The last few weeks have been more intense than any I have experienced. Aside from the outlandish (being offered an episode on a reality docu-series, getting to tell Congress about my high school sex life, turning my friends yellow, this new rare freakshow health problem I’m suddenly dealing with, etc.) my subconscious has been exploding with revelations and annihilating the barriers that have plagued me and hindered my happiness literally my entire life.

I recently talked about my realization that all the hateful, horrible opinions that were beaten into me as a child were untrue and, later, about how free I suddenly am with this realization that none of what had happened was my fault.  With my newfound self-validation, I tackled opponents who had continued to emotionally abuse me up until now, and I informed them that I’m shutting the whole dysfunctional cycle down by removing myself from it whenever they’re projecting anger through hurtful language. I made sure they knew I’m just fucking exhausted from all these years of garbage and I am so ready to be over it, so it’s not even something that affects me anymore. They’re forgiven because I see where they’re coming from. Anytime they want to change, I’m open to help because, Lord knows, I’ve had the luxury of gobs of therapy, and maybe others haven’t. I get that. I’m all about getting everyone else to be happy and free from bullshit, too.

VICTORY!

Oh, but silly me for assuming that this would be the end of this incredible toppling-over of those long-instilled beliefs under which I lived. As my subconscious kept plowing forward, I suddenly realized that, if I was a beautiful, smart, intelligent, etc. person, this would mean that maybe I was really loved a lot more than I’d ever thought. And maaaybe people weren’t just trying to be closer to me to use me and reject me. And maaaaybe the people who did hurt me and reject me only did so because they felt intimidated…or… or something.

Oh. Ew. Weird. Really?

But then, I remembered back to when I was talking to that one crazyhot vixen from my high school, and I was apologizing for saying awful things about her out of my own insecurity (and the fact that I was probably in love with her). She and I were talking about how she’d never done anything to offend me, personally, and how I’d realized that I only said awful things about her because I was so threatened by her ability to seduce any teenage lover she wanted.

And then I blurted, “But I never, ever thought you would give a shit about what I said about you…”

I thought about that for a minute. “I hated myself so much, I never thought anybody could possibly be bothered by any stupid thing I said about them.”

She said, “Whoooooaaa…”

And we sat there in silence for another minute.

Never once in my entire life did I ever assume that I had any clout over anyone else’s feelings; I simply never thought I was important enough to be taken seriously…at all… in any circumstance… ever… From here, I can see that I just assumed I was floating through my interactions with people without having any affect on them at all, positive or negative. Needless to say, the idea that anybody regarded me as someone  intimidating and/or gave my self-loathing proclamations any credence is still laughable to me… And, unfortunately, it’s also probably true….

It took me 4 effing years since then to realize that I probably did that to a bunch of other people… other than her…

Aaaaaahsheeeeeyuuuuaaaaat. Dammit, really?!

So, in the tradition of the 12 Steps (which work on any sort of recovery, btw – not just alcohol abuse), I flung my dignity by the wayside and acknowledged that maybe some of these people I’d always thought were out to hurt me actually might’ve been hurt by my emotional flailing too. And, like I do, I sought out everybody I had an inkling might’ve been affected by this, fully realizing that a) this shit all happened a really, really long time ago and b) I was going to look like an emotionally unstable/crazy person who can’t let go of the past by bringing this shit up.

Whatever. Apologies are definitely one of those things that are better when delivered late than never. And in the off-chance that any of these people I hurt held onto the same kind of anger and misguided beliefs that I did from my opponents, then they definitely deserve an apology… Or even if they didn’t, really. It doesn’t matter. When I fuck something up, I should apologize. Simple as that.

I am both mortified at the realization that I was kind of a cunt to people because I hated myself and didn’t know it and thankful for the insight/opportunity to recognize it so that it nevereverever happens again. And, in the future, I won’t have to bother people who ran away from me years ago with retarded apologies (“retarded” is used in the literal sense here, folks. Calm it down.) that interrupt their current lives like an unhinged maniac.

So… that’ll be nice.

…

But, ultimately, I feel so much lighter, so much freer. All those mantras RuPaul has had me saying for 20 years suddenly all make sense; I couldn’t love anybody properly until I loved myself. What other people say about me really isn’t any of my business because it doesn’t have anything to do with me anyway. (4 Agreements, ahoy!)

I’m pretty exhausted, but I’m also really, really fucking happy for a change. This is new; I like it.

