It’s Sunday afternoon. I’m sitting here and knowing how much has happened in the last two weeks. I’ve been off work for a few weeks now, waiting for Short Term Disability to kick in. I’ve been assured that the papers have been filed. So, here I am. How did I get to this? Okay…

Since I went to visit my friend in June, my brain has been scrambled. My friend did nothing wrong. It was just that my brain was trying to process everything that I needed to take from that visit and what it meant. What that REALLY means is – I had a great time on vacation and I am not accustomed to great times. I don’t know how to cope with them. I don’t feel like I deserve them. That’s the kind of thought process I was involved in. I woke up that Monday in July and I couldn’t move. My body and my brain just kind of shut down and I didn’t feel like I had any choice but to listen.

I was at a breaking point. It was now or later. Which is better? Well, honestly? Neither. Yet, here I was. My therapist had mentioned something called Intensive Outpatient Treatment. It’s a 4 week program. And it is Intense! I’m going on week 3 as of tomorrow.

My therapist gave me a “Dear Loved One” letter that is given to anyone that is about to take part in the program. The person going through it is getting a lot of input about how to “recode the brain”. And a lot of it is hard stuff. Not only that, it’s important to practice what you learn in it. Otherwise you might as well have spent the day sitting in Starbucks with your laptop all day, pretending to look like you’re intensively working with a bluetooth headset in your ears.

As anyone who has read my blog would know, I have spent a lot of my life focusing on my mental health. I have agonized over how the nonsense puzzle pieces fit together. Why I am stuck trying to unravel years of trauma and what’s next. I have my husband, yet I’m scared of talking to him. I’m scared of not being taken seriously. Just another conversation where it’s a patented “this is how you get through this” speech. And, to his credit – he’s not alone here. Anyone would have tried to do the same thing. So this is not a ding to his ability to help me.

If you love someone with mental health struggles, you know that it’s really hard to try to get the sufferer to see the light through the trees, the obstacles, the mess, and the chaos. And there is a lot of work to be done. And if you’re empathic, it makes it harder. My husband is, so I think he is trying with me – just doesn’t have the magic 8 ball to predict what’s coming next.

The brain fog, the crying, the retelling of the same sad story, the anger and resentment, the sleeping, the procrastinating on most everything, the avoidance, and the lack of ability to care for ones self. Oh, and… of course, isolation. I was about ready to wave the white flag to anyone that could see that I was done. I’ve had enough. I cannot compartmentalize this shit anymore. So…. here I go into Intensive Outpatient group therapy. Yes – GROUP. You have to tell other people your most difficult experiences. You have to be completely open (to your benefit, really), drug and alcohol free, and you need to be there to participate. After all, if you are there, it means either you’re going to help yourself, or you’re not.

Week one was awful. I would yell and scream at my husband. Said things that I never should have uttered. Accused him of things. Didn’t sleep in the same bed for over a week. Some of that was because it gets hot upstairs – poor air flow upstairs. Even with a fan right by my feet. I could not stand to be around him. Everything I heard from him just sounded like nonsense. That’s what I told myself.

Monday, August 3rd was our 24th wedding anniversary. And after all the vitriol I threw at Eric that weekend, I felt like our anniversary was going to suck. I hadn’t gotten him a gift yet until that day. And I knew he had gotten me something and I felt terrible. I’m not a big gift giver. Especially on scheduled days. I do it by random. I run into something in a store that screams “Eric!” and if the money is there… I buy it. It’s just part of how I’m wired. I go through IOP or the Intensive Outpatient Program that Monday, divulge all my gross stuff over the weekend and pick up from there. Money is tight since I’m not working and I have to figure out shit. By the time my day was done at IOP, I had to call the STD company, shop for a gift, and put it on my credit card. I knew money would need to be available in checking and I couldn’t risk putting funds in danger that I wasn’t assured would be there after the purchase.

I got home and gave my husband the bag with the gifts that I bought him. And he gave me mine. While mine was not nearly as sentimental as what he got me – he was still pleased as punch with what I bought for him. After that gift exchange, we had dinner at a supper club and came home to deal with the rest of the day.

