Infidelity – The Chaos and The Confidence – Part 2

A double life.

Secrets, shame, hidden feelings, self-loathing, and guilt.

Strength, smiles, openness, bravery, courage, and love.

This was me. Over the past decade, I have lived with a splitting within my mind: a damaged processor, a flaky connection, and a screen that turns on and off – illuminating selective aspects of my life – depending on the situation, day, or even hour.

For a long time, I didn’t know what was wrong with me or why I couldn’t maintain a stable mindset, a normal functioning, and a mature response system within my life.

I couldn’t control the sides, the split, or the damage that I sometimes caused towards myself and others… though I desperately tried.

The more I struggled against the symptoms – the depression, the shame, the anxiety, and the general unease – the more they affected me, nearly destroying my world with the unpredictable outbursts, angered reactions, and crippling devastation that I experienced. My emotions ran wild and though I chased after them, I could never catch up – never hold them in for long enough to sort them out, validate them, or set them free.

I felt trapped in my body, my head, and my life. I wanted out.

I felt like a fraud. A liar. A damaged, defective, and inferior human.

And yet… the other side of me argued. Constantly lifting me. Masking me. Get up. Get out. Show up. Do your best… because you ARE the best. Stronger, different, more capable. Better.

Not like them at all.

To put it mildly… my head has remained in a constant state of chaos and confusion, for as long as I can remember. A minefield that nobody could possibly navigate without a map and a guide… not even me.

For the past (almost) year, I’ve been working on writing that map.

Honesty and Authenticity.

They sound like honourable goals… fairly easy… calm… freeing.

But it’s probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever chosen to do for myself.

Because for years, I’ve lived with lies. Splitting. Confusion. Indecision. A façade. A mask. Carefully constructed webs of shallow secrets, smiles, and deeper self-hate.

When I was a little girl, I took it to heart when I was told to ‘knock off the tears’ and ‘stop crying about it’. And that mantra carried with me throughout several layers of trauma, abuse, betrayal, and poor decisions. Though I could never fully grasp it enough to believe it would work… I tried to be strong, brave, and better. I hid the tears until I couldn’t. I masked the pain until it burst out. I worked endlessly to do better and be more, until I fell down in exhaustion, collapsing beneath the weight of my own personal expectations.

Gradually I broke… while still trying to hold it all together.

I lied to myself. I believed myself. I confused myself. And I let other people help me do it too.

This year I started to peel back the layers of me… to find the little person inside. The little girl buried beneath the loudness of the world around her. The one that believed that she had to maintain the protective shell around her, no matter how much it cracked or split. For years I tried to mend the breaks with tiny bits of sticky tape – tried to fit the pieces back together like a broken puzzle – only to find that another section was cracking on the other side, as I tried my best to fix this one.

Last February, when I uncovered the truth of my husband’s infidelity… my very first reaction was relief.

I wasn’t crazy after all.

And very quickly, the shell around me burst apart where I had tried to mend it throughout the years, until there was nothing but vulnerability, and a very raw and painful look at my life. But while it should have been easy to see that some of the things I had believed were lies, and some were truth… it was absolute chaos and confusion as I tried to sort it all out.

Honesty and authenticity has not been an easy leg of the journey and I have often been left after examining an aspect of my life, completely terrified and unsure of myself. I have been left feeling alone, ashamed, vulnerable, and lost... as though sharing my grief with even myself was breaking some sort of life rule.

But with each layer that I pull back, with each layer that I sort out and attempt to untangle the lies from the truth, and the pain from the healing, and the trauma from the blame – I feel a merging happening inside of myself. The sides of me that caused the chaos and the constant war in my head are learning to get along. To see that they were never on opposite sides at all, both trying to protect, to save, and to hide from the damage - some of which I created, and some of which was placed onto me. 

Last month I talked about the damage that I’ve experienced in my life, and the impact that I have felt as a result of infidelity in my marriage.  This has been a massive layer for me to not only peel back and examine, but to also assign appropriate relevance within my life. And it’s been a layer that has been riddled with outside opinions, harsh judgement, twisted facts, reactive emotions, and wanting to flee from it all… wanting to revert back to the shell at times. Pick up the pieces. Tape them back together and hide away from not just the world, but myself. Chaos. Confusion.

