it doesn’t mean it is scarce. Being weighed down by all of the stress that scarcity brings mean not being able to see the constant flow of joy, opportunities for new beginnings, love, and good still alive all around us.

Let’s slow down when we think, rest, eat, and dream. Our body is worth trusting and wants us to trust it. We are so privileged and lucky, Amy, we really have no idea. Let’s focus on our abundance so we can share it with others. When we know what we have, we know what we can give.

There is enough food to fill our belly and to give us pleasure and we don’t have to feel ashamed of what we eat. We can enjoy, savor, and be mindful of how and what we eat and why we are eating. We don’t need permission to feed our body when it is hungry. We don’t need to eat past fullness out of fear we will never get to eat that food again. We don’t have to restrict anymore.

We can move our body for the sheer joy of it and in appreciation of all it has done, is doing, and will do for us however many years we are meant to live.

Let’s not be inactive because the diet mentality is so deeply ingrained and twisted around exercise in our brain that it is hard to separate moving our body from the hope of weight loss, which is really just a hope of being seen as worthy of love and acceptance.

Our body is strong and still somewhat flexible (let’s try some yoga for this, okay?) and healthy, let’s focus on the abundance of this and move our body out of that mindset.

We aren’t our family. Their money issues aren’t ours. Their inability to have healthy relationships and marriages and live authentic lives don’t reflect on us. We are not doomed to repeat their mistakes. If anything, we have learned from them. How about we stop living from all the “what not to do’s” we learned from them and start focusing on what we have overcome, let go, forgive, and move on to the healing and the abundant future awaiting us?

Perfectionism is another scarcity mindset lie. It doesn’t exist, nor should it. We are free to make mistakes and learn and grow from them instead of feeling ashamed of them.

We were not born evil and in need of being made good and lovable by someone else. We were born in the image of God, who is all things love and goodness. Forget all of the fear-mongering, shaming, narcissistic religious bullshit shoved down our throat as children. That was all about control, another scarcity mindset tactic, and Amy, we are free. We are so fucking free to be exactly who we are.

Our marriage to John is beautiful because it is real. It is raw, vulnerable, and ever-growing, and it is authentic, transparent, and real. Don’t compare it to someone else’s marriage. We can’t see into the lives of others.

Let’s not rush the healing, depth, effective communication, and intimacy in our marriage. God willing, our marriage is growing into a mighty oak wrapped in decades of rings with unbreakable, replenishing roots that sway with the wind without snapping.

Right now, it is still a young, vulnerable sapling, only eight years old. It needs love, care, grace, understanding, forgiveness, nurture, trust, faith, rest, unity, sunshine, and patience. It needs time and it will need storms. Don’t be afraid of this.

Let’s not worry so much about money. We have enough to get by on. Let’s not be in such a rush to pay off debt, save money, buy a house, or whatever we see others doing that it’s not yet our time to do that we settle again for work that isn’t right for who we are, forces our self to stifle who we really are and what we really want, and lie awake at night in such unnecessary fear, anger, envy, resentment, and frustration. And remember, just because someone else has what we want doesn’t mean there’s now less of it left for us.

Amy, the way out of this scarcity mindset we’ve lived our whole life in is trust. Trust in ourselves. Trust in God or destiny or the Universe or whoever created us and is running things. Trust in our body to work and look as it was written in our DNA. Trust that we are always abundant in love, even if rejected, abandoned, and hurt by the ones we love. Trust that pain and suffering are a part of life and not to be feared because we also trust there is an abundance of good and joy in the world, no matter what our Twitter feeds tell us daily.

Slow down. Take deep breaths. Live in the present. Feel emotions and know none of them are wrong and all of them are valid and valued. We are not too much. We are not a burden. We matter. Our dreams and passions matter.

Our purpose is to live as our authentic self, love who we are exactly as we are, love others exactly as they are, and know our purpose will shift and change as our story weaves, waxes, and wanes through everywhere we’ve been and everywhere we are headed, no matter how long or short the story is.

