Trauma, intention, and healing yourself

Trauma comes in all shapes and sizes, and unfortunately, nobody gets through life without experiencing it in one way or another: childhood neglect, physical, sexual, or emotional abuse, bullying, abusive or toxic relationships, living with someone who has substance abuse or mental health issues, poverty, oppression, and on it goes. We all must deal with trauma, and it leaves its mark on each of us. We enter this world as innocent beings, but then people fuck us up, and we, in turn, fuck other people up (even though we do not intend to do so).

I used to think intention mattered, but it does not. Not really. People have done me wrong, and I have done people wrong. If I hurt you, that is what matters… it matters not that I didn't intend to do it. Intentionality is a beautiful thought, but at the end of the day, it means very little. 

And when it comes to healing from someone who has hurt me, ownership is the path to true healing. Even though I am not responsible for the pain and trauma I have gone through, I need to be the one to own it, and this is why: It is unrealistic to expect everyone who has hurt me to be accountable, apologize, and do the work to make it right. 

So, I have two choices: 1) I can continue to let their actions dictate and influence how I view myself and approach the world, or 2) I can accept I am the only one who can fix it. I choose option number two. My trauma is not my fault, but it is my responsibility to own it so I can heal from it. No one else is going to do it for me. 

Work Trip to Vancouver

The company I work for does not have an office in Alberta, so I work remotely. In March, I was flown to the head office in BC to attend the annual meeting and to meet the people I work with. It should have been an exciting opportunity, but I could not enjoy myself because I was not in a good place mentally. While everyone I met was lovely and kind, I felt constant anxiety and insecurity.

I did not enjoy myself because every experience was overshadowed by my inability to overcome imposter syndrome. I work with brilliant people and didn’t feel like I measured up. When I got home and had a few days to unwind and reflect, I realized I had wasted the trip and the opportunity to connect with incredible people. I promised myself I would do it completely differently if I could go again.

Three weeks ago, I was asked to come back. This time, I felt just as nervous as the first time. But the way I faced that nervousness was different. I did not let it overwhelm and consume me, and I vocalized it to those I love. They reassured me, and this time, I chose to believe them when they told me I would have fun. I decided to believe them when they told me I belonged.

Sometimes I should ignore my feelings. My feelings cannot always be trusted. I worry, and I think about everything that can go wrong. These thoughts are not helpful, are not based in reality, and ultimately ruin experiences that could have otherwise been enjoyable. Sometimes, it is best I ignore myself and instead listen to and believe those who love me.

This trip was a massive personal win because I let myself enjoy everything. I allowed myself to be present, social, and laugh. I got to see my teammate, met my new manager and a bunch of new coworkers, enjoyed a BBQ on the beach, visited the new office, participated in team-building activities, and went for dinner with people I did not know... and I felt like I belonged throughout it all.

When I got home, my parents picked me up from the airport, and when they asked how my trip was, I quickly replied, “It was awesome!” I struggle to talk myself out of anxiety and into being myself, but last week, I conquered that, and for the first time in a long time, I know I am stronger than the negative voice in my head. I do not know why that negative voice is so loud, but I am proud of myself for shutting it up.  

Why do I write?

My career is writing. I have had numerous jobs as a writer, and while they have all been very different, there is one thing they all have in common: me, Beth, and my personality, none of that can be found in the words I write. I write professionally for businesses. I write social media posts to increase brand awareness, website content for a new company, or user manuals so customers understand how to use a product. I love what I do for a living for two reasons:

1. There is a right way to write. I like rules, guidelines, and the idea I can make something “perfect” in terms of grammar, spelling, style, and syntax. My perfectionism shines in this profession.
2. Yet, writing is flexible. I think of it like a colouring book. I choose the picture I want to colour, and I choose the colours I want to colour with, but the goal is always to stay inside the lines. I get to choose the words and the sentence structure to convey the targeted message.

I admire writers who ooze flowery, descriptive language that produces elegant and angelic poetry. It comes so naturally to some people. Not me. That is not my style. I am not a poet, I have no desire to write a book, and I do not need to have my words mean anything to anyone. We all need to make a living; I write professionally because it is the most enjoyable way to earn money. 

