Once upon a time this girl clawed at every possible edge, hoping that solutions to her problems hung just out of reach. She was frantic, internally unable to shut down the fear that drove her so quickly to bad decisions, and with every mistake she spun further into a cycle she wasn’t quite sure how to stop.

She wrote here:  dreams, fears, and secrets in every post.

But then there came a moment when this girl started showing herself a little kindness, and forced herself to stop trying too hard. To stop loving too much. To avoid talking too soon. To stop clawing. To stand still and breathe.

And now she’s back, with a different life to talk about, because she allowed herself to live.

But in order  to understand where she is now, you have to see where she’s been. So please excuse her for a few posts, as she rehashes the last several months.

Bring some wine and tissues along. It’s been one hell of a ride.

The top 10 quirks of being a perfectionist AND a survivor with PTSD, Body Dismorphic Disorder, and a decent amount of healing left to do:

1 – I want to kick therapy’s ass. I believe that I should be done by now, as I usually excel in everything that I do (or, at least, expect myself to).

2 – I can’t look at myself in the mirror without getting sucked into the vortex that is my face. So, to compensate this problem with the fact that I have to primp before work or social gatherings, I focus on one feature at a time. I know I have a great smile and pretty eyes, but my entire face is  not attractive. There isn’t one feature that strikes me as completely horrid on its own, but I think the combination of ALL of my features is sub-par, and for that reason I believe I look like Shrek. Honestly, if you lined up every girl I went to high school with (all 1,000ish of us) from most attractive to least, I’d walk my ass to the very end of the line and park it, knowing that I’m the ugliest girl to ever have graduated from CHS.

Now, you can call bullshit on this if you want, but I’m telling you that my brain is currently wired to truly believe this. So even when I tell myself I’m being ridiculous (that I should be in the ‘average’ range or middle of the line), I talk myself back to the last spot, convinced that my eyes are crooked or my chin isn’t long enough. That my forehead sticks out like a caveman or that my cheeks are beginning to sag like jowls. Fucked. I know.

3 – Any and every man who I don’t know is a threat. He could hold the door open for 15 people at the gas station, and I could be the very last person in that line…but he’s targeting me and I’m on to his trickery. Mr. Gas Station isn’t so smart, you know? To think that I don’t realize he’s trying to make me believe he’s just a nice guy.

Let’s add another twist to spice it up: If he holds that door for one person, but doesn’t hold the door for me, it’s because I’m a fat, ugly pig. Mind blown, I know.

4 – If somebody doesn’t reciprocate a good deed that I’ve done, it’s not because they’re selfish but because I’m not deserving.

5 – If I’m ‘late’ to work (meaning I don’t get there at 6:30, 45 minutes before I actually have to be there) I panic in a way that ruins my day. I should have gotten up earlier or planned my outfit two days before…like that would actually help me get there any sooner.

6 – I cannot write to save my life. At some point every reader will tell me that I suck, that I’m not funny, and that my creative/omniscient posts are terrible.

7 – I tried strawberry jelly for the first time two weeks ago. I’d always assumed that I didn’t like it because I love grape, but on a ‘let’s get wild’ whim I decided to switch it up…and I enjoyed the change. But I won’t keep eating it regularly because I feel like I’m losing my identity in my jelly choices. What happens if I like strawberry more than grape? Does that mean that my whole life has been a lie? It’s just too much to handle, I tell you. Just too much.

8 – A former player in the Fina game recently told me that he saw a picture of Scarlett Johansson’s boobs…and I happen to have an identical set (minus a couple cup sizes). While most people would take this as a compliment, I found the picture online and analyzed her girls. Really, I looked for imperfections on a movie star’s boobs. Not because I wanted anything to be wrong with hers, but because I wanted to find weaknesses in mine. Let’s not forget that I have mirrors and take showers daily. I see my boobs every day. Why the hell did I need to look at hers? I’m just not sure how to answer that question.

9 – I’m turning into a hoarder. The closer to ‘okay’ I feel, the more trash I keep in my car. Why? Because the chaos is comforting. It’s a good thing I don’t like cats…a really, really good thing.

