oh my seven

tonight

Tonight I was reading through some old journals… it struck me that I’ve matured more than I thought. Don’t get me wrong, I still have a long way to go, but so many of the things I ranted on, lamented about and vowed to change are things that I’ve really grown in over the last 4 years. 

I wrote multiple times how I hated being fake and feeling like I had to hide the real me from people, lest I be spurned or humiliated or whatever… I was going through some serious clinical depression and hadn’t yet talked to anyone about it or gotten any medication for it, and I was scared to reveal that part of me to anyone I knew (some of y’all internet people read a little about it though). So I went to church and work, and played the game and acted like everything was fine, all the while dying inside and wishing so hard that I had someone to talk to and feeling like if I had to act like I was fine for one more second, the inferno inside of me was going to blow, spewing chunks of my psyche into the atmosphere, tainting everything it touched.

Four years or so ago, I wrote, “I’m so tired of being fake. I long to be able to share what I’m really struggling with… I’m so sick of having to put on my game face when I go to church so that people won’t know that I don’t know how to pray or that I worry that I’m not saved or that I’m lonely and that life isn’t a cakewalk… because I’ll be honest— stuffing it all away and acting like I’m okay isn’t doing much for me… I’d like to be a REAL person— to be who God made me to be without a mask to hide behind or putty to cover all the flaws with… to be allowed to be who I am, imperfections, quirks and all, with none of the pretense that is so prevalent in our society and in our churches.”

Almost exactly three years ago, I penned these words: “I feel crazy right now. Everything that has occurred in the last wee or so has made me cry and feel out of control. All I want to do is run away and never talk to anyone again. I don’t feel normal or sane, and I wonder if I ever will… I feel like this fight will never be over, and that scares me. I’m so worried that it will just keep getting harder and harder, and I don’t think I can handle that… It’s times like these that make me understand how someone could want to commit suicide. I don’t want to, but part of me understands the desire. It’s so hard to keep going that death sort of seems like a sweet release, if I wasn’t so terrified of going to hell… I feel like my existence is futile and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Looking back, I was dealing with some pretty terrifying things, mentally speaking. I was depressed and so afraid that people would think I was making it up, either because I can be kind of a hypochondriac or because I can also be a little bit of a drama queen. I was having panic attacks at least once a week, sometimes more, which were causing me to withdraw, which in turn made my depression worse. I felt okay about taking medication, even though I know that some people see that as a lack of faith or whatever, but I had no idea how to go about getting some or who to call or who I could call on to help me figure it all out.

I started taking Zoloft in two years ago, and I stopped going to my old church right around the same time (while I was still going there, I had a panic attack at every service for nearly two years, of varying degrees. Sometimes I could force myself to stay for the whole service and sometimes I had to get the heck out of Dodge before the dread and panic welling up inside my chest had a chance to burst out of me in screams of horror). I’m not sure what exactly it was about church that triggered the panic, but I did know that it wasn’t doing me any good to sit there and concentrate on breathing steadily and not freaking out instead of participating, so I stopped going. I also used other techniques to minimize as many panic triggers as possible (know where the bathroom is, sit where you can easily get up and leave, plan to be at a party or public gathering for only a short while, etc.) and the only panic attack I’ve had since starting Zoloft was the one I had that was caused by a combination of lack of sleep, too much caffeine and a hard-core antibiotic that is known to increase the likelihood of panic attacks in people who are susceptible to them. A couple of months ago, I stopped taking the Zoloft, and I had the zaps for a while, but I just took half a pill or whatever if they got too bad. I haven’t had any in my system for over a month, and I still haven’t felt nervous or panicky, which is awesome.

This is getting super rambly, but I guess reading those journal entries, it struck me how I’ve grown in the area of being real. I am a lot more open about the things I’m going through than I ever used to be. There was a time when writing something like this and publishing it for all to see, not just for my anonymous internet friends, but for the people who see me in everyday life as well, just wouldn’t have happened. And I guess my point in writing tonight is just to live out what I used to only rant about. I want to be real. I want to share what’s going on in my head.

And I want you to know (“you” being anyone who happens to read this, whether it’s friend, family, customer, whatever) that I love it when people are real right back at me. I want to know who people really are… not just the happy fluffy stuff that we present to the outside world, but the sad stuff, the angry stuff, the lonely stuff too. The stuff that’s not so pretty. All the shit you’ve fought through and conquered in order to become who you are today. Because THAT is the stuff that life is made of, and if we hide behind a happy face, we’re missing out on the healing that can take place when we share who we are with someone and are loved all the more for our scars.