I have never written poetries, scripts, or stories. I do not write for enjoyment. I never have. I write in this blog, where I do not earn a penny, and I have no readers, because something magical happens when I hone in on my emotions, process my thoughts and feelings, and put them into words. 

Before I get the words out, I often feel lost, alone, and broken. But when I have finally unmasked my feelings, and the words are in front of me, there is an emotional release that is unlike anything else. My heart, mind, and soul are connected. I feel at peace. I can appreciate unpleasant or painful situations and people for what they are: lessons. The truth is, writing is the only way I know how to figure out what the fuck is happening in my brain. 

I write because it is free therapy.

Radical Acceptance

I went through something two weeks ago that changed my life. It was the most beautiful and peaceful experience I have ever had. It was radical acceptance.

Radical acceptance means accepting everything about yourself, your current situation, your body, and your life without question, blame, or pushback. Far from condoning or embracing your current difficulties and situation, radical acceptance typically advocates accepting yourself and your circumstances to better move through and past them.

You simply… poof, accept everything. Radical acceptance feels like you are looking at yourself and your life from an outsider’s perspective, with no judgements and no attachments. You see everything for exactly what it is and feel entirely okay and at peace with it. You let go of the pain and move forward.

I used to hide all the raw and vulnerable parts of myself that I felt were undesirable or imperfect. I could not trust anyone because I was terrified of being judged, hurt, or abandoned. Being this way was not a conscious choice; my subconscious was protecting my ego. I was closed off, showed you only what I wanted you to see, and never felt secure in who I was. I did not know how to be myself, not even when alone. 

Since I experienced radical acceptance two weeks ago, I have become acutely receptive to emotional, authentic, and spiritual conversations. I want to connect with people in the most genuine way possible. I want to give and receive complete honesty, even if it is “ugly.” The more shameful your secrets, the more beautiful I find them; my secrets are no different. The stuff we hide is the stuff that makes us unique, fascinating, and extraordinary. 

These last two weeks, I have been open, vulnerable, and, most importantly, myself with everyone I have interacted with. I have this new, deep understanding that the people who are meant to be in my life will be, and those who aren’t won’t be. I cannot force anything, and I do not want to. 

Imagine you have a bead in your hand. You are so afraid to lose it that you squeeze your hand tightly around it—and it slips through your fingers. Or, you can keep your hand open, palm up, and have the bead on it—and it’s still there. Enjoy what you have when you have it but don’t become too attached to it.

Mental Health Awareness Month

May began with immense emotional pain and ended with so much healing; it is difficult to describe where I started and where I am now.

Life ebbs and flows: In periods of flow, life is easy and full of meaning and movement. But when life ebbs, we struggle against the current, fighting to grasp what is important to us.

For the past five years, I struggled against the current. The details do not matter, but it was too much. So to cope, I shoved the problems and pain down as far as possible. I feared if I tried to deal with any of the big issues, I would get stuck in my head and never be able to escape.

At the beginning of May, all the pain I had been burying for years said "fuck you" and smacked me in the face all at once. Finally, I had no choice but to work through everything I had been avoiding: the self-hatred, the bitterness, the embarrassment, the shame, the guilt, all of it.

I took three weeks off work and dealt with my shit. I had to. It was time. Through dealing with it, I have learned I need to be my priority, not some guy, job, or anything else. I have also learned it is great to stay busy so I do not get stuck in my head, but I need to spend time there every so often to sort through and deal with life before it snowballs.

I never thought I would be thankful for everything I have gone through these past five years, but here we are, and I am thankful for all of it. All the pain, suffering, sadness, and depression brought me to this new place of peace, contentment, openness, and acceptance. 

I will struggle against the current in the future, and I may not be able to get through it alone, but it is okay to ask for help. Above all else, I no longer want to be perfect; I want to be authentic. 