10 – Through all of this, I can laugh at my behavior and call it ridiculous, but I can’t quite bring myself to stop it.

So there you have it. A look inside the mind of a girl who doesn’t quite know who the hell she is, or why the hell she’s here. One that wants you to laugh at her quirks but avoid judging her for them. And one that believes that she’s just proven her #1 quirk/belief to be impossible.

Because in her dreams there is a life that she hasn’t been granted, one filled with lavender scented paper and silk blouses. The ground is always below her, so searching for gravity isn’t necessary. Neither are all of the self-affirmations or classes on self-esteem. She is a graduate of the school of healing, and an active member of a society that returns good deeds.

It’s unlike the waking hours, where she cries because she’s lonely but can’t commit to putting herself out there to find what she wants. She’s not a conundrum in her subconscious musings; she’s a woman who understands that life only gets better when risks are taken. So she makes left turns when her gut tells her to, even though she knows where the road straight ahead leads. And she enjoys the adventure in getting lost close to home, because it’s okay to learn new routes back to the most known places.

Her dreams are in color, because her real-life seems to be safer when she lives in black and white. If you don’t know him, he can’t be trusted. If you know him, he’s already proven that he’s not good enough. But in her dreams everyone is good and decent and fair. More than that, every heart is given freely and equally, so the outpouring of love is so prevalent, that nobody has to be scared to fall. Souls are crimson and amethyst and sapphire.

She stays awake knowing that the longer she keeps her eyes open, the longer she’ll be able to go back to the world inside of her head and heart at night. So she runs extra miles or works extra hours to exhaust herself. And she’s never really refreshed because her mind works madly while she’s covered in blankets. But she always wants to go there, because she’s free of all of the insecurities in her real life.

She says she believes that someday her dream world will become a reality. She knows that it’s probably better to want to stay awake, but living in the grays and blacks and whites, it isn’t always easy to silence the Sirens who take her crashing back into dreamland.

Today’s event was the icing on the proverbial cake this week. I had to write an email to Carter (one of my two adopted kids), explaining that his words could be painful and that I was unwilling to allow such hatred to be spewed upon me. I don’t like playing the ‘bad cop’ role, especially with someone who has crossed the line from my professional life to the personal realm, but (again) there is something to be said about learning about the pillars of character. And Carter needed a lesson. I probably divulged more information than what was necessary, but I think the kid needs to see that you can bounce back from every obstacle in life, as long as you keep moving and make the choice to learn something along the way. My life hasn’t always been pretty or kind, but I’ve walked away from it attempting to be pretty kind and kind-of-pretty.

Which brings me to tonight…

I’m at home, in pajamas, and feeling more-than-slightly depressed. There are times in life when I know that I’m in the process of learning hard lessons, and I always hope to navigate these times with poise and grace. I’m not sure that I have, or that I can, this time. The fog is beginning to clear on the events that unfolded in January, and with clarity comes more devastation and more pain. I’m having a hard time determining when I need to take care of ‘me’ so that I can take care of her, and it’s becoming overwhelming. In fact, it’s impacting other relationships in my life: ones that I care about greatly. Bottom line? In times of distress we learn who we can trust and who will support us, and a few people who I felt I could or would, aren’t and won’t.  And I’m saddened by this.

I keep trying to remind myself that everyone doesn’t feel the same way that I do. Some people don’t understand what it’s like to serve others, because they’re too busy serving themselves. Others have had so much heartbreak in their lives that the second something doesn’t feel good they assume it’s only going to feel worse later, and they abandon whatever was left before them, because it feels unmanageable.

So, even in the midst of sadness, I’m learning about myself and my character. It’s not every day that people walk around with a heart that wants to make everything better for everyone: undeniably a gift and curse. But I won’t stop loving because others have surrendered their flags, and I won’t stop caring because my heart is one that wants to be brave.

I don’t mind the small stops to explain pieces of life that are difficult to grasp, but don’t interrupt the journey of another because your heart isn’t designed to handle what theirs is capable of. It’s unfair. It’s childish. And it’ll get you kicked out of my classroom and my life.