Every day this week, I have had dinner on the table by the time Greg gets home from work. After we’ve finished, we go out on a family walk and then play a board game or video game before Chloe goes to bed. My house is clean; I have been keeping up with it every day. I have been doing yoga and going on walks daily. I have done a little gardening maintenance, kept up with friends, written a couple letters, eaten 3 meals a day. I’ve been normal.
None of this is boring to us because it is such a novelty at this stage; we are elated. Last spring, this scenario would’ve been impossible. 3-5 days out of the week, Greg would come home to a cluttered house with leftovers for dinner and a wife who couldn’t do much more than stare vacantly and tremble with elusive pain as anxiety took over my grasp on reality. This was what he’d grown accustomed to, and the guilt of my contributing to this lifestyle was crippling; it did nothing to quell my crippling anxiety and the cycle seemed doomed to continue.
When I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder last spring, I called a friend who had also dealt with this and I specifically remember her saying, “You will love the feeling of consistency once you’ve been medicated correctly.” I remember thinking that such a lifestyle was impossible for someone like me.
A year later, for the first time since I can remember (maybe 15 years?), it is not. My days are full of energy and achievable tasks that I am tackling with enthusiasm. I wake up at 6:30, work consistently all day, and fall into bed around 10, exhausted but content. Finally, we seem to be making progress around our home instead of just feeling like we are treading water. I have not been gripped with my annual bouts of psychosis in months.
This life of banality is so, so exciting to me. I am leaping into every day and luxuriating in my competence and the resulting enthusiasm.

I spoke to an Indian man at a 7-Eleven across the street from my first university about the career of Mohammed Rafi. We discussed the song “Jaan Pehechaan Ho”, and the man told me it roughly translated into “Introduce yourself to life!”
I finally am!

The last month has been this nonstop blur of the most vivid emotions I’ve felt in decades, from every possible extreme. I’m cackling with elation and sobbing with heartbreak as I’m encountering an intense melange of situations, revelations, interactions and happenings. It’s like I’m feeling in technicolor. Initially, I was terrified and I’ve been constantly checking to make sure I’m not manic, but I’m not – I’m still sleeping soundly; I’m not starting a million projects I’m unable to finish; I’m not making terrible, rash decisions; I’m not doing anything mindlessly or out of my personal control; I’m not flailing about and feeling invincible; I’m taking care of myself and what needs to be done on a daily basis…

I’m okay; I’m just alive.

It took me a couple weeks to realize that, with the clearing away of my mental haze, I’m finally just wide open to experiencing normal human emotions again as they are happening on a day-to-day basis. Without the cloud of depression or mental illness fogging my ability to function, I’m fully absorbing everything that’s happening to me from the exciting to the devastating and I’m finally able to feel it completely.

I’d forgotten what that was like. I forgot what it was like to be able to focus solely on a sense of joy without the mental stagnation of physiological anxiety or fling myself entirely into grief when appropriate. I forgot what it’s like to revel in complete, unadulterated feelings attached with individual circumstances and life events. I’d been removed from this sort of emotional process so long I forgot it was a part of being human; it was something I forgot to look forward to recovering once my mental illness was properly diagnosed and treated.

I feel alive again. Pain and joy and love and anger all feel vivid and organic and pure in a way I’d forgotten about. It’s incredible. I know it’s weird to feel giddy about feeling emotional pain, but I’m just so relieved that I don’t feel numb or preoccupied with the noises in my head anymore. I’m free to feel things deeply again like everybody else without it resulting in a physical or psychological collapse.

Dear God, what an amazing luxury.

When I reached out to Naomi a few years ago, I wasn’t prepared for the cacophony of emotion that came along with her. I didn’t mind it, nor was it too much of a surprise; she’d always been the type to bring along more than expected.

She welcomed me into her arms, into her home with a warm smile and delight in seeing me again. She excitedly brought up memories of us playing together at her home, at our school, away at Girl Scout camp, and I shared with her some photos my mom had sent of the two of us smiling, holding hands. We remembered playing in her pool at her birthday party, making up games in the dogwood in my backyard, and giggling to each other from inside our sleeping bags on hot summer nights. I sat inside her home among the piles of clothes and art and tutus and projects and costumes and Dumbo figurines and pictures and toys while we talked for hours about where we’d been since then and what we’d seen as adults. Like peeling our own onions, we exposed the sides of our pasts we hadn’t let anyone see and nodded with recognition at the answers to the questions we’d forgotten we’d once posed about each other. As she spoke of her childhood and the pain she’d endured, I was intrigued by all the things she revealed to me that had been kept under cover when we were little girls together, secrets that she’d carried with her every day that caused her to appear mangled and misunderstood when she stood in plain view of the rest of us. Where we’d seen a mischievous, stuttering little girl, there had been a scared, abandoned child who had no sanctuary at home and no compassion from confused, intimidated peers. Her loud, rambunctious playfulness had tried to overcome her ever-present uncertainty of herself in a world of people she couldn’t trust. I didn’t know how valuable trusted friends were to her at such a volatile age, in such a vulnerable emotional place; I couldn’t have known how my words and friendship affected her.

A stubborn part of me refused to believe I’d been that important to someone. “What a self-centered, awful, egotistical thing to assume of oneself – that a friendship could have been all the hope someone had…”, I believed.

