Fluff Balls, Death, Shame, and Forgiveness

Laying in bed, thinking about my kids, I began to feel stuff. So I continued, since my therapist said I need to feel stuff sometimes. I had fond memories of their childhoods, and fond memories of recent times, and hopeful feelings about their futures. I cried a little, thinking of how close we were and how warm it feels to be close to them. My thoughts moved to family in general, and how I love my family. Dad came to mind, and I missed him and felt sad about his death. I cried some more, all mixed up with loving feelings, sad feelings, and close feelings. Then I thought about Luke and his plans to meet his brother next summer. It's a huge thought, because not only is Luke going to meet a brother he didn't know he had, but he is the one who planned the visit. Here's the hugest part - he will also be seeing his dad who lives a block down from his brother.... a dad he hasn't seen since he was 6. I wondered, as I lay there, if my dad's death so recently was a catalyst for this. Luke had a lot of feelings himself during the days surrounding the funeral. Suddenly, I was overcome with shame as I realized that there were two sides to the story of my resentment harbored from funeral day. I realized that not only was Luke not "there" for me on that day, but I wasn't "there" for him either and he was in his own kind of turmoil. I suppose such a realization might not seem momentous, but for me it was. In a flash I had empathy, understanding, regret, forgiveness, and then FEAR and SHAME. I saw the panic coming, and for a moment even thought that I should try to stop the emotional overload, but then it was upon me and I was drowning under it and I cried and screamed. Luke came into my room and held my hand. I couldn't verbalize what had happened. I still don't understand why it turned to fear and shame and I panicked.

Switch gears with me.

Shortly after my dad died, my little dog of 16 years died. He was an emotional basket case, for the most part. He was nervous all the time. I loved him dearly and enabled his maladjustment. I felt sorry for him. I did not ever expect him to overcome his deep emotional issues (most certainly from abuse - he has always been afraid of men and was abandoned as a pup.) That's how some parts of me perceive other parts of me. With pity.

I have a German Shepherd as well, who came to me only a few years ago. She is stoic and smart and nosy. She and the little dog never bonded closely and remained aloof. I have never quite figured her out, but I know I expect a lot of her. I never planned to love her, she was supposed to be an outside guard dog. She currently is snoring on my couch, and I do love her. I don't feel sorry for her, but rather proud of her as she has moved from home to home which is particularly hard on a Shepherd and yet has bonded with our family and is content. She has overcome much, excelled in her capacity as "dog," and in her declining years continues to do her jobs for me - protecting, grounding, and keeping me company. That's how parts of me feel about parts of me. Proud, with high expectations.

Recently, a new little fluff ball joined the family. He is boisterous, cheerful, wanting to please, smart, funny, adorable, and joyous. He is also resilient. I am amazed at his resiliency. I see it when he is denied something he wants.... he asks, he asks again, he goes for it, and then he accepts the outcome and moves on. He does this all the time. He is intensely interested in a bone, for instance, that the Shep has. I won't let him take it, and in moments he rolls over on his back, runs for a doggie toy, and plays. We spent weeks together this summer, getting to know each other and bonding. When I had to return to work, he stayed with the Shep all day in the entryway of the house. When I got home, he was cheerful, energetic, and loving. He adapted to the routine with little stress. He's so cute and lovable and good natured I am constantly amazed.

At one point I became distraught over a belief that I could never measure up to what this little guy deserved in life. This belief brought on shame. I tried to trace the path of this shame. It's unclear, but goes something like this:

1.He is sweet and innocent and accepting and curious and wonderful.
2. I will never be able to give him the care and love he deserves.
3. What if he doesn't get the care and love he deserves?
4. How could anyone hurt such a sweet little thing?
5. No one is hurting him.
6. He's obviously not hurting because he is so full of joy.
7. He's so full of joy, how can I ever give him the care and love he deserves?
8. I don't deserve such sweetness.
9. He deserves so much more than I can give him.
10. Is he hurting? How would I know?

This is how some parts of me perceive some parts of me. It makes my stomach hurt and it makes me dizzy. I don't understand it, so I have to turn it off.