I could still press charges if I wanted. Did you know that you have three years (in Missouri) to press charges after leaving a relationship filled with violence? Because I didn’t, but now that I do, well, it’s something that I can’t quiet in my head.  I’m constantly fighting battles for myself and I’m not sleeping near enough. With all of that said, the overarching question, the one I can control and must answer by July is, “Is the risk of being seen worth the gain?”

For quite some time I feared that his children would be taken away, or that I would go bankrupt trying to fight this battle. When the bruises were fresh, I feared a million different things. But as the last two years have unfolded, as I’ve gained strength and clarity through counseling, and as it doesn’t feel so scary to face him or my past, the fiery, strong piece inside of my heart is saying, “It’s time, Fina. Stand up and show the world exactly who you are.”  The fears of my past are so much smaller now, and because they are I want to do the things I couldn’t before.

His words still live inside of me. I’m still fighting the battle, even though he’s not here. Would it be different if I purposely intertwined our lives again? Would I suffer more? less? Would the suffering go away? Would the “Fina, you shouldn’t leave the house looking like that,” and the “You’re worthless without someone else around to fix your problems,” go away , too? Maybe the only way to silence these thoughts is by stripping them of their power. After all, his behavior has been my biggest problem, and the war inside of my head keeps raging on because I haven’t smothered the fire.

5 months and then my opportunity is gone. I’ll never be able to change my mind then, and it’s all weighing heavy on my head and heart. When things are nearing an end, when opportunities become missed ones, when time dictates for you: it’s only in these times that we see how important the other side was. I have lived with enough regrets that I can’t allow this to be one of them.

Abusers should be known and held accountable for their actions, and if that means that I have to be labeled as a ‘victim’ or ‘plaintiff,’ a ‘weak’ woman or ‘uneducated,’ or ’impoverished,’ then maybe it’s time to break down each stereotype, because I’m none of those things. And I think he knows that, which is why he couldn’t let me go for so long: I didn’t let him win.

But his idea of winning and mine are separate. He thinks he’s lost because I’m not there to be his toy anymore, and I think I’ve lost because I haven’t stood up to him. He hasn’t been held responsible for his actions, so I’m back in my head again, knowing that the questions I’m asking are critical to my future.

I have 5 months before the door is closed forever. How many women look back and wish they would’ve done more? How many regret stepping forward? How much of their past should dictate my future?

Is the risk worth the gain?

I think I’m nearing an answer. And I think that answer is yes.

Magic. We need it. The kind that is just an inexplicable as the events that have unfolded. That’s just what we need. If there was ever a time when I wanted to believe that everything happened for a reason, that there was a higher being doing things on His own time, this would be it. Yet, I’d still be angry and cursing His existence. Even if he gave us a rainbow.

It’s not my place to share this story, because it’s not my own. I’m living and feeling some pretty heavy things, but there aren’t words to say just how little I can do to help the ones I love the most. I honestly never knew life could hurt this much. 

It’s still foggy, yet in the fleeting moments of clarity  I hear my screams toward the sky.

Take it back. Take it back. Take it back.

He’s trying to contact me, or I think he is, and that, quite honestly, is close enough to the real thing that I’m more cautious than I have been in quite some time.

Imagine that you feel safer on the Internet, where any and everyone can chime in on your life. People who know my true identity come to attack or support, and others who randomly find me also share their opinions. Every time I receive a notification about a new comment, I prepare myself for pain, because I’m allowing people inside the storm. But it’s safer here, where I’m easily criticized, because it’s not a real place where I can be found.

Imagine, just for a second, that your home is now a bunker. The front door is always locked with the deadbolt and chain. And when you go to sleep at night you lock your bedroom door, too. The phone is on the bed, alongside the mace. And you’re going to buy a gun when you get paid again, just to be certain you’re safe. And even then you don’t really feel safe. You do everything you’re told to do, and you still can’t help but feel as if the world is suffocating you. 

When a computer in front of me, I know that there is documentation of the events that happen and the fear they cause. So when he tries to hurt me again, or if I become the murder victim’s face on the six o’clock news, there is a slight chance that the truth can be found. While it’s an unlikely outcome and I don’t think it’s something I need to worry about right now, it is something that is causing worry.