Naomi had been sick for many years by the time we reunited, and I was scared and upset when I learned the extent of what she’d been fighting against. I listened to her describe the symptoms and conditions of Cushing’s Disease and I researched the condition on my own time; it seemed more than I could process. She was constantly in and out of the hospital with horrible coughs that brought up waste from her lungs in chunks. She was reduced to a wheelchair a lot and used a boisterous dog for assistance in her daily life. She made no excuses for herself and blazed forward through her life, pursuing her interests and being in contact with those she loved despite her crippling illness. She dressed to the nines for backyard bonfires or friends’ birthday parties, and when an attendant at Disney World told her her evening dress would confuse other little girls at the park, she balked, “I’m fat and in a wheelchair; I don’t think anyone’s going to confuse me for Cinderella.” and wheeled herself inside.

I sat with her one night when she was alone in the hospital. All night, she barked and coughed up chunks of stuff that she spit into a cup and handed to a nurse for testing. She was hooked to IVs and machines and had to be given big, important-looking procedures during which I was asked to leave the room. She chatted the evening away, showing me pictures of her family and her friends and the vacations she’d been able to take and the costumes she’d been working on for various events. I stayed awake until she said it was okay to sleep. I tried not to wince when she woke me up with her coughing. I left later in the morning when she insisted I go home and bathe; her husband was coming back soon and she’d be okay. I was glad someone had been there with her during the night, although this was only one of the two monthly trips to the hospital she made regularly.

I was never able to go back.

In the last two years I had chosen to put some distance between us. There were some parts of our personalities that clashed and I knew it wasn’t worth hurting anyone’s feelings over, but too much time together would have made us resentful. I grappled with intense guilt because I knew her time here was limited, but I knew better than to try to fit together pieces that don’t belong; I’d been hurt too many times by forcing those relationships before.

She continued to call. I responded when I could, but never made arrangements to drive all the way up to where she was, about an hour from my home.

Two days before she died, she asked if I would help her with the incredible annual gala she had been putting on for other young people who were seriously ill and could not afford to attend formal dances or felt too uncomfortable to do so. I had helped with hair and makeup of guests and greeting the press a couple years ago, but my mental illness prevented me from attending last year. I was looking forward to getting back on board this year, as I’m finally in a place where I can make plans and be expected to follow through with them completely and without melting down with anxiety beforehand, and I saw the importance of this event both to her and to the community. I was excited to be a part of something positive again. She wrote me a long message about how she needed my help and how I was someone people would listen to and respected; she would appreciate me pulling what strings I could to get some donations for the gala’s silent auction. I told her I’d do my best and I meant it. She told me her illness had taken a turn for the worse, but I didn’t have time to ask her more about it because I was having to type from my phone. She had to go; her friend was there and needed attention. I told her we’d talk soon. She said “hugs”. I sent love.

And then she was gone.

And suddenly, I’m left looking at these pictures of those two little girls, wrapping our arms around each other and smiling at the camera, thinking of nothing else but being happy to be together in that moment. And I realize that that’s maybe all she wanted from me was to just be there with her when she was hurting, no matter how unworthy I saw myself. It was something I could do to make it better. It was something I could afford easily. It was something that meant something valuable to her.

I hurt so terribly with this feeling that I didn’t just stay by her always when I could. She deserved someone to always hold her hand.

I hope she had enough love.

And, with this self-validation, I am free. My life finally, finally feels back on track. It’s been 17-ish years since it derailed – 10 since it tried to kill me and I started trying to figure out how to stop it – and, suddenly, it’s finished. All the Answers aren’t just something I’m trying to mentally process; they’re in my heart, where I believe them and know them as Truths. And suddenly, I am filled with this rapture and energy every day to get up and sprint back into the game.

I know I’m not manic; not only am I heavily medicated to keep myself away from it, but I collapse into bed at the end of the day with a clear mind and no terror that I have so much left to do that I’ll never get to. I’m just busy again. My body isn’t used to it yet; I’ve spent the last 5-ish years being paralyzed by untraceable anxiety about 45% of the time and I’m not used to being on the go all day. It’s okay; I’ll catch up.

My mental collapse at this time of year suddenly makes so much sense; it is this time of year that my anxiety and resulting depression (and literal bouts of insanity) would start kicking into overdrive with the terror that another “school year” had passed and I was on the verge of “inevitable failure.” In fact, EVERY self-sabotage in the last 17 years has been because of this genuine assuredness that I was on the brink of ruining everything, because of this inherent belief that I was “wrong”, that I was going to only succeed in fucking up. When my life was blessed with the gift of Greg and Chloe, the pressure to succeed was heavier than ever and I collapsed under the weight, spending 3-5 days every week for the last 5 years overwhelmed by such anxiety and guilt that my sanity started playing tricks on me and I couldn’t move. All those symptoms of losing track of time and being so seized with terror that I couldn’t focus or move without going into panic attacks were borne of the inherent belief that I didn’t deserve this and would eventually lose it all from my shortcomings.