Opportunity Cost

Sitting in an economics class, listening to passionate discourse about the role of cost-benefit analysis and opportunity cost in forming economic policy, noticing the salt and pepper beard's motion and the sexy laugh lines around his eyes. I turn my head ever so slightly to move my gaze out the window and start performing my own little cost-benefit exercise quietly in my mind. Prowler gave a cold and accurate summation of his opportunity cost analysis regarding suicide to Dr. Sudak once. She was discussing some health action or another, I can't remember exactly what, and said "If it helps, do it! I mean, the alternative  right now might be suicide and what good does that do anybody!?" I think she meant it to be a rhetorical question, but that kind of assumption is only made by people untouched by suicide. Prowler looked her straight in the eyes and said "What good? Suicide is ultimately an effective way to end the pain."

But other respected professionals argue the opportunity cost analysis to be more three-dimensional, and we, as a system, get that. So what are the benefits of suicide?
1. effectively end pain and suffering
2.
3.

I can't think of any others. What are the costs of suicide?
1. The years unlived, which might have been meaningful but most definitely would have included pain.
2.
3.

I once did an activity with my students, trying to get them to understand economic opportunity cost analysis. I had a tray of "prizes" and asked for 10 volunteers to come up in front of the class. I started at the front of the line and held out the tray and told them each in turn to choose a prize, any prize, no strings attached. The prizes were jolly ranchers, mechanical pencils, stickers, post-it notes, and extra credit coupons. You could watch the students' faces quickly calculate the cost-benefit of the items, especially as the tray got to them and their choices might have changed due to the first students' choices. Every now and then a student would exclaim "Darn! I wanted that!" as the last jolly rancher was chosen, or "I got what I wanted!" if the pencil they wanted remained. Once all students had a prize, I asked the first student, who chose a jolly rancher, what the cost of the jolly rancher was to them.

 "Nothing."

I dug deeper. "Jolly Ranchers are free?"

"Well, no, maybe a couple cents."

"So, you paid a couple cents for that?"

"No! I didn't pay anything. It was free."

"Anyone have a different idea of what the Jolly Rancher cost Johnny?" I asked the class. No one had any ideas. They were engaged....I do this kind of thing a lot, ask questions and they try to figure out the 'right' answer and so often I have a little surprise at the end of it all. It's a fun and effective way to teach a concept, almost a kind of game, and they like it.

"So," I ask Johnny, "why did you pick the Jolly Rancher and not the mechanical pencil? Sue was fourth in line and she grabbed the pencil and was happy about it."

Johnny had a quick answer. "I don't need a mechanical pencil. I don't need anything in the tray, but I wanted a Jolly Rancher so I took it."

"Sue, why did you take the mechanical pencil?"

"I just lost mine this morning. And I like pink. I hate Jolly Ranchers and I have an "A" in this class so the extra credit was pointless."

"What did the pencil cost you, Sue?"

"Nothing. It was free. You gave it to me."

Someone from the class blurts (I'm ok with "participatory blurts") "The pencil cost the other stuff in the tray."

Bingo! That's the concept. I went on to explain that the cost of the Jolly Rancher to Johnny was the post-it notes, or the mechanical pencil, or the extra credit points. He made a choice based on his needs and wants. His opportunity cost was different from Sue's, who also made a choice based on needs and wants. Sue needed something different than Johnny, and so her cost-benefit analysis was based on that.

What does this have to do with suicide? Suicide is a deeply personal decision, and as such most likely confounds the individual who has no need for it or who has a life framework from which to operate that doesn't include suicide as a choice 'in the tray of prizes' so to speak. But suicide is in my tray. It's got a neon sign over it, with red arrows flashing on it. The other choices are dim comparatively. I can't think of why I would need or want extra years....The cost of suicide is unclear. Perhaps there is meaning in the future, perhaps some laughs, some children's lives improved as they enjoy a class....I'm glad my family and friends find me worthy of life, find some benefit in being around me, but that is their choice. The cost of suicide to me, personally, is years unlived and those years may or may not be meaningful/joyful/peaceful. The benefit of suicide is most succinctly stated by Prowler, an effective end to suffering. It's beautiful in its simplicity, and as far as I'm concerned unarguable. The other choices in the prize tray have held promise over the years - psychological treatment, psychiatric treatment, Buddhism, sex, drugs, dissociation. But either their effectiveness has waned or their cost has become too high. When Sue lost her pencil, getting another one was her dominant need. When I suffer psychological pain, ending the suffering is mine.