Just when I thought the biggest struggle I’d face this year was my own thoughts and recovery process, I’m reminded that he could return if he really wanted to do so.

Don’t be alarmed for me. I have a safety plan. I have even gone so far as to tell my department head at work about my past, so that there are people around me at all times who know what to be looking for when and if I say, “It’s time.” I’m writing this to give you a glimpse into the hard days. The ones where I don’t feel safe. Where life doesn’t seem worth all the obstacles and safety measures, because they’re exhausting. Where the traffic inside of my head is at a standstill, and my heart is pumping harder so that I know it’s still there. It’s days like these that my fingers hurt from the anxiety and typing reminds me that I’m physically reacting to something that my brain is telling me might be a reality. Things are fading to black.

But I’ll come here to type anyway. I’ve promised to be honest, and I certainly can’t ignore that even in the times when I feel the most healed and successful, there are days when I feel the most scared. I’ll wake up tomorrow and lock the door to my bathroom while showering (yes, even though the front door and my bedroom doors are both locked) in hopes that I’ll hear him break through one of the barricades before it’s too late for me to defend myself.

I wonder what his new girlfriend would say if she knew that I lived my life this way? I wonder if she’d make the same excuses for him. I’m different. I can help him. He’s done so much work to improve himself, it’s not going to happen. He’s a man of God now. She was the one that made him crazy. At 30 months removed from the situation, will she be creating blockades within her apartment, too? Will she be scared that he’ll find her, even though he has no idea where she moved? Will she unblock him from Facebook, only to inventory his friend list and make sure there are no mutual friends who can spy? Will she buy a gun?

Relentless thoughts only stir unresolved feelings. Fina, if you were dating again, maybe you’d have a boyfriend who would serve as another form of protection. Maybe if you weren’t so scared all the time, you could begin dating again. They aren’t all like him, you know?

My brain doesn’t stop when the first alarm sounds. And, unfortunately, to beat him at his game I have to think like him (a psychopath).

This will all figure itself out within the next week, but until it’s over I’m on high alert. I’m not seeking comfort, so please don’t provide it here. I’m digging around in unresolved fear, to be sure that you can see what it’s like inside of the mind of a survivor, on the days when she feels like a victim.

I spent the next 6 years competing with Dom. He was smart. He was a leader. He was well-liked. He was everything I wanted to be, and sometimes he was a better person than I could ever imagine myself being. But I kept pushing myself because of him and by 6th grade, I finally beat him in the student council elections. I was president, and he was my vp. This, of course, kept me pushing forward. But those 6 years were so formative, so important, that I can’t imagine where I would be now if he weren’t there to remind me that I had to keep trying. And I had to keep smiling, maybe for no other reason than to make someone else’s day better.

I don’t think Dom ever saw me that way. I think I was just another peer. Another equal. He was fair in that way, never showing favoritism to anyone. It was, quite frankly, one of the things I admired the most about him. And even through the rest of our public school education, when we moved to junior and then senior high, my thoughts frequently went back to Dom. He showed so much poise and restraint…two things I hadn’t yet mastered. By senior year, it had been quite some time since we’d had a class together, but scheduling and course requirements brought us back together in a pottery class. And the competition between the two of us was reignited. Neither of us showed exceptional talent with clay, but our fiery personalities pushed both of us to work hard. I was thankful he was there with me. He was a reason to try in a class that I only took because I needed to fill an art elective. His humor and smile were ever-present, and when I broke up with my 6 year boyfriend he kept me going. A highlight in my day.

I didn’t see Dom again until a few short months ago, but I was quickly at ease with him. We laughed about our times together in elementary school, and then talked about all of the blessings we had in life. I was truly thankful for being reaquainted at our 10 year reunion. He was still kind, he was still fair, and that smile still put mine to shame.

Tomorrow, I’ll say my last good-bye to Dominic, the boy I knew so well who grew into a great man. He passed away last Thursday. He left behind a new baby girl, a beautiful girlfriend, and both parents. All of these people mourning his loss in ways that I dare not attempt to understand. You see, I’m struggling to find the words to say just how much he meant to me, and I didn’t spend near enough time with him in his short adult life.