Never Tell Someone How to Feel

Someone I was once close with taught me an invaluable lesson. He was always there when I needed to get my emotions out. It did not matter what the emotion was—happiness, depression, rage, love, anxiety, uncertainty—he listened patiently, acknowledged my feelings, and gave me a safe space to discuss whatever I was going through. At the time, I did not appreciate how precious this trait of his was.

One day, he opened up to me. He confessed he felt anxious and horrible about something that just happened. I responded, "You don't need to feel that way." Then, without pause, he said, "When you feel a certain way, I don't tell you your feelings are wrong. Please give me the same courtesy." I was stunned into silence. I don't think I even apologized. I was so taken aback by how right he was. He put me in my place in such a kind way. As a person you trust, all I need to do is listen and be supportive.

If someone trusts you enough to be vulnerable and let you in on their feelings… don't make the same mistake I did. Instead, simply listen and be supportive.

Until we meet again, depression

Depression is a sneaky thing. It slowly builds and creeps in, invading my mind, body, and soul, and affects every area of my life. I don’t notice it at first; it is that subtle. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I wake up one morning, and I am no longer me. The positive, glass-half-full me has disappeared. She is gone. The depression has completely sucked me under, and the weight on my chest makes it hard to breathe. It is excruciating. I would rather walk through fire than deal with this deep, all-consuming depression. It hurts. Everything feels awful. I retreat into myself, and no one can find their way in.

When I feel the only way to escape the pain is to kill myself, I tell my mom, who saves me. She is my soft place to land. Then, those who love me surround me. They form a protective circle around me, reminding me I am unconditionally loved. It can take weeks or months, but I wake up one morning, and the weight on my chest is gone. The love I feel from every corner of my life makes it impossible for depression to take up any more space. 

I weep with happiness and gratitude for how fortunate I am to have so much love and support. I see colours again. I laugh. I am present, noticing dandelions growing from the earth and the beautiful burnt orange jumper a woman in the checkout line at the grocery store is wearing. I look around me, and I am bewildered at how it was ever possible for me to be depressed in the first place.

I am back.

I won the Dad jackpot

My dad retired when I was in grade three. It was different, especially in the ‘90s, for the dad to be the stay-at-home parent. But I am so grateful my parents were in a position for him to be able to do that. His constant presence in my day-to-day life benefited me greatly. He would drive me to school each morning, pick me up for lunch, and return to school at the end of the day to take me home. He coached my soccer team for years, we played pool or air hockey in the basement most nights before bedtime, and as a family, we went to the mountains on the weekends year after year for close to 50% of the skiing season. He has always been a constant in every area of my life, and I admittedly (and ashamedly) take him for granted a lot.

Despite all the bonding we’ve done throughout our lives, our relationship remains largely surface-level. We aren’t particularly close on an emotional level. He keeps things close to his chest while I wear my heart on my sleeve. We are just different in that way, and that’s okay. We are so close in many other ways—I never question his love for me. He is kind, loving, funny, compassionate, and goes out of his way to help people simply because it is the right and human thing to do.

Over the last two weeks, I have needed to rely on those who love me. I have needed to feel their love for me because I have been unable to feel it for myself. We all go through it: Sometimes life sucks, it can be challenging, and every task, no matter how small, feels like climbing Mount Everest without a map. In these moments, when everything feels impossible, it’s hard not to compare your journey to those who seemingly float through life with ease.

Two days ago, I walked into the living room of my childhood home and sat in the recliner. My dad was sitting in the other one. He usually begins our conversations with a joke or an interesting news story. But this time, he started with, “How are you feeling today? How is your mood?” Tears immediately glazed over my eyes. Not because I was sad but because I felt so very seen. And loved. The concern in his tone was palpable. “I feel good,” I replied. That was the end of the conversation, but if I had wanted it to go on longer, he would have been more than willing to listen and coach me through my feelings.

This morning I called my dad for advice. After we both said hello, he immediately asked how I felt. It’s such a simple and common question that everyone asks each other whenever they see one another. It is not a special or unique question. But coming from my dad, it holds meaning. It carries weight. It isn’t a platitude or a nicety to get out of the way so we can move on to another topic. He truly wants to know how I am feeling. What a guy.