I consciously knew that, by being disabled from my mental bouts, I was ultimately fucking up and squandering everything, and my guilt doubled my symptoms. I’ve known that I was terrified of failure – I’d identified the problem years ago in my talks with Daisy and my therapists – but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I was so certain that I would or what I could do to change it. I kept repeating the concept that I was worthy and able to myself, but it never rang true; I wasn’t convincing myself. With the recent realization that I actually always have been capable of great things and only thought I wasn’t because I let it get beaten out of me so many years ago, all this fear has suddenly, finally evaporated.

I am finally able to indulge in enjoying my life’s gifts. I am no longer terrified of spending time with my daughter with the knowledge that I wasn’t good enough for her; instead, I am seizing every moment to be with her and show her all the things that I love and want her to love. I feel like I have so much time to make up with her, but a part of me is so happy that she is still young enough to start remembering me the way I want to be instead of the guilty, terrified mother I have been, spending most days in our pajamas and unable to do much. She has been so patient and so unconditionally loving, as children are wont to do with their mothers, and I am so happy that I have a chance to give her all that she deserves.

The same goes for my incredible husband. For years now, he has carried us selflessly, getting up every day and doing everything needed to keep our small family afloat. He has spent so many days going to work all day and coming home to a defunct wife who has had to collapse into bed with raging mental episodes while he tries to deal with a child he has only been able to get to know in these exhausted, terrified hours he has left. Without taking time to preserve himself, he has continued to worry over me and continued to believe that I wanted to get better and was working to fix myself through therapy and fighting for mental clarity. When I was finally diagnosed properly with bipolar disorder last year, he was relieved that it seemed we were finally getting answers and that my medicine would finally be supportive of me getting my life back on track. While it has, he has still continued to wait patiently while I’ve worked to get through this last mental block, and now that I have, I want so desperately to give him the time to mentally recover from the shitstorm he’s been battling during our whole relationship. I’ve been wanting to spoil him and take care of his every need, so he can finally relax and regroup. I know that he has sacrificed so much of himself that he’s lost track of who he is and what it is that makes him happy in order to care for us, and I’m so grateful to finally, finally have the mental wherewithal to give him time to recover that and take care of himself. I am happy to pick up my slack and give him a chance to relax. I am so grateful that his resentment for my condition isn’t as great as his joy to see me “back” and his relief to know that he’s not going to be stuck with me as a burden forever.

There’s some work that has to be done to clean up from these years of dysfunction. For a while, I will have to prove that this is genuine and not just another one of my “I CAN GET BETTER! WATCH!” spells. I have to show that this change of heart isn’t just me forcing myself to “get better”; it is a realization that I am better/okay and my terror isn’t dictating my daily life anymore. However, I can’t convince everyone of how real it feels just by telling them. It will take time. I’m so very happy to have time and to still have family who loves me and has been waiting patiently for this to which I can finally start giving back to them as much as they give me. I will have to deal with their hesitation to trust my ability to maintain this momentum, but I understand completely where it comes from. I’m not frustrated; just grateful that they’re still here and giving me the benefit of the doubt. I also have to get my body back into a healthy state. All this inactivity and losing track of what I’m eating and when has taken its toll and I’m heavy and lacking energy right now with the weight of all of it. It’s okay; I’m not angry at myself for letting me get this way and I don’t hate my body. I just want to make it up to myself and get myself back to a state that feels weightless and energized so I can keep up with my new pace. I have the energy to do it and the lack of desire to fill myself with unhealthy fuel. It’ll happen.

I am shocked and excited by how much I want to do and this overwhelming confidence/knowledge that I really can and will be able to. My daily task list has grown exponentially, but I’m not making physical lists manically that let me down at the end of each day by being incompleted (which always only proved to reinforce this belief that I couldn’t achieve anything successfully. It was a vicious cycle.) My mind, finally relieved of the involuntary obsessive doubts and consequential psychosis, is pouring out creativity and I am overwhelmed with excitement at seeing myself produce quality, inspired work. This, of course, only adding fuel and further validation to my belief that I’m capable of accomplishing wonderful things. It feels like an upward spiral.

I no longer have the daily nagging urge to drink my mind into relief. I am too energized and motivated to get things done and to participate in my life to want to hinder my body and mind with substances. I see the need to be lucid and present for all of this. The relief from this daily struggle is overwhelming.

I am so content. I am so excited. I have been enjoying every single thing that makes my life wonderful, from my family to living where I do to what I can create to what is available to savor in my daily life. The novelty of this awakening might subside after a while when it is no longer bright and shiny and new, but that’s okay.