And then…

Confidence.

Not a false confidence… one that feeds the ego and says ‘I’m right, and you’re wrong’. And not the confidence that has you feeling like a million bucks in a new outfit with perfect hair and makeup and matching shoes.

No, this is a deeper confidence that can’t always be seen. It’s peace-driven, though it is a rocky journey to get there. It;s knowledge that as the web of lies that I believed slowly unravels, that I am able to look at them with new eyes… seeing beneath the words and the actions. Beneath symptoms and pain and grief. Beneath the instinct to solely place blame, though also knowing that it is okay to accept and to advocate for myself and the pain that infidelity has caused, and the direction it has at times steered my story. 

I can see the vulnerable girl beneath the shell taking a step away from the crumbling ruins and stepping into the world alone. Ready to meet others like her who are striving for the same reality. The ones who are also filled with pain and joy, tears and laughter, webs of chaos turned into honesty and authenticity. The ones ready to embrace the past as the beginning of their story, and the now as the good stuff – where the vague glimpses from earlier chapters are revealed in a raw truth that is unparalleled, and the future heading into an entirely new and beautiful, truly authentic direction.

Each day I step further from the shell of chaos that once protected and yet also harmed me. Each day I struggle with the things that I myself have done in reaction and protection, and those things that have been done to me. And each day I not only peel back the layers of deceit in my head, but I also fill my soul with new layers of truth and understanding.

And now, I’m working on stepping out further. Taking another look around me and examining the places where I still see chaos and confusion, and where I need to head towards confidence. I talk openly and without shame, knowing that I have faced the harshest judgement from myself. My story is no longer a secret that I keep hidden deep within; instead I am free from the burden and the weight of carrying the chaos alone. And most importantly, I am working on opening my heart to others… to hearing their story and seeing their journey where they themselves are at. To seeing their actions and looking beneath the surface… to hearing their words and authentically starting to walk alongside them in whatever place they are at.

Everyone has a story. A reason. A why. Everyone has something (or several things) that has significantly impacted their lives (good or bad!) and now that I can be truly confident in my own story, and the place I am currently walking in my life; now I can sit and listen more clearly.

Infidelity within my life has caused significant damage to me mentally… it created a chaos that I couldn’t grasp or control or even recognize. But from the chaos, I have journeyed to find the confidence. A place of openness, truth, authenticity, realism, and comprehension that is beyond what I could have deciphered even one year short year ago. I’m not perfect in my healing. Some days are harder than others. And some days, yes, the pain is still excruciating and at times overwhelming.

But for the first time in years, I walk out the door each day with my head held high, my chest light, and my heart eager to feel, empathize, and understand with a new depth. Each day, more layers of chaos get carefully peeled back and I am able to not only share my story with others, but I am able to hear and reach out, and walk alongside those others as they share their own raw reality, or muddle their own way through chaos in their lives.

"Out of pain and problems have come the sweetest songs, the most poignant poems, the most gripping stories." -- Billy Graham

This year, I will embrace and without apology share my story while I peel back the layers as I work through them. I will welcome opportunities for growth and sharing both in my personal journey and as I sit with friends and family. Because shared pain is perhaps at times, the most beautiful mentor.

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As the Shell Crumbles

Somewhere right around eleven years ago, I experienced a trauma that shook me to my core. It wasn’t the first major trauma that I’ve faced in my life… but it is the one that I can distinctively pinpoint as the start of my decline into serious mental illness. It was one trauma too much… the straw that broke the camel’s back. In the months that followed this trauma, a few minor breakdowns occurred and I tried my best to hold myself together. A new fear had formed, planting itself deep in my life and I tried with everything inside of me to hold it down and keep going, despite the cracks I could feel growing ever deeper in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

At twenty-three years old, I didn’t have the stability or support to acknowledge, let alone face any of this trauma… I didn’t even know that it was trauma. And I certainly didn’t know that working at a job, with direct ties to the trauma I had faced, was continually re-traumatizing me with every shift that I worked.

