Janel Brubaker's Blog, page 16

Small Vacations

Today and tomorrow, I’m taking off of work for vacation. I was supposed to go to Vegas and meet up with some friends, but after Omicron went rampant I decided that was an unwise idea and canceled my trip. But I still wanted the vacation, so I’m staying home and resting. Today I got my hair done (and I am thoroughly obsessed with it!) and I’ve been working on homework, which has given me such a sense of self-direction. I really and truly do feel as though I am finally embracing not only the person I am becoming, but the person I already am.

It hasn’t been easy. Healing never is. And it’s meant that I’ve been having dreams about the people I would most like to forget. Last night, I dreamt about my ex. It was a horrible dream, one that included his family and put me in a position where I was both physically and emotionally unsafe. It didn’t hit me as hard as dreams about my ex usually do, so I’m taking that as a win, but it definitely hung over me most of the day.

But I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I’ve been having multiple dreams/nightmares about the people who’ve abused me, and I’ve come to a conclusion. We know that when abuse victims leave their abusers, often the abuser will try and win them back with love bombing and other forms of affection because they hate feeling as though they’re losing their power over the victim. Well, in the same way, when we really start to heal the deepest parts of ourselves, I think those wounds come to us in the form of nightmares because we’re actually losing the last remnants of what connects us to our abuser. It’s the last of the “dead flesh” getting cut away, so to speak.

And the thing is, I know this healing is working because I genuinely want the people who have mistreated me to find some kind of peace and happiness, whatever that looks like for them. It’s not easy, wishing them well, but then I look at who I am now and the life I’m building and I think, who I am now would never put up with that shit. And ya’ll – I cannot even describe how fucking amazing that feels, knowing that I am strong enough in my sense of self-worth to never again allow anyone to treat me even a little like they did.

Because the truth is that there are people in this world who cannot stand the light of others. Jealousy, insecurity, self-doubt, competition, toxicity, selfishness…so many things contribute to these unhealthy bonds that lead us into the darkest parts of our lives. And rather than genuinely basking in the light that others radiate, and letting them bask in ours, there’s so much more focus on trying to dim the lights around us. Well, I’m not going to dim my light just to make someone else feel more comfortable. Nor will I ask anyone else to dim their light for me. I am putting to rest those mentalities this year.

And then I am going to shine like a fucking beacon. Hopefully those who tried to dim my light will find the way to shine without needing other lights to dim or go out entirely. Hopefully they will find their own healing, their own health and happiness, but I’m not going to worry over them anymore. That’s not my burden to carry. I will speak blessings over them, I will speak blessings over me, and I will continue to live my life. I will write. I will grow. I will heal. I will learn. And I will give myself the space and compassion that I deserved from them, because I also deserve to receive it from myself.

I’m sending love and light to ya’ll.

When the Good Things Happen

Sometimes it’s nice to see the positive outcomes of everything I’ve been working on and healing from. I’ve already written about having my debut book of poetry accepted for publication, and I’m honestly still reeling from that. I’m continuing to revise, to edit, to change the order of my poems so that the manuscript is ready to be published. It’s a process I’m loving, even though it has been challenging. All changes are entirely up to me to make based on the feedback from my editors, and I am trying to remain as true and honest to my work as I can be