It seems so cruel that he’s gone at the age of 29. I was so anxious to see what life would offer him in the next few years. He was the guy that you knew would do well, because he gave his heart and soul to every project placed in front of him. Dom was a true class act, and I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have fond memories of the times they spent with him.

So on the eve of his funeral, I’m reminding myself that he’s probably somewhere smiling down on all of us who are deeply saddened by his passing. He’s probably laughing about the fact that so many people will show up tomorrow. And he probably wants each of us to walk away from the experience smiling. That’s the type of man that he became: the kind that wanted everyone around him to be as happy as he was. I’m going to do my best to respect the wishes that I so deeply believe he’d want, and I’m going to smile. Not because I’m happy that he’s gone, but because I’m happy that I got to meet and know him. Such a great gift. How could I be sad about that?

My self-esteem is fickle, especially since being told I suffer symptoms of body dismorphia. I’ve always known that I’m not my biggest fan, but I didn’t realize I couldn’t even see myself. What others see and what I see are not the same. Sometimes I wonder if that’s part of the reason why I write this blog anonymously, maybe I don’t want readers to see the ogre that I believe myself to be. Or, maybe, I don’t want to give  my readers a reason to believe that I’m crazy.

Regardless, it’s become obvious that there is a big enough gap between my perception and reality that I need to get some help in this area. Yes, more help. And while the idea that I need MORE help is becoming overwhelming on some levels, it’s also becoming clearer that I can keep knocking down walls one at a time…and maybe I’ll see the end of this sometime soon. I read somewhere that the healing process takes every survivor a different amount of time, usually the same amount of time that they stayed in the relationship. Which puts me at two years total. And now that I’ve been seeing a therapist for 6 months, does another 18 really seem that long?

My therapist has been asking me to think about group therapy. I’ve mentioned before how alone I feel, even when surrounded by friends who’ve known me for my entire adult life. The loneliness seems only to go away when I’m with someone who understands what I’ve been through, because I don’t feel the need to justify my every move.  So I’ve agreed. And to kill two birds with one stone, I’m entering a group designed to help with self-esteem. We’ll start meeting on Tuesday, and we’ll meet for consecutive Tuesdays after. I’m not comfortable with doing this, but nothing about this journey has been comfortable, so I have no excuses. Maybe one of the biggest life skills I’ll ever gain is learning when it’s time to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.

Finance Classes

The self-esteem group isn’t, technically, the first group I’ve entered. Last week I started a finance class through the counseling center. This 4 part class is designed specifically for women who’ve suffered abuse. Every woman in the group suffered financial abuse, while others (like me) suffered the other forms of abuse, too. So our first week was spent talking about oppression and power, and how it all comes back together in our bank accounts.

I’m hoping week 2 gives me more tips on how to keep more money in my account, instead of spending it frivolously because I’m afraid someone is going to steal from me again. Losing a house and a car is bad enough, but when it was partially caused by abuse, well, it’s another oddly shaped puzzle piece.

I’ve owed my best friend $600 dollars for two years now. And I could’ve easily paid him back, if I knew how to keep myself from spending. I think about it every pay check,and every time I see him. He’s really the reason I’m taking these classes. Yes, I know I need help. Yes, I understand this will benefit me beyond that debt. But I don’t want to lose a friend over it, and I’m really going to try hard this time, because he’s that important to me.

Hoarding

I have some issues with keeping my place from becoming a cluttered mess. Honestly? I feel safer when there’s less space around me. Being enclosed means there is less room for me to fall, or less room for someone else to cause me harm. So, sometimes when I’m alone, I don’t find it all that necessary to clean clutter. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll vacuum around it or clean the shower. I’m not dirty so much as I am disorganized and ambivalent about it.

I was doing really well with this for a few months. I had a cleaning schedule and a process, but then any time another wall breaks down, I start to let the clutter build again. I have a hard time focusing on more than one thing at a time right now, so my organization skills have become the first thing to go.

Bella showed up at my apartment Friday night while I was not home. She called me and told me that she was going to help me get everything back in order, but that I needed to tell my therapist about it the next time I saw her. Obviously I wasn’t seeing just how bad it had gotten. So we spent four hours working on my apartment, including getting 4 trash bags worth of clothing out of my closet and off of my floor to donate.