Now I’m going into week 3. Without going through all of the nuts and bolts of what IOP tells you – I will tell you where I am at (mentally) right now. I have been able to ask questions of Eric, I have had some motivation to do things and get hugs daily. I feel more supported and seen than ever before. I have tried to work the program into my daily life. I’ve even had to role play through some of the tougher aspects of the program that will not feel anywhere near as natural to me. Especially when I go to back to work. I’m doing deep breathing and guided meditations, I’m on new medication now – which probably helps put a spring in my step. And I’m reaching out to people that have admitted to caring about me. And that helps a great deal. My biggest struggle is writing down my food habits for today and the last two days prior. I have not wanted to be honest about that – at all. I’ve just wanted to say… oops, I forgot. I will write it down. I’ll be embarrassed, but I need to face my food addictions. I need to take care of myself now. And I’m trying. I’m drinking water more than coffee and pop. That’s hard. I’m not designating more time to sitting on the couch and watching tv. And because I don’t get out much – I told Eric that if there is something he would like to do, that for at least a while he should tell me. At that point I can mentally prepare for going out and doing whatever the thing is he wants to do.

My husband has been a great supporter of mine. Even when I didn’t realize he had my back, he’s had my back. We’ve been together regularly since 1997. That says something. My brain says – well, why is he here. He must want something from me, he’s using me for my meager income. And for years I’ve been asking him why. My family left me – so why haven’t you? None of it made sense. I couldn’t let it go.

The IOP program has been a beast. It has brought out the best and the worst in me. I’ve had to say things out loud that I want no other person to hear. Ever. I know I could never have avoided it. Things had to be said, even if that meant I said something or somethings that hurt my husband. It was and wasn’t a test. And we’re growing together as a result of my ability to see into the program and not give up. Right now, I believe that I’m getting better and I have skills to work on. Right now, I’m proud of myself. Here’s one example of why:

When I started trying to give myself positive affirmations, I felt ridiculous. And it was a hard habit to start. – Yes, a habit – it felt cheesy and I didn’t feel like it matched who I was. I felt like I was either patronizing myself OR I had some sort of imposter syndrome. The imposter syndrome has been here for years, let’s face it. I had just come up from the basement, bringing up the laundry. I intended on next vacuuming the kitchen and living room. While I was in the middle of vacuuming, I started telling myself OUT LOUD what a great job I’m doing, etc. And at one point, a burst of – relatively appropriate anger, and I screamed “FUCK YOU _____” into the nothing in particular. Who or what it was directed to does not matter. It was for me.

The truth is, I was 11-15 when the worst of my life happened. I was reliant on parents who – at this point – were not the parents I needed. I relied on them for safety and security. And my emotional stuff was neglected. I was reliant on my church community to show up for me. And my emotional stuff was still neglected. I desperately needed love. And I know I’m not the only one on the planet who takes the frustration of not being heard or seen into having sex with random strangers – and not for money, thank you. I tried to sublimate love from my family for sex. I desperately needed to feel love and that was the only way I knew I could get a modicum of what that looked like. And with that, I was around the wrong people. And I was coping through alcohol and marijuana. And I was blamed, I was shunned, and I was angry. And am angry. I was supposed to be an adult before I was emotionally and physically able to. I made the wrong choices, but no one showed up for me. Talking about feelings is ugly and hard. So, here I am, carrying my 14/15 year old self around with my now 49 year old self and still raging at the machine of existence.

I was not permitted to grow up under healthy terms. Diet, education, etc… all ignored. I had to fend for myself. And while I wasn’t homeless, the home felt less like a home and more of an empty surrounding. I missed my best friends, I couldn’t relate to my friends, and did anyone REALLY want me around? I was caustic. I was caustic for a reason.

So, I just screamed out into the nothingness. I just helped my 15 year old release some frustration. AND – on August 4th, I went to see Tiffany in concert at the Epic Center in Green Bay. Tiffany came around the scene around the time that the worst in my life was happening. I went, because it’s Tiffany. I also went to heal my 15 year old self. Give her permission to enjoy the music. No one should have ever shamed me for liking any of the music I liked. I will never allow someone to take that magic away from me again. The last two songs Tiffany sang, I cried. Like, REALLY ugly cry. My husband was there purely for support. He didn’t like her music. He was there for me. And he held me. Like I needed every person that said they loved me to hold me when I was 15 and I had lost my sister, my mother, and my home. That hug lasted for a long time. It was a hug of – I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re perfect just the way you are. Warts and all. My husband drove us home that night. I didn’t feel comfortable driving us home with all the emotions I was experiencing.

I am not the same person I was 3 weeks ago. I’m stronger and with a particular fire in my belly. I need to get back to work and I need to continue learning how to help myself in difficult situations. They will come. I don’t need to be ready at this moment, but I’m glad this moment hasn’t hurt as much as the last 30+ years have.

I dedicate this blog to me. The me I’m learning to be. The me that is continuing to try. The me that won’t give up. The me that deserves love and compassion. The rest, I need to put on a shelf. I need to appreciate the good things that did come from that time. And while my memory is not good surrounding my earlier years, I’ll pick up the pieces. With help. And I choose who helps. And that’s perfectly fine with me.