For the next year, life was busy… too busy. Already a mom of three, I would learn soon that I was pregnant once again. Money was tight, and our house was stressful. Along with financial concerns came the pain… hip and back pain that was beyond what I had experienced with any of my previous pregnancies had left me unable to work and on medical leave. Partial placenta previa had affirmed my decision to take time off of work, and left an additional fear on our shoulders as we waited for the all-clear – the knowledge that the placenta was no longer in the way of my cervix and a continuing risk factor for me.

Over the same year, our daughter who was two at the time; was facing an entirely different trial – her kidneys wreaking havoc on her little body. Trying to control her condition was not working, and as summer hit, we were booked into Sick Kids Hospital for her to undergo a fairly major surgery. Thankfully, everything went according to plan, and a few weeks later, our little girl was back… happy and playing and finally well.

I didn’t know that within two weeks of our daughter’s surgery I would face another health concern myself. Still only barely seven months pregnant; I woke up one morning in the worst physical pain, I’ve ever experienced and had my husband take me to the hospital. At first, my symptoms led them to believe that my appendix had ruptured… but an ultrasound soon disproved that theory and showed them instead that it was my gallbladder. Gall stones trapped in my bile duct were yet one more reason to worry, and the pain as my son consistently kicked the inflamed regions was excruciating. Off and on throughout August and most of September… I faced repeated incidences of the same symptoms. The stones usually dislodging and giving me a few days of peace before another flare up.

Finally in September, I arrived at the hospital; sick, tired, and in pain. Speaking calmly but firmly I told the doctor that they needed to take either the baby out, the gallbladder out, or both. I wasn’t leaving without something being done. Labour was induced that afternoon; and after only a minor allergic reaction to an IV antibiotic, my fourth and last child was quickly born.

Ten years ago this past September, our family was completed. A decade. 

And while I found joy in the small moments, that trauma that I experienced the year before had begun a chain-reaction in my life beyond what I, or anyone else could have predicted. 

I once had a wise person tell me not to think in days, or months, or years when it comes to periods in my life. (Okay, she told me this way more than once!) Instead, she advised me to think in decades… a concept that I tried to process and work with, but until recently had been unable to commit to.

But as this past year has floated on past me; it is a thought that has continually come back up.

Up until this past year, I could look back at my life and speak about the trauma that I have consistently faced with a straight face, a few tears, and an acknowledgement that parts of my life hadn’t been rosy. I honestly believed that I had worked through a lot more of what has happened, than what I have.

In a previous post, I mentioned that this past nine months or so, have been the most difficult months I’ve ever experienced.

For a long time, I’ve tried to right the situation.

Nine months. It seems like an incredibly long time to struggle with life – to experience depression and anger and a loss of focus, drive, and hope. Nine months seems like a long time to work on trying to change your life while you continue to hit brick walls. Nine months seems like a decent time frame to get it back together following another traumatic revelation, learn to smile, and actually push through the trauma and reach the other side… wherever that other side might be.

A couple of months ago I was trying to understand why I hadn’t gone anywhere in my recovery… instead I felt like I was spinning further and further out of control.

Over the past two to three months, I have had to learn that nine months was not an adequate time frame for my personal journey towards full healing, to even begin.

It seems kind of crazy. I’ve known about mental health for a long time… and I have experienced fluctuations, ‘aha!’ moments, and triggers. I’ve walked the walk, and I’ve done the work to learn and re-learn how mental illness has affected me, and the ways in which to not only manage it, but to treat it. The past four years, have been an intense and ongoing battle inside my head as I have worked towards acceptance and healing… as I have forced myself into behaving in different manners, and trying to understand where the uncontainable emotions come from.

Almost three months ago I was lying in bed broken. I literally could not move, let alone think straight.

I didn’t know if I had any fight left inside of me. I didn’t know why I was the way I was… and I hated myself. I wanted to run away… I almost did. A grown woman, looking to run away from everything… including her family and the life that she had consistently fought to build.

I’ve taken a lot of time over the past three months – a needed time of quiet… at first I believed I needed to force my brain back into functionality… to return to where it had been, so I could quite simply get back to living life.

But each step I’ve taken in that direction, has reminded me that it’s not possible.