The psychiatrist I spoke with during a recent hospitalization once said "Take pictures of yourself happy. Take video of yourself having fun and laughing. Watch them when you are suicidal. Depression sucks a person in and they feel that suffering has always been and always will be. But despite how it feels, it's not true. I hate to see a depressed person kill themself when relief is a day away." I guess he was trying to add 'hope' to the prize tray. What's the cost of hope? Endless suffering.....endless suffering is the cost of hope.

Trust

A doctor stands over a trauma patient, unsure of what the exact wounds are. They have been covered in layers of bandages, scabs, scars, and dried blood. To know how to heal the patient, the doctor has to remove bandages, move limbs, ask questions. It's a nearly impossible task, as he doesn't know for sure which bandages will come off easily and which ones will tear away vital scabs causing bleeding, possible fatal bleeding. The patient, sometimes conscious, sometimes not, can only effectively answer a part of the time. Other questions are lost in the pain of old wounds made fresh, broken limbs moved so that the nerves are all pinched, and terror in the face of death.

I'm trying to answer your questions. Your words are the touches of the doctor, and almost every word hurts. I'm so raw even your glance feels like a stab in my soul. It feels like a violation.

I hear your explanation to those around me, the explanation about how Luke didn't mean to tear open the wounds. I hear you explain that the intention is not to violate or abandon. What difference does it make, what his intention is, if it feels like violation and abandonment? The guy who carried the trauma patient into the ER to the doctor didn't mean to hurt the patient, but in his amateur handling he caused so much more pain, opened old wounds, it might as well have been the original trauma. So what difference does his intention make to the suffering of the patient?

You discuss hope, share a vision of what tomorrow might feel like, and next week, possibly next month. You ask me to trust you in so many words. I do. We all do, except LA. What you're asking feels like a violation to her. In order to heal, that bandage has to be taken off and it causes bleeding just to move the bandage, just to touch the bandage. Your words are the doctor's touch, and LA is the patient. The bleeding might be fatal. It feels that way. To her, it seems there are only two choices - violation or abandonment. She cannot make the choice so we make it for her - we will always choose violation and we always have. Your words feel like violation. To trust you feels like you're violating us. I don't know how our action (to trust) can feel like you're taking an action (violation).

I hate that I trust you.

Stuck Gate

There's a gate swinging back and forth. When is it open, when is it shut? I hate when it gets stuck, stops swinging. I fucking hate it. It's like that when the System is tired. We're emotional conjoined twins/triplets/whatever, and when we have energy we're balanced. The gate is swinging. We have time to check in. We have time to feel things. We all have time to "be" and with a swinging gate Rae and Sarah and Amanda and Prowler and L.A. all have a sense of what each other is going through - like the breeze created by a swinging gate and the breeze that keeps it swinging. Stress triggers a physical meltdown - fibromyalgia? And we get tired. The gate stops swinging because all the wind, all the air, all the energy is channeled to Rae so that "the System" can function. But it's not "the System" that is functioning, it's Rae. Imagine conjoined twins, sharing blood. If "one" of the twins starts getting most of the blood because that twin needs it to complete some kind of task, well, the other twin is going to get weak. But they share the fucking blood! So in the end, both twins are weak. That kind of system isn't going to work well if both don't get what they need, no matter how much more useful the one is. You can't starve a conjoined twin and expect the other to live.

So Rae gets depressed when the gate stops swinging and she has to do all the work. You'd think she's like it, but she doesn't. She doesn't because as she uses up all that energy to complete the tasks at hand, the rest of the System is dying. As the rest of the System dies, so does she. She knows how to behave, for fuck's sake, but without Sarah and Amanda and L.A. it's fake and thin and stupid and breathless. It's a hot, oppressive, summer day without air. Without the swinging gate, it's worthless.

If we can't un-stick the gate, life isn't worth living. I don't kill myself because who knows if the Buddhists are right with their reincarnation bull shit, or if the Catholics are right about suicides going to hell. I hope the fucking atheists are right, that after death there is nothing. If we can't un-stick the gate, it doesn't matter if I am seeking death to find relief or change or some such nonsense. If we can't, the System is dead. If the gate doesn't swing, it's pointless for Rae to smile and work, she'll suffocate anyway. Suffocation makes for desperation. Desperate people do desperate things. Suicide is an act of desperation. I'd roll those fucking dice and hope the atheists are right not because I want some kind of change. So fuck you for thinking that. I'd roll those fucking dice because I'm suffocating anyway, the System is dying. Slow, painful, suffocation, conjoined twins watching each other die, a stuck gate......it's worth speeding up the process and risk hell or reincarnation. It's worth it because the atheists might be right.