She told me that she was afraid I was going to become a hoarder. I told her that I felt safer when things were on the floor.

This is when I realized I had another problem.

Spam

Spam doesn’t usually bother me. But I’ve been receiving it from Scott’s girlfriend, so it’s bothering me. The best part of this is that I’m not upset about Scott necessarily. I’m not sad that he has another girlfriend…I’m not jealous of where she is…etc. The worst part is that my PTSD is in overdrive. I’m fearful that he’s trying to track me through her, without her knowing.

Instead of allowing this to continue, and having to deal with it by blocking her email address (even though I’ve done this), I emailed her to ask her to remove me from her contacts.

You’re sending me spam via your yahoo email account. It’s coming every day now. Can you please remove me from your contacts?

Thanks.

I reread it tonight. Funny, I actually cringed because  I’m a little sad for ‘that’ me. I was terribly, excruciatingly unhappy. I’m at my worst when I’m defensive and ‘tough’. Really, I am kind of matter-of-fact without puffing up and throwing the word ‘fuck’ around too much. Don’t get me wrong, I think I needed to be there for a bit. And this isn’t indicative of feeling like I was on the wrong path, but instead, a way for me to actually see how much I’ve grown this year.

A tiny comparison:

2010 (the end): I’m kicking and screaming and taking what I want. If you don’t fit into that equation, go fuck yourself.

2011 (the end): I’m smiling because I trust myself. I’m proud of the progress I’m making. I don’t need anyone to provide validation. I am enough.

I don’t need to tell you that I’m going to stomp around in 2012, because I don’t have anything to prove to anyone. I’ve worked hard. I mean really, really hard. I’m happy and that’s all that needs to be said. That’s what has made all of the difference.

****

In July of 2009, only a few days after leaving Scott, I wrote myself a note. It’s one that I haven’t shared with many people and one that I’ve kept.  I want to share it with you.

Dear Fina,

Remember who you are today, would ya? Smile and love…think…seek to understand. Never question your ability to complete a task. You are one of the smartest people I know. Don’t lie. Think about the possibility of being a non-smoker. Run off your stress and take pride in your body. You are always happier when you’re thin (and exercising).

Please pay your bills before you spend your paycheck. Go grocery shopping and buy healthy food.

Don’t be too hard on yourself about your past. Please forgive yourself for the mistakes you’ve made. Some things you can’t control, so LET GO & MOVE FORWARD!

Be empathetic and do what’s right. You’re a good person, lady. Start behaving that way.

Two and a half years later, I’ve finally taken this advice. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t trying before; it’s not like this was easy for me. PTSD and body dysmorphia (yes, it’s a new diagnosis that I’ve yet to mention) don’t make life easy. But I quit smoking and dropped a few inches from my waistline in 2011, and I’m getting better with my money (even taking a finance class through the DV organization). I’m kinder to myself and to others. I don’t lie to people about who I am or where I’ve been.

I still wake up and fight the battle. I still have to make decisions consciously. It still feels strange to remind myself that other people aren’t out to get me. But I’m okay with all of that now. I’m actually proud that I can acknowledge how difficult all of it is. My brain is graffitied with the good and the bad, and it will always be, but I can identify which is which now.

Life doesn’t have to be easy to be good, and somewhere between abuse and recovery this fact left me. But it’s back now. And I’m so very, very thankful to have this clear and poignant message resonating through every ounce of my body. Life doesn’t have to be easy to be good.

My journey isn’t over. I need to get rid of the war inside of my brain. To trust or not to trust, that is the question. Next, my brain needs to stop telling my body that what Scott said about it is or ever was true. You aren’t ugly, Fina. Then, sometime after these two things happen, I’m going to need to make the decision to let someone else love me again. Everyone isn’t abusive.

I’ll get there, and I know that now, even though I didn’t 365 days ago.

Oh yeah, I’m turning 29 on the 29th of December, making it my golden birthday. Not only is my life becoming mine again, but it’s on the brink of something that’s supposed to be sparkly…get out your glitter, friends.