Eleven years since the trauma that began to crack me down the middle… and I finally feel as though I’ve been truly broken - a truly odd feeling for someone who thought she was so much further along in her journey. For the first time ever, I can see the shell of what I was, in pieces on the ground all around me… a small and fragile centre huddled up and exposed where the shell used to shine. For a decade I’ve tried to mend the cracks and pick up pieces and rebuild the puzzle. I wanted the shell. I wanted the normalcy. I wanted the lies.

For the first time I see the real me.

And though my shell is broken – unfixable – the inside is there in one piece, naked and humiliated, and scarred, and terrified to come into the light, terrified of the world seeing the small and fragile person within.

It took a decade plus a year.

Nine months was nothing. Nine months was the final breaking away… the changes that I had made through my work on myself, the mental illness, and the way I lived my life… forcing the final breaking apart.

I’ve frequently spoke of my journey – and that’s the funny thing about being on a journey… you never know what’s around the next bend. What new revelation, breakdown, or stall will occur as you observe the world both around and within you.

And life is like that… built up out of moments – both good and bad – each pattern of events unique… each person’s journey incomparable to another’s – although the similarities able to connect us.

So often, we look at one event - or a short period of our lives, where it's been rough... or where we've been out of control and unable to manage. Sometimes it's a period, where life has seemed to pass us by, as we have just floated through - struggling just to hold on to some semblance of sanity. I've been there. I've done that. 

Now I'm taking a few steps back... looking at the big picture. Letting the shell crumble. Allowing the vulnerability to shine through and make way for true growth. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most valuable.

For the first time in a very long time, I can look back over eleven years and let out the breath that had been suffocating me. I can breathe clearly now... my head beginning to make sense again. The calm that I generally feel as I look awkwardly around me different, scary, and unfamiliar... but nice.

I still struggle. But the picture looks better now... open... real... complete in it's in-completion.

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The Hardest Confession

By the time that I post this publicly, it will be four weeks and four days.

Like an addict trying to escape my prison, I count up the days it’s been since the thoughts took over my head… only my drug of choice isn’t chemical, herbal, or liquid. It isn’t gambling, sex, or pornography… it isn’t even really an addiction at all – or at least it’s not one that’s recognized, let alone spoken publicly about.

But like an addict, I also wait with my breath held in… watching myself, analyzing my thoughts, wondering when they will overtake me again. I’m constantly on edge, watching triggers, and making sure that I’m careful not to put myself into a situation where I’ll fall back down again.

Even though, for now, I feel strong… I’m doing my part, and putting things in order again… resetting my life one more time.

But four weeks and four days ago, I still had suicide listed as a viable option for my life… a way out of the pain and turmoil that I felt completely trapped inside of.

Four weeks and four days ago, I was not quite actively suicidal but I was close… and I thought about suicide almost daily, the thought always with me, no matter how stable I became or how wrong I knew it was. It’s been that way for at least ten years, and probably a lot longer than that… a daily battle, each and every morning waking up and feeling that presence with me – the voice that reminded me it was always an option, a way out of the chaos that has seemed to plague my life.

At least that’s how I saw it.

On my wrist sits a tattoo of a semi-colon, within a locket. For those unfamiliar with the semi-colon tattoo, the gist is this; an author uses a semi-colon within a sentence when they could have stopped but chose to continue instead. In life, we don’t have to stop the sentence… we can choose to keep going. I got this tattoo three years ago now, at a time in my life where I was still drowning daily in suicidal thoughts and intentions. At that point in time; it wasn’t a matter of if I was going to kill myself, but when.

It didn’t seem to matter how much work I did or who I spoke with, or even how ‘up’ my life appeared to be headed. I knew that suicide was wrong, and I knew it would hurt those that I loved… but the allure of an end to the pain was always glistening there in the back of my head, a way out… an escape – I was exhausted from trying to stay stable, and a part of me simply wanted to die.

A little over two years ago, I had my last admittance to the psych ward at our local hospital… a major milestone in the maintenance aspect of my mental health, and I am proud of the fact that I have for the most part managed the symptoms of my health to keep me home and able to pull myself out of any ‘dips’ that I’ve had. There were days, where a hospital stay would have most likely been the correct course of action, and which I fought… thankfully able to still level out following those backwards steps.