It has been so, so long that I’ve been pushing my way through all this. I never really thought I would get here, to be honest. I never thought I’d figure out why I was crippled by doubt; I knew myself well enough to know that brainwashing myself with daily affirmations would never work and I never saw myself fitting all the pieces together. And they’re here. It all makes sense. It feels so complete.

I will continue to take my medications because I recognize that my mind isn’t capable of keeping itself sane/healthy and that my involuntary depression and manic episodes will only throw me off track and begin to brainwash me into thinking I’m a failure again. I can’t afford that lifestyle ever again. It is worth it to me to keep my mind in line and I am thankful to finally have the right diagnosis to create a daily life of functionality for myself.

I turned the corner. I feel so optimistic. I know that I’m not “cured” or going to be free of problems for forever; there will be bouts of mental doubt and there will be failures and there may be more mental episodes in the future. That’s okay. I know I can handle them because I’ve been surviving them this long; they won’t be able to let me feel defeated anymore with the inherent knowledge that I am capable of tackling them. That’s exciting to me. What an incredible relief.

If you have been reading these blog posts for any amount of time or keeping up with my story in general, I want to thank you. So many of my friends have shown support and faith over the years when I never, ever could and never was ever to believe them/you. I always felt I was fooling everyone into believing I was something better than I am, but I’m happy to report that I was wrong. I cannot thank the people in my life for refusing to let me brainwash you, too and for stubbornly putting up with my self-doubt and self-sabotage. I probably wouldn’t have; I would’ve had enough of my eternal whining to have kept me around as a friend. Nobody likes a self-pitying whiner.

Much much love and light to you. And me!

It’s a Tuesday and you’re just, you know, not. You could drag yourself into public and shuffle among the masses, questioning your inherent self-worth and life’s ultimate purpose, or you could make yourself an event for others to appreciate with little to no effort. Your choice!

Just follow these three easy steps and you’ll be shocked at how much dignity and respect you get anywhere you go!

1) Dress entirely too nicely for where you plan to be for the day. Look, my Gran wore a red and black Chanel suit to my first birthday party, which was held at my parents’ kitchen table with only them and my other grandparents in attendance. You know what everyone else wore? Doesn’t matter. If you’re the best dressed person in the room, people are going to notice and feel underdressed in response. The outfit should be flawless (no rips or tears, wear accessories appropriately, etc. You aren’t in the drunk tank; have some dignity.) but DO NOT worry about doing your hair or makeup. The clothes will do the work. Also note that “nice clothes” doesn’t automatically mean “expensive garb”. As long as it’s classy and well-tailored, it doesn’t matter what the price tag said. Costume jewelry and props (cigarette holders, muffs, parasols, opera glasses) are ideal, but pick one only; you aren’t a circus.

2) Gigantic sunglasses are imperative. Nobody has to know you’re suffering from seasonal allergies/pink eye and just don’t feel like putting on any makeup or making eye-contact like a grown up. Gigantic shades make you look glamorous, aloof, and preoccupied with some residual ailment obtained from somewhere in your busy, socially exhausting agenda. Maybe you were up all night drinking with an old friend in his penthouse at the W after he finished performing a one-night-only gig at the biggest venue in town. Maybe your eyes are bleary from chomping stogies over poker with some politicians’ wives. Maybe you’ve been up for three days cranking out your masterpiece so your agent will quit pestering you. Honestly, maybe you were doing none of those things and are exhausted from caring for a fussy, sick kid all week; however, your fancy clothes and fab sunglasses tell a totally different story. The more gigantic and audacious the better! You’re not here to answer to the masses’ aesthetics; you have a life. If you’re a lady, don’t be afraid to don some men’s shades; perhaps you swiped them off your lover’s nightstand as you dashed out of the house. Plus, sunglasses are an invaluable tool for communicating with those around you and getting what you want. I’ll explain in a minute.