He means the world to me.

Me in another universe...

Monday morning, I walked out of my apartment building and sat on one of the benches out front. I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. I had called her thirty minutes earlier, telling her I self-harmed and was thinking about killing myself. As I was sitting on the bench, a lady I met who lives in the same apartment building walked by me and asked, "Not working from home today?" 

Over the last few months, she and I have shared some personal stories, so I feel comfortable with her. "No, I'm going to the hospital." Concerned, she walked over and asked why. I shrugged, and before I knew what I was saying, the words "I want to kill myself" escaped my mouth. She sat down, put her arm around me, and let me cry on her shoulder. "Honey, I felt the same way last week. Any time you need to talk, come knock on my door. I am always here for you. I promise."

She was late for work, so as she walked away, I stared down at my hands and wondered where the fuck I had gone wrong. I felt fine last week. What changed? My mom picked me up, and as she drove to the hospital, I said all the things out loud that I had been thinking for years: I'm stupid, I'm ugly, I'm fat, No one cares about me, No one will ever love me, I am a waste of space and everyone would be better off without me, I want to disappear. This went on for twenty minutes until I stood in front of the nurse in the ER, who was asking what I was there for.

"I'm suicidal." 

I spent the next six hours at the hospital getting meds, having blood drawn, speaking to doctors, having psychiatrist appointments set up, and crying to my mom. I knew I was where I needed to be, but I didn't understand why I was feeling so low in the first place. All I knew was that I felt miserable, and my stomach was a pit of aching depression. I felt worthless, unloveable, and so very defeated. It felt like I had fallen down an 80-foot hole, and there I was, covered in dirt and surrounded by darkness. 

Sometimes it feels like in this dimension, in this lifetime, I cannot grasp my mental health. There is another version of my life in some other universe where joy exists, where it is not just a temporary comfort. But it is not here. I have been blessed with so many wonderful things, yet I cannot appreciate them. Instead, I destroy them because of my mental illness.

Writing About Other People & the Reliability of Memory

It's a tricky balance, figuring out what's appropriate to talk about here and what has no right to be online. 

In university, many professors stressed the absolute gravity and seriousness of not writing about anyone unfavourably unless you have their permission. Hell, even writing favourably about someone leaves a question mark because countless people on this planet are private and aren't okay with having anyone know their business.

I respect people's privacy and do my best to honour it. I leave names out and try to be vague... but I am a writer. I gotta be able to write honestly, or what is the point?

My favourite course at university was Creative Nonfiction. A quick Google search pulls up dozens of definitions, so I've chosen one that's to the point:

• Creative nonfiction adds characterizations so that the reader becomes involved and can relate to the subject. Pure nonfiction focuses on facts. 

In a nutshell, nonfiction is a textbook: pure facts. 

Creative nonfiction is a memoir: all facts, but written to be enjoyed on a personal level.

____________________________________________

As much as we'd like it to be, memory is not like a filing cabinet. We don't experience something and then file it away only to bring it out later when we want to think about, talk about, or relive it. Over time, memory decays and becomes distorted. It becomes malleable, like clay or dough.

This creates a real problem with creative nonfiction because, so often, nonfiction writing can go back decades. Adults often write memoirs about the trauma they experienced as a child. I am not saying they didn't experience trauma, are lying, or what they are writing can't be trusted.

What I am saying is that specific details can change in our minds. Maybe events occurred slightly differently than you remember, words were said with a different tone, or perhaps the pain was worse, and your brain has protected you by covering much of the truth. 

Two people can also remember the same event very differently. Who is right? Either of us? Neither of us? There are so many things that shape how we remember something. Were you afraid at the time the memory developed? Were you laughing and experiencing something new and exciting or doing something that caused anxiety, boredom, or tediousness? Were you drunk? High? Were you distracted? Everything shapes memory.

There are conscious, unconscious, short-term, and long-term memories.

To understand memory and how it is formed, scientists study those with Alzheimer's: first, scientists need to figure out why people forget.