I’ve learned to manage those thoughts… the bursts within my head that remind me, that soothe me, and that trouble me. I’ve learned to keep them quiet or when they really get strong, transform them into a form of anger, directed at people who I love, to push them far away from me. But still, those thoughts were always there and hiding just below the surface… an end, an escape, a plan.

Four weeks and four days, seems like a short time – a blip in the continuum of my life – a period of little relevance.

Until it’s put into context – a bright yellow bar on the darkened graph of my life, where it hasn’t ever existed before.

Four weeks and four days is worth celebrating.

But it’s also worth talking about, because I know that it was talking, that helped me quench those thoughts and remind me of who and what I am. It was the people who checked in, who chatted, who failed to judge, and who saw through my anger and my frustration and my exhaustion. It was the people who cheered with me when I said, I’m okay… I’m actually okay today… and who checked in the next day anyways, open to hearing the truth – whether it was good or bad, or whether they agreed with me or not. It was the people who encouraged me to speak fully and honestly and who allowed my experience to be real and heard and valid. It was those who heard the words, made the time, and who stuck with their words to stay by my side. It was the voice I was given by friends, family, and even acquaintances.

It was the ability to confess without fear, or stigma, or shame attached.

Four weeks and four days is a lifetime… it’s a lifeline.

Talking about mental illness – especially the unspeakable thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and an inability to ever feel free from the chains of whatever disorder has been diagnosed – is hard. And as much as I talk about it… I still find myself whispering at times, wondering ‘can I tell this person?’ knowing that I might one day say too much, to the wrong people.

And so, as long as stigma exists, as long as fear of judgement exists; I know that it will continue to be hard to talk about openly – to discuss over coffee, or in public spaces, or with people who ask ‘how are you doing?’

So for now, I’ll continue to share my story. I’ll continue to let you in on the bits and pieces of me – one step at a time, one dark confession at a time. Because I know I’m not alone… and I know I’m not the only one who struggles. Because I know, I can offer that ear for someone else who is too afraid to speak out, or too unsure of how to say it. I’m hear… I’m listening.

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2018

Sitting within the depths of my personal files, on a memory card I no longer use, buried in my basket full of storage devices, cords, and chargers; sit several letters, written in some of the hardest moments of my life.

These aren’t just any letters… they are letters for the future – one for each of my children, and a couple for other people who have impacted my life. People who I felt the need to explain myself to… to say goodbye, to leave a thought for.

In that basket, buried and hiding – are my suicide letters. Letters written with the intent to be left aside, not necessarily opened immediately after I died… but in the future, when necessary, to explain my actions – the pain, the turmoil, and the chaos. Letters written from a distorted, exhausted, and painful perspective.

Throughout my life I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I can count… some days, it was each breath that I took that reminded me, forced me to survive, and left me hating life. Some days were worse than others, and suicide became my only thought… my only desire. The thoughts developed life of their own, taking control, and leaving little room for rational thought. Even on days where it wasn’t necessarily a thought… the idea of suicide never fully left the back of my mind – an option, an idea always viable.

Recently, I had taken a break from blogging and writing out my thoughts on mental health, and in general I’ve pulled back from people. For a while, I felt lost again – not necessarily depressed, but lost. In writing, there was a period where I couldn’t call up a topic that felt whole, honest, and truthful.

In my personal life, I’ve been facing challenges that have left me reeling – spinning in many different directions, each and every day. Spending time focused on myself and putting together some of the shattered puzzle pieces, has been exactly what I needed to do - realistically, it was my only option. But it has also left me feeling just a little bit empty… and a little bit like a fraud.

As I’ve muddled this journey through mental health, trauma, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and suicidal thinking; I’ve tried to grow, learn, and change as I’ve researched, worked, and discovered the many aspects of the disorders that I struggle with. Combined with situational circumstances, I’ve tried to live this mental health journey with transparency and a desire to try to do my part to end the stigma associated with mental illness. It hasn’t been easy. In the past I’ve revealed thoughts and feelings that I never previously knew could be shared. I wrote blog posts from the Psych ward. I met with friends, family, and counselors and I let people in… I let them see at least some of my triumphs and some of my setbacks. Sometimes it worked out… and sometimes, I ended up hurt and left vulnerable – my struggles, my actions, and my words used against me.