3) How you carry yourself is of the most importance here. You can’t just stroll around wearing fancy duds and acting totally normal; then your outfit is a hindrance to your cause and not an asset. Plus, you’ll look a little delusional, Miss Havisham. Instead, you immediately need to adopt the mentality that it is simply too early to be wherever you are, no matter what time of day it is. Even if it’s 5 p.m, it is too blasted early for all this effort, don’t you agree? Tilt your chin slightly upward; you’d be facedown in a gutter and still be looking down your nose at this wretched sunlight. PLEASE NOTE: This DOES NOT mean that you are angry at or spiteful toward everyone else! Treating people like crap will only get spit in your food and no extra favors! (Plus, you’re hideous when you’re upset.) You must act as if you and everyone around you have all been shuffled out of necessary slumber to attend to whatever tedium it is that has to be done today. Treat everyone as if they are your allies in this unbearable travesty; act impressed that they are all holding themselves together so well in the face of this apparent adversity. (People dig feeling like they’re accomplishing something or that others think they’re awesome for just being themselves. Flattery gets you everywhere.) Speak softly so everyone has to be quiet and lean in intimately to hear you, and lay on the pet names, especially if you’re in the South. Treat people who wait on you (sales clerks, servers, etc.) as though they’re doing you an incredible favor and providing you with great relief and convenience you could never live without in your condition. Be sure to lower your chin and speak conspiratorially to them over your shades; let them know you feel their pain. Touch people gently on the arm when asking for assistance; be sure to thank them sincerely. If you want to treat yourself to something edible, do so boldly, as though you’re rewarding yourself for soldiering on through this ghastly sunshine. This can work for any budget. If you buy something cheap, then giggle about how you’re “slumming it” for fun with a Cheerwine and a Slim Jim for breakfast, like a mischievous child. If you buy something decadent, then it’s because you simply can’t be expected to settle for all of life’s shortcomings. Either way, you deserve this treat! And so does everyone else! We all work so hard and we don’t get any of the love we truly need; let’s change all that and give it to ourselves and each other. We can change the world!

Above all, stay classy. You can be a little loose and seem a tad fatigued, but seeming disoriented or wobbly screams “can’t handle booze” which is the foremost faux pas for any fabulous person.

And there we are. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, as of today, I have completed 90-ish% of the content for my memoir, which is more than 60,000 words. I have just a little more of filling-in-the-gaps editorializing before we get to move to the scary “editing” phase.

HOWEVER! I HAVE AN EDITOR! She’s brilliant, adept, well-rounded, objective, thoroughly educated, and amazing at constructive criticism/thinking outside the proverbial box. Also, I trust her implicitly with my writing, and she’s foxy to boot. (That’s totally important.) It means a ton that she’s agreed to jump on board with me and see where this thing goes (because, at the moment, I can only afford to pay her in poems and serenades), and I am so grateful to have someone to workshop this project with who can help breathe new life into my stale old words and let me polish it all off so it’s gorgeous and shiny!

I’ll be honest; I’ve been saying I would write this thing for years now, but I never actually visualized going through the steps to get it done. Now, some of the steps are behind me and that seems surreal, because Lord knows I haven’t taken on a decently-sized project in some six years or so. However and for the record, I can clearly see how things were supposed to play out right up until the present in order for me to be able to write a complete story, so I don’t have any sort of guilt sbout not getting this started earlier. I actually feel like it’s exactly where it needs to be, and everything is falling in line with its creation. I’m trying not to laugh at how relieved I feel after getting over a few months’ worth of sitting around producing nothing of value and hating it.

I feel like it’s going! And happening! Finally!

Will keep updating as we move through the stages. Next up is editing and researching manuscript software options and agent/query things. Blergh. Paperwork.
Can’t I just write a book and attach it to a helium balloon and have it explode into a million published copies once it hits the sky and somehow bring me dividends as people pick it up and read it? Don’t we have that technology yet?!

I cried yesterday for 6 solid hours – great, heaving, happy sobs that I couldn’t contain and that caused my poor little girl to worry over. I kept hugging her and telling her that they were happy tears, but I know she won’t understand until she’s older. She just kept giving me hugs and telling me she loved me, which was perfect. I cried until I was exhausted and collapsed in bed at 7:00 pm and I slept and slept until noon today.

I have never felt so wonderful.

As I wrote the blog post about my experiences yesterday, I suddenly became awash with the realization that it wasn’t my fault. All of this guilt I’ve carried around with me every day for more than half of my life was unnecessary. All the years I’ve cried and tried to destroy/punish myself – literally kill myself – out of guilt that there was something wrong with me – it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault that everyone told me I was wrong and stupid and ugly and unlovable. My only fault was believing them, but I was so young; I had no way of knowing that everyone was wrong.

There’s a joke I’ve seen before that says, “Before you assume you are depressed, check to make sure you aren’t surrounded by assholes.” It seems that joke is really more of a mantra.

I spent half my life apologizing for speaking and thanking people for paying attention to me because I believed I wasn’t worth it, because these people convinced me I wasn’t. I forced myself to be around people who didn’t love or appreciate me or treat me well because I didn’t think I deserved better and I felt so guilty for being who I was. I ran away from good situations and buried myself in terrible ones because I knew the good situations weren’t really for me; everyone in them would find out how awful I was and they’d reject me, which is what I’d deserved. I never ever believed wonderful people when they claimed to have found something wonderful in me, too; I felt guilty for somehow duping them. I carried this guilt with me everywhere. It’s what caused me to stay silent about my mental illness for so long and what lead me to trying to eliminate myself from everyone’s life, because I didn’t want to be anyone’s problem anymore.

But it wasn’t my fault if I was someone’s problem; it was theirs. There was no need to be guilty about it, because it wasn’t my fault for being what I am and believing what I do, because what I am and what I believe is right and true and beautiful. It was only my fault for believing those stupid, hateful people and letting them convince me that there was something wrong with me.

