Storytime: I'm Not Perfect, and My Life is a Mess
This blog post might suck, but I’m having a really shitty week, so that’s going to have to be fine.
Let’s consider this an “owning up to my lack of copeholism” post. A relapse admission. An I’m-not-perfect-and-you-don’t-have-to-be-either post.
Oh—and I’m not going to teach you ANY coping skills in this post. So you can relax knowing I will be not preaching a damn thing.
The last two months have been a fucktsorm.
After traveling full time for a year, my husband and I made a difficult decision to take some time apart. In December we started seeing a therapist, and it has been a gut-wrenching experience. We have both poured so much energy, love, and time into this process, and I for one am feeling the cumulative effects of the vulnerability, the truth-telling, the insecurity, the love, the connection, the fear, the doubt, the discovery...the every-possible-emotion-on-the-wheel you could fathom. No rock has been unturned and I feel so naked and exposed and curled up and shut down all at the same time.
The last week has been particularly trying, and I hit a major skills breakdown. It has not been cute.
Let me begin with Monday evening:
On Monday night, I sat on my kitchen floor and ate peanut butter with a spoon. I think there was wine involved.
On Tuesday morning, I went to Bartells and spent $40+ on items I likely did not need, but I love Bartells.
On Tuesday evening, my best friend came over and we watched stand up comedy and talked about vaginas and sex.
On Tuesday late night, I watched MORE stand up comedy until 1 in the morning, and then promptly threw up the popcorn I ate.
On Wednesday morning, I cried.
On Wednesday afternoon, I watched approximately one half of an episode of the bachelor before choosing a Cup of Noodles over a rose ceremony.
On Wednesday afternoon, I cried.
On Wednesday evening, a friend coached me into bed via telephone because I couldn’t get off the couch.
On Thursday morning, I went to the gym with fake glasses on because I wanted to work out, but I also wanted to be invisible. #superpowers.
On Thursday afternoon, I stumbled my way through a presentation I felt completely unqualified for.
On Thursday evening, I landed a $750 writing job.
And now I am drinking tea and writing in bed, listening to a relax & unwind playlist on Spotify.
If you had asked me on Monday if I would consider drinking tea, listening to relaxing music, and writing in order to manage the chaos in my mind and heart, I would have LAUGHED. That would have been the LAST thing I wanted to do. What I wanted to do--and did do--was drink wine and eat peanut butter with a spoon.
There is a reason you chose those coping skills, Rachel. They work. Wine disinhibits you and allows you to see things as better than they are. Food releases dopamine into your brain and makes you feel happy. Just because they aren’t the best coping skills doesn’t mean they don’t work--that’s why you use them. So give yourself some compassion. You aren’t a failure. You’re just using something that works--even if it’s not what is the most effective.
This is what my therapist told me. It reminded me how little self-compassion I have when I “fuck up” and don’t use “healthy coping skills.” Even in trying to strive for “wellness”, I create rules and “good” skills and “bad” skills. She reminded me there is no good and bad, there just is.
Friends told me all week, “you’ll get through this.” My therapist told me, “you will be ok.” People said, “you’ll survive.” In those moments, I don’t believe them. I really don’t. Because in those moments, when I’m so utterly devastated, dysregulated, and paralyzed with sorrow, I really believe that I won’t survive.
This morning on my way to the gym, I kept feeling like I was choking. I felt like there was a rock in my throat, and I knew that if I just let myself cry it would go away, but also if I let myself cry, I’d start wailing and snorting, and I was in public so I kept telling myself everything was ok. And then I started telling myself I would get through this. I told myself I wouldn’t give up. I told myself I’d survive. I whispered it quietly, “I’m not giving up. I will survive this. I will survive this.”
That didn’t stop me from wailing and snorting as soon as I got home. Or from blubbering through a phone call with my therapist. Or from feeling exhausted and braindead all afternoon. But it helped make a small shift. A baby one.
I am NOT an expert in coping “well” or “perfectly.” I am not an expert in beating depression FOR GOOD or overcoming body image FOREVER or communicating with loved ones PERFECTLY. Duh, evidence above. But I have a story to tell. And there is value in that. There is value in sharing a story. In connecting with shared experience, shared pain, shared accomplishments and wins.
When I get stuck or lost or feel insignificant and unimportant or unworthy or invaluable, I remember that my value lies not in my accolades or certifications or “expertise.” It lies in my humanness. In my being on this planet. In my love for connection and community. In my hope for more connection and more community. And in the role I play and hope to play in de-isolating our experiences so we can feel safer and less alone.