Everything is happening as it is meant to. Listen to your gut. Listen to your heart. Take care of yourself. Be responsible for how you treat yourself and others and how your words and behavior affect others. And live in gratitude because really, we have been through hell, but we have never been defeated and we’ve truly never been unloved. There is nothing scarce in who we are, what life has given us, or what life still has left in store for us.

Love,

Me

Beautiful You, Showing Up

No Longer 14

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“How to heal the inner child” is a topic I’ve been coming across a lot lately. I mentioned The Holistic Psychologist’s Inner Child Meditation a few posts back and how hard it was for me to visualize being back at June, Lib, and Brophy’s (maternal grandmother and great-grandparents) house, adult me holding the hand of the child version of me, and telling her she is loved, wanted, and safe.

I read something else recently that said something along the lines of, “When something happens to you and you react to it, how old do you feel in that moment?” I’ve also read that often we stop emotionally/mentally growing at the age where we first experienced trauma or when we were abruptly expected to become an adult.

Yesterday, I searched all of my files and even read old LiveJournal entries, desperately trying to find a poem I wrote as a teenager, then rewrote for a poetry writing class in college called “The 14-Year-Old Mom to My 39-Year-Old Mother.” (It might not have been called exactly that, but it’s what my memory says it was entitled.)

In this poem, I wrote about how, at 14, I was suddenly expected to stop being a teenager and start being a mother because my mother couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t just suddenly feel responsible for my brothers, especially Ben and Caleb who were respectively 7 and 5 at the time, but also for my mother. She and I would get into these horrendous, often physical, fights and she would tear me to shreds and burn me to the ground, and then an hour or so later, she’d crawl into bed with me, hold me, and cry, saying she was a horrible mother over and over again. She didn’t have anyone to talk to. She didn’t have anyone to lean on. She had no friends she could confide in. My dad was no longer there for her to blame for everything.

So I was suddenly supposed to be every one of those things for her. At 14 years old.

John and I were up late talking Monday night, and I asked him what he was like in high school. Did he have hobbies? Did he read comic books? What did he dress like? What did he do for fun?

He said he couldn’t really remember but said he figured he’s not that much different now than at 15 or 16, that most people’s identities are forged in their teen years and they don’t really change.

I feel like, as much as I joke around, I am so serious deep down as a person because I felt forced to be serious as a teenager. I still feel like such a child. I joked to John that I’m always looking for the “adultier adult.”

I felt so hopelessly imprisoned growing up.

My teen years were spent under a crushing weight of condemnation, abandonment, judgment, shaming, belittlement, violence, dysfunction, and abuse. I was never good enough. Always too fat. Not pretty enough. A disappointment. Afraid to make mistakes. Always so fucking angry, as I absorbed all of the emotions around me, not knowing that labels like “empath” or “highly sensitive person” existed, or that both labels described me. I was basically a sponge at the bottom of a toxic waste runoff pond. And I too often spewed out what was poured into me.

I felt so unloved and unlovable. Like a burden. Too emotional. Too much. I was so wounded and sought comfort in things and people who couldn’t really give me the attention, affirmation, and affection that I needed, no matter how much they loved me because they were so wounded and seeking the same.

When I think about my life as a teenager, it was always with thoughts of how to escape. I read everything I could get my hands on, about like I do now. Lost myself in fiction, music, and movies. I had some fun, typical American teenage girl times too, obsessed with the Backstreet Boys, going to concerts and high school football games when my dad finally let me my senior year of high school. All I thought about was how much I wanted to leave, but I also felt so compelled to stay because of Ben and Caleb.

I did not know what to do with my freedom when I got to Mobile and I was three hours away from home. My freedom didn’t feel free because I was so worried about everyone at home and felt guilty that I wasn’t there, especially for Ben and Caleb.

I also did not know what to do without the constant, daily trauma going on around me. I did not how to loosen up. I didn’t know how to take care of myself. I didn’t know what to do with the quiet.

When John and I talked about all of that, I told him how the only reason I would go back to my teen years is if it meant I got to do what other teenagers did – have boyfriends, go to prom and other dances, make out in the backseat, hang out with friends at the mall, just be carefree. Adam and, even more so, Ben got to do that. Ben is the sibling most like me, in both looks and personality, but I see so much of who I feel like I will never be in all that I’ve watched him do, both horribly stupid and incredibly amazing. Maybe having me to do all of the worrying for him growing up gave him the freedom not to worry so much and just live his life.