In my emotional upheaval yesterday, I wrote to a boy I’d gone to school with who had also been a target of hatred and malice, but who had always been so kind to me in the years we were in school together. He escaped to the sanctuary of homeschool for a year of our junior high experience, so he wasn’t subject to as much of the torment as I was, but he was shocked and saddened to learn the extent of what I’d experienced back then. It wasn’t my intention to upset him, and I realized that I’d never told anyone exactly what I’d gone through because I’d always assumed I’d brought it on myself and that I’d deserved what I’d gotten. We compared stories and shared our wounds a little more with each other, and I was happy to have the opportunity to realize that we weren’t really as alone as we’d thought at the time. I wish we’d known earlier; things might’ve played out differently for us since then. However, we’re very happy with our current lives and how awesome we’ve realized we are, despite what we were led to believe in the past, so this is a happy place to reunite, I think.

Ultimately, however, I wept for that poor little girl who really believed she was wrong and who punished herself every single day since then because of what these ignorant people told her and beat into her. Only standing here am I realizing how alone I really felt and how thorough the damage was, and I am finally crying about how unfair it was and how undeserving I was of it, instead of crying because I thought I did. In a way, it is very healing and very empowering, but in a way I am so sad that I didn’t know about my own truth before now. I’m sad I hurt myself so badly because of all the guilt I felt for absolutely no reason.

But it’s over now, and I think that’s what I’m feeling the most. All the guilt, all the self-blaming and self-doubt and being motivated out of fear and self-loathing – it’s done. I’ve validated myself to myself, even though it took almost two decades, and now I have this story I really believe in and I really want to share and tell; I believe it can be successful because every time I’ve really listened to myself and what’s been in my heart, I’ve never been wrong. I don’t have to leap and wait for the net to appear; the net has always been there because I built it. And I deserve it. And it’s going to be great.

I’m great. And I’ve never felt so happy about that in my whole life.

I get to tell my story now.

It’s been coming to a head for the last couple weeks in me, but then, just today, I hit my tipping point and have been sitting here trembling in tears and waves of happiness. It may seem like an overreaction on a socio-political level for these times considering 1) I’m already married and 2) nothing’s been written in stone just yet regarding the SCOTUS decision, but the details of all of these current events don’t really matter to me anymore.
The change is here.
It will all be over soon.

Let me explain. In my early adolescence, I started getting symptoms of my mental illness in which my reality would warp and terrify me. I started expressing this to people around me, only to be told to stop creating drama for no reason and why couldn’t I be happy, considering all the things that I had; why did I have to be so difficult? I started feeling ostracized for being hard to understand and difficult within my family and around my peers because of this, which coincided with typical adolescent alienation in and of itself. Coincidentally, DADT and DOMA were being batted around in the public eye and, even though we were still kids, we stood around and observed these social rumblings from where we were perched in our storybook small, conservative Southern town. I’d always been in the Academically Gifted program in my public school system, but, in the 7th grade, we were expected to thoroughly research a current social issue and then present both sides of the argument to our peers. In the 1995-96 school year, I was the first student ever to choose to explore and discuss gay rights for this tiny, small-town essay project. I remember my teacher warning me that this hadn’t been done before in either our school or our region, and people were going to feel weird about it, but I asserted that all I was really doing was discussing the issue – not fighting for one side or the other – so there wouldn’t be that much of a problem, I didn’t think.

I was wrong.

Suddenly, I was talked about in hushed voices among students and teachers alike. My siblings started to get picked on for having a “dyke” as a sister; my closest “friends” told me they’d pray for me and then started telling me they didn’t like that I’d “taken a turn for the worse.” My parents were worried for my well-being and encouraged me to consider discussing an easier subject – perhaps something that wasn’t quite so controversial. The youth minister at the church across the street from my school warned my classmates to stay away from the “lesbian” that Satan had taken hold of in my class (that’s me, by the way), for the Dark Lord was using me as an instrument to infiltrate the minds of our precious town’s youth. (Not an overdramatization.) I was mocked, loudly. I was touched by very angry boys, violently and sexually. Daily. People candidly, aggressively told my family that I was going to hell because I had the audacity to publicly discuss gay people and their role in society. My house was toilet-papered. Repeatedly. My younger siblings were mocked and threatened.
My family asked me to tell people to stop. I certainly tried that.

I cannot tell you what drove me to stick to my guns on something so seemingly unimportant that year, when I was so fragile and so vulnerable to the hateful words of everyone around me to begin with. Of course, there was no reward; my peers presented their projects on capital punishment and censorship to dead-eyed, apathetic audiences and mingled with kids from other schools who had covered the same topics when we went to a regional conference to celebrate the statewide project. I presented my unbiased research to jeers and whispers and sat alone in school on the day of the conference, as there were no other students discussing LGBT issues for me to mingle with.