But the one thing that I’ve held close, is the situational aspect to my disorders… the stigma attached to my experiences (and specifically, talking publicly about my experiences), has left me hesitant to share… to reveal some of my specific triggers, and the situations that send me spiraling.

Several months ago, I wrote out a series of letters.

It wasn’t eight years ago – the first time that I was determined to end my life – the first time that I spent time in the psych ward.

It wasn’t (almost) four years ago, when I tried to jump off of a waterfall.

It wasn’t two years ago… the last time that I was hospitalized for suicidal intentions and planning. 

               

It was just several months ago.

Right now, is not the time for me to talk about why I felt suicidal, or what those triggers were.

Right now is the time when I tell you why I didn’t kill myself… why those letters were never left out to be found and distributed.

Right now is when I tell you that I spoke about the situation that I was in, with people who genuinely cared for me. I spoke with honesty and transparency. I revealed the depth to what I was struggling with, and the pain and suffering that I was experiencing – without judgement, without feeling stigmatized, and without feeling like a failure. In safety with those I spoke with; I was allowed to feel, and express without being rejected or told that what I was feeling was ridiculous.

Recently, I’ve found myself repeating phrases such as ‘people think’ or ‘I can’t talk about this, because it’s not something that I’m allowed to talk about’ or ‘I try to explain but people don’t get it’. And each time I say these things, I find myself disappearing a little further into myself, wondering why I’m so afraid to speak the truth – to reveal my secrets, and to allow myself to admit my faults, failures, and fears – so that I can actually begin to heal.

And yet… I’m sitting here alone tonight, typing these words… and still so afraid to speak out publicly.

“You’ll sound like you’re trying to play the victim.”

“Let the past stay in the past.”

“Sharing your story, is sharing my story too… I don’t want that going public.”

“Why do you feel the need to air your dirty laundry for the world to see?”

“Can’t you just get over it and be happy?”

“You need to take responsibility for yourself and stop blaming/wallowing/bringing up things that happened in the past.”

“You need to work through it and move on (but not talk about it openly!).”

“What does this have to do with your mental health?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You need to practice gratitude/thankfulness/happiness/finding joy.”

“You need to ­­­_______."

Several months ago, I wrote out suicide letters, because those words above, were the words that were spoken to me by the people that I tried to talk to (and sometimes even spoken BY me as a reminder to stay silent). Not just once. But repeatedly throughout the years.

Several months ago, I started talking anyways. I started re-assigning my thought patterns. I began the process of changing the way that I think about my life, my experiences, and especially the challenges that I have faced over the last several years.

Today I want to reach out. I want you to know that I am here. I am ready to listen without judgement. I am ready to have the conversations that nobody wants to have. I am ready to hear your situation, and the choices that you have had to make to survive. I am ready to be here for you.

And tonight. I challenge you. Be real. Reach out. Share. End stigma… not just with mental illness… but with all the taboo topics.

Don’t jump to conversation to judge the other side, or to tell them what they’re doing wrong, or what they should do next.

Talk. Listen. Be there. You don’t have to understand their side… but try anyways. Tilt your head. Cover your eyes and pretend to be them. Walk in their shoes. Feel their pain. Hold their hand. Let them share their secrets, and most of all: let them feel their pain.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day 2018.

This year, I’ve felt a pull to continue to not only share my story… but also to encourage those around me to share parts of their story as well. Only with open and honest conversation between friends, can we even begin to understand the fight that every person who battles with mental illness faces. Only then can we know how to help those who are struggling just to stay alive.

So today, in recognition of World Suicide Prevention Day, I challenge you to reach out to a friend who is fighting a battle inside themselves. Maybe they are isolating themselves – pushing you away in either a quiet, or what appears to be a nasty way. Maybe they’ve been missing work or school, or maybe they are filled to the brim with anxiety – panic attacks striking more often than usual. Maybe you’ve stopped to visit and noticed that the dishes are piled higher than normal, or that their hair hasn’t been washed in days. Whatever it is, reach out to your friends. Don’t wait for them to reach out to you.

Suicide is preventable.

My life was saved by people who simply reached out... checked in... and shared their stories, willing to listen mine.

**Adapted from a previously un-shared post.

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