Weeds

Creeping Charlie is taking over my yard. I hate it. Luke hates the Dandelions and calls them Damndelions. I just read about 50 different ways to eradicate these weeds from the yard so that grass could grow. It doesn't seem like there is a clear answer for staunching the flow.....Likewise with my mental state. It's fraught with negative emotions, self-deprecating thoughts, and sparsely populated with the Kentucky Blue Grass of peace, acceptance, and calm. I can't find a quick fix herbicide that will kill off the Creeping Charlie. I don't mind the Damndelions, but I know they drive Luke bananas so I wouldn't mind killing them off too. But I'm chemical sensitive, so the herbicides that exist might cause more harm than good. I read about a more natural method, testing the soil and adding lime and organic fertilizer, re-seeding, and providing the nutrients and conditions that the healthy, desirable grasses need. Apparently the weeds will get choked out in the process. My shrink would probably appreciate this method most.

But he pissed off Sarah. Not uncommon these days, for Sarah to be pissed. It seems like everyone has pissed her off. She's in such a state of high arousal, hypervigilance, and danger-awareness that trust in just about everyone has diminished. The shrink used some phrases like "we all need Luke" and "leaving and staying in a hotel right now doesn't seem like a good solution." Add that to "Luke really worked hard in here" and the message Sarah got was this.....

"You can't take care of yourself so you have to depend on Luke to take care of you. He really is the normal one in the relationship, and you and your emotions and behaviors are bad and wrong, so you have to stay there in your home. You shouldn't feel as hurt and as angry as you do because you've done sooooo much more to hurt him and he's been so good about it, you owe it to him to stay and give him some space and try to meet his needs for a change." The feelings that accompany this message include a feeling of being trapped, ashamed, and afraid. Since these feelings are intolerable if they escape Sarah's room, they get transformed into rage should they be tapped. They are Creeping Charlie on steroids.

The System has discussed this, and there is some question (in varying degrees) as to the accuracy of the message Sarah got. But no one inside can quite explain it to her, and really, everyone kind of buys into the basic premise of the message anyway.  Fear and anger choke out the Blue Grass.

Luke and Rae are trapped in a cycle of triggering behaviors. For example, Luke was showing some of his carpentry work to Rae, and Rae, knowledgeable in the methods of stroking the male ego and crafty with words, praised the hard work and the preciseness of the job. She wondered about how to best finish the project so that it looked as polished on the outside as it was on the inside. Luke is notorious for creating a fantastic product, stable and functional, but rough around the edges. Rae excels at outer polish. It's actually an excellent combination. Luke heard this message...

"Your work sucks."

Rae wanted to discuss how to finish the project, and truly discuss it.... Luke stopped communicating. It was all subtle, of course, but Rae felt the wall almost immediately so Sarah took over and said "it's like talking to a brick wall" and walked away. Luke wanted to defend his communication process, but Rae said "you're angry and so am I. I don't want to talk about this." But no one disengaged. The System had the following feelings as Luke ping-ponged between his own feelings of defensiveness, hurt, anger, and fear....

-anger, fear, rage, hopelessness, shame, terror, defensiveness.....

I swear I wasn't mean. I was mad. I swear I didn't rage, but I was mad. I swear I said only things that were true, but I was mad. Luke said "I'm not talking about this with you." Then proceeded to share his feelings. When I responded (with a relatively appropriate response) he said "I'm not going to talk about this with you." So I left the room. He then struck up a conversation about WHY he didn't want to talk about it with me. So I pointed out how he was not disengaging. So then he tried to talk again. I knew what was going to happen.... no matter what I said, he would said it was wrong. No matter what feeling I shared, he would explain why I shouldn't feel that way. No matter where in the house I went, even my room, he would pace and huff and puff and stand in the doorway, and say repeatedly "I'm here for you if you need me." The pressure would be on, non-stop, and there would be no escape. And the Shrink's words echoed in our head "leaving is not a good idea. You need him." I felt like a tiny piece of Kentucky Blue Grass, surrounded by acres and acres of Creeping Charlie, and thistle. Huge, pokey, dangerous thistle.

I KNOW I'm off balance, I KNOW I have emotional problems....but I resent feeling like the whole world acknowledges Luke's stability and functionality and niceness and wonderfulness while I am perceived as a bitch, a life-sucking wacko, a psychiatric train wreck, and a non-contributing member of the marriage. I sense the world wondering why HE is putting up with ME.