After the whole thing was over, I collapsed internally. Despite knowing inherently that I’d done nothing wrong, my subconscious had all the proof it needed to convince me that what I believed and who I was was stupid and ugly and wrong and unlovable. And so, for the next … I dunno.. decade? of my life, I continued to actively hate on myself like everyone else had in that brief span of time, wondering why I had to be so stupid and ugly and wrong and unlovable. What was wrong with me that I couldn’t stop thinking and being like this?

My mental illness got worse as my teenage years powered on. I didn’t tell anybody because I know that nobody loves crazy people; we see that all the time in the movies. My symptoms held me captive over these awful feelings of self-loathing and I did anything I could to escape them, flinging myself to any person or any substance that would make me feel beautiful, loved, brilliant, and part of something wonderful. I knew I couldn’t be those things because everyone had so successfully proven to me that I couldn’t.

Aaaanyway, you’ve seen how my life has played out since then. It lots and lots worse and then incredibly better. I’ve found psychiatry and people who have loved me exactly as I am and made me feel beautiful and brilliant despite myself and my demons. With the patience and love of my friends and family, I have a lifestyle I’m happy with and a medical cocktail that keeps my bouts of insanity at bay. It’s nice. I’ve been healed and happy for a while.

But, recently, as all of this fighting for equality among the LGBTQetc. community has reached a fever pitch, an old light has flickered back to life inside me and I’ve felt this incredible sense of clasping my younger self close and validating everything she ever felt back then. I feel us learning that it didn’t matter what everyone was saying right then, it didn’t matter how awful their words and their bodies hurt you; you were fucking right, Elizabeth. You were fucking right.
And anytime you listen to exactly what’s in your heart, you’re going to continue to be right. And fuck them if they’re not on board with you right away because they will be. And, when it happens, you won’t even be angry with the people who told you you were wrong because you’ll be so happy that everyone has finally caught on to what you’ve been saying and is free to do what they want that there’s no time to be anything but ecstatic.

This essay/entry reads as very wobbly. It’s okay. I think I’ll be pretty wobbly for a bit, but I’m okay.

I’m really okay.

I get to tell my story now!

I need to tell you about something, but not so that you’ll be scared; I want you to know so that it doesn’t happen the way it happened with me, because nobody told me any differently until today. I went to see my doctor and, as I was casually relaying this story to her, her eyes grew wider and wider until she very professionally said, “Most women faint and/or have to go to the ER after experiencing what you did. You’re very lucky you didn’t suffer any permanent damages.” I suddenly had the feeling that I should have been more scared when it happened to me five years ago. She solidified my suspicion when she left and repeated, “That is… a very interesting story you told me.”
She’s an understated type of woman. I caught her drift anyway.

Five years ago, I went to have an IUD inserted after having my first child. I’d been going to an OB/GYN who is a close family friend of ours, someone who is hailed as a capital doctor in the Coastal Carolina area of Conway, SC. As she was inserting the scope to measure the size of my uterus, there was a strange popping sensation and then a rush of pain and cramping. Without missing a beat, she extracted the lance, wiped her hands, quickly stated, “We’ve run into a bit of a problem and I overshot and punctured your uterus. This happens all the time and is no big deal, but we’ll need to wait a month and try again. Take a minute and get dressed when you’re ready. A nurse will see you out,” and left the room.

I was in pain and a bit lightheaded, but because my trusted doctor had told me there was nothing to worry about, I didn’t. Trembling, I slowly loaded myself in my car, got something to eat on the way home to stop the shaking, and stopped by my mom’s house to pick up my baby girl. When I got there, I told her what had happened, and she insisted that I sit down because I looked “ashen”, which is Mom-code for “f*#!ing awful”. I bled and cramped for a few hours, but I wasn’t worried; apparently this happened all the time.

The next time I saw that doctor, she inserted the IUD with no problem and no mention of the time before. And it was over. I moved shortly afterward to North Carolina and began seeing the stunningly beautiful, gentle, and professional Dr. Tahtawi of Total Health Total Woman in Cary, who was calm, informative, and nonjudgmental in our appointment today.

What I didn’t know was that, while it isn’t necessarily uncommon for a doctor to puncture a patient’s uterus during this procedure, it is a much bigger deal than I was lead to believe. Most women lose consciousness and have to be treated medically; many of these women press charges for malpractice because of the high risk for permanent damage that this accident can cause. After doing some research today, I learned that this was the case more often than not and that I was lied to by someone I trusted who had very, very intimate access to my body.

Obviously, I’m very angry because I feel violated, but there’s not much I can do about it now except tell everyone I know so that it won’t happen to you, too.

Because if you think scorning a woman is bad, try punching a hole in her uterus and then telling her there’s nothing wrong.