The stories I’ve told myself since age 14 are stories where I’m a victim and a martyr, all laced in fear and pleas for someone to finally tell me I am enough just as I am. I’ve regaled myself with tales of who I will be once I’m thin, get married, get out of debt, move to some new town, feeling so much hope and excitement for that perfect person I will be if I just put my head down and keep pushing myself, and I’ve beaten myself up when none of those things make me happy or my life what I want it to be. Someday I will be loved, worth loving has turned into that mirage of an oasis in the desert in this quest. The finish line that keeps getting moved further away.

I don’t feel capable of the hard conversations, the really vulnerable and deep talks that lay me wide open for all kinds of destruction and pain.

I still feel very ashamed about sex, my sexuality, and my body as a sexual being. When things get awkward and uncomfortable, I either shut down or make jokes or get angry and accusing. My brain has me convinced that everyone my age has got sex figured out while I’m the one still fumbling in the dark and awkward as fuck because they got started long before I did. There are so many times where I wish I’d had sex way sooner and with more people but I didn’t because of growing up in a purity culture and being shamed for being sexually curious from an early age.

Now in my mid-30s, I’m floundering, not knowing what to do next, job-wise while almost everyone else I know is settled into a steady career like I was in my mid-20s. I’m currently procrastinating in trying to find another job because I’m so afraid of winding up in another toxic and boring office job because I don’t trust myself not to settle for whoever wants to hire me.

Last week, when I saw someone mentioning healing the “inner teenager” instead of just the inner child, I thought, This is where I’m at, this is how old I feel emotionally and mentally, this is how old my feelings of maturity and responsibility are.

This is the age range in me that needs healing, grace, and accountability. This is where I need to tell myself it is okay to be exactly who and where I am. Where I remind myself there is no real timeline in life, birth and death are the only real certainties, and no one of any age has it all figured out, that “it all” looks completely different for everyone. Where I start asking myself those questions like, “What would you do if you could do anything?” and I answer from me and not from my expectations of the perceptions of those around me. This is the version of me that needs to be told, “You are safe, you are loved, you are wanted, you are not too much.”

I knew 10 years ago that there was more to my life than spending it in Alabama, caught up in my family’s drama and trauma, taking care of everyone else but myself, and I made the decision to move to Georgia, still the best decision I’ve made thus far. And while I’ve distanced myself from it all physically, I am still distancing myself from it emotionally. Learning that I what I experienced was actually trauma. That I do have some PTSD from being in family dysfunction I couldn’t escape from, with people who couldn’t address the reality of that dysfunction and trauma and just accepted it as normal. Understanding that I am an adult, I’m not 14, and I am allowed to be myself, exactly however that means. That my feelings and voice matter. That I have the power and privilege and responsibility of my present and future, and even more so, I don’t have to figure out my entire life right now, and, goddamnit, I am allowed to make some fucking mistakes. 

know these things, but I still feel caught up in all of those old fears of judgment, condemnation, shame, abandonment, and rejection. There is shit I no longer have to put up with, but I still hold onto it anyway.

But…

I’m allowed to have boundaries now, and I am learning what they are, how to establish them, and how to maintain them. I no longer have to stay in any situations or dysfunction that hurt me. I am always, from here on out, free to let go, walk away, and move on to better, healthier habits, mindsets, situations, and relationships. 

All of this actually really just hit me while writing this post.

I want 14-year-old Amy to know I love her, I’m proud of her, and I am the strong, empathetic, kind, hilarious, thoughtful, and self-aware person I am now because of her. That she doesn’t have to worry about what will happen to everyone around her if she’s not there to pick up the pieces constantly. That everything has turned out pretty well. She can relax and play.

And I think she’d tell me, You don’t have to be sad or angry for me anymore. You don’t have to feel bad for me. You don’t need to be my mother or anyone else’s anymore either. You can let go and have a life of your own. 

And by the way, 36-year-old me, YOU can now relax and play.