Such feelings and thoughts make suicide such a reasonable option. Only if I kill myself, Luke will have to change his lifestyle dramatically. My income keeps us living a relatively decent life financially. There is no way he could afford to live like we do on his income. I know that is a dumb thing to even bring up, but I DO contribute. I work my ass off every day to keep my job to keep us financially secure.

No one eradicates Creeping Charlie. Careful, methodical, annual maintenance will keep it under control, but it's never gone. Personally, I think Dandelions are pretty. Herbicides could kill the rose bushes, the peonies, the lilies... it could seep into the ground and poison our well. What's the point? What's the point of working so damn hard to control a fucking weed that will never go away? How can a tiny little blade of grass survive the weeds, the thistle, the herbicides, the re-seeding? What if the Shrink wants to get rid of the little blade of grass, too? Can a few dandelions stick around, despite the fact Luke hates them? What if both Luke and the Shrink just want to plow it all under? I feel like I'm being plowed under. I don't know who is plowing. Everyone is plowing. I'm even plowing. The world is plowing. I should be eradicated.

Push and Pull

Emotionally unavailable. Unpredictable. Providing food. Providing entertaining and fun activities. Evening caresses and snuggling and comfort. I draw towards and desire some, and withdraw from (hurt – confused – angry) some. The pattern repeats. Repeats. Repeats from childhood to now. At the end of my childhood I coped by drinking alcohol daily and then leaving, with a backpack of essentials, out into the world where I was promptly raped and then involved in the same pattern of abuse, neglect, and nurture all mixed up in a Dysfunctional Salad. Here it is again.

I can see that the extreme disconnect Luke has between his intellectual knowledge and his emotions/behaviors is a result most likely of all the feelings stirred up by my father’s death. He cared about my father. He cares about me. But all the care in the world cannot cover up the pain he must have felt as a  6 year old, abandoned by his daddy, and thrust into years of Dysfunctional Salad where nothing was ever talked about……where disconnect was the coping strategy. And then, when he was in his early 20’s, his mother died a painful death from cancer and the family coped by withdrawing from each other and themselves. In the 24 years we have lived together he has spoken of her death twice. He has spoken of her maybe a handful of times. He never speaks of his daddy.

I was hurt by his rage toward me at my father’s funeral. I withdrew and disconnected myself. I spiraled into my own madness, my own disconnect, and began to feel everything as if magnified x1,000,000,000. I knocked on his Man Cave door and sometimes he came out to talk, sometimes he came out to scream at me, and sometimes he simply never heard the knock. I asked if he would come out twice a day, for 15 minutes and he agreed. It didn’t happen. I asked if he would see a therapist (for both my own personal gain and out of fear and love for him). It didn’t happen. He keeps asking me what he can do for me, and if I request something he says he will do it, but doesn’t. He cries. He is shut down. He is unaware that his behavior is erratic and it hurts, omg it hurts.

I cried for hours two nights ago, only because he is so withdrawn from me I am lost and on my own and afraid to navigate this “episode.” I cried because I don’t want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me, yet I do want him to come into my bed at night and caress and snuggle with me. It is the only love I can feel and it hurts and comforts me both. I am incapable of telling him not to come into my bed. Incapable because I don’t want to hurt him, incapable because I cannot resolve the push and pull of my own desires.

I am not angry with him because he can’t meet my needs in this turbulent and vulnerable time. I am angry with him because he won’t do anything about it. I am afraid of his denial. I am angry with myself because when he says “I will take care of you” I believe him and then am crushed so mightily when he doesn’t. I am afraid I can’t do this by myself. I want to leave him because I am afraid that he has tipped the balance too far for me to recover except by myself. I am afraid to leave him because that is what he is most afraid of, abandonment, and I do not want to damage him anymore. I love the caresses and I hate that he is caressing me. I am afraid I will kill myself. I am sad that he is not with me, even when he is next to me. I miss him.

Perspective

I’m trying to work on my perspective. I’m not stuck in the bottom of a deep, dark hole nor am I lost wandering in a stone cold labyrinth. Horrific images and vicious voices are relatively quiet (just mentioning them brings murmurs and scenes and I must nod at them, to acknowledge them, and they recede). But I am tired. Not exhausted, but deeply tired with sore, aching muscles that feel like they are made of lead. Even my heart feels like lead. I’m angry that I’m so tired. I wake up tired, I go to work tired and get sore, and I come home to walk the dog and eat – in pain and tired. I fall to bed when it’s still light outside, and for mid September in a far northern state that’s pretty damn early. Weekends are a mix of friend and family responsibilities punctuated with bouts of crying and long periods of bed rest. I’ve been at this for a few weeks now, and it’s not getting better but it’s not getting worse. I’ve found my rut for the next nine months.

I feel sorry for myself and I’m angry. I used to enjoy life. I used to work with passion and play with passion. I used to have gusto. Now I trudge. I drum up a bit of the old gusto in the classroom, and I like to be there, figuring out what the faces of the children mean….are they understanding a new concept? Confused? Bored? Entertained? I want so much for them to learn something, to engage in the content and the process of history, to apply the content and process of history to their lives today, to get insight, to find their place, to develop opinions, to be critical of and also love and appreciate their country. I want it so much for them, as I want for myself to have that engagement in life. I could replace the words “history” and “country” in that sentence with “life” for myself. It’s what I want for myself, and so I try desperately to have a shadow of it in the classroom for me and for them. But I end up angry that it’s just a shadow, an act. I am tired and disappointed at the end of the day when I go home and instead of living with passion I plod through the evening’s routine and fall into bed, uneasy with emotion, hurting both physically and in my heart. How sad that I pretend so much. The gulf between what I portray and who I am seems as wide as ever. Not only has my life derailed, it is de-real.

I belong to an online forum for people with disabilities. The spectrum of disabilities runs from physical to emotional, from almost complete dependence on others for food/shelter/clothing to self-supporting professionals. When I read about their lives, I find a common human element that begs me to change my perspective from sorry and angry to acceptance and thankfulness. One person may write about their bad day that included a trip to the ER and worries about whether or not the food stamps will be enough to pay for food for their family for the rest of the month. Their triumph might be that their dog comforted them and they didn’t get angry with the insensitive nurse. Another might write about how their PCP was verbally abusive toward them and their PTSD kicked in but they didn’t totally lose it, and they might get another PCP to help them shower. Some of these people are completely dependent on the State and the kindness of the people who are paid by the State (in pennies, I imagine) to care for them in very basic ways, i.e. bathing, shopping for food, and taking the right medicines. Their excitement for getting a new shirt or an outing to the mall is immense and such treats are in no way in their direct control. They have trouble finding doctors, therapists, and psychiatrists that will treat them because so many don’t accept their kind of medical insurance and the ones that do have waiting lists. They have trouble finding rides to their medical appointments when they do get them and are at the mercy of public transportation. Sometimes they can’t keep time straight and miss their appointment. These problems stand out in stark contrast to the problems on the other end of the spectrum. A person might write about how the graduate program they applied to is quite expensive. Or how nobody in the fancy restaurant understands why they have a service dog because they don’t look disabled.

My brother once said that it’s not fair to compare the pain of the guy with a broken leg to the pain of the guy with two broken legs. He said that just because one guy has “more” pain, it doesn’t decrease the pain of the guy with less pain, the guy with less pain still feels pain. I struggle with this, as I struggle with where my perspective lies. It’s pretty damn easy to focus on the tiredness and soreness and lack of enjoyment in my life. And I suppose I need to validate those physical and emotional feelings. But then I read about the lives of the people on my disability forum and I can’t help but be thankful for my independence, medical insurance, and warm support of family and friends. I have financial security and a home that I love that is almost paid for. I can shower by myself and wipe my own ass. So am I supposed to focus on what I have? And when I do, what do I do with the dark, angry sarcastic ones inside that make rude comments about how wonderful it is that I can wipe my own ass? In a heartbeat I move my perspective from being thankful for what I have to feeling guilty for having negative feelings like sadness and anger. It is not long before the guilt turns to shame for who I am – an imposter, a dysfunctional monster functioning in a loving world. I appear to be a strong and independent woman helping children develop a sense of place in their world, a loving and devoted friend and wife, when really I’m a scared and depressed child clinging to her husband and her therapist for safety, searching for a reason to live another day.

Despite the fact that I own my own home and have a successful career, I’m sad and angry and tired and sore. I don’t want to be those things anymore. I want a healthy body and mind. And I am ashamed that I can’t be thankful that I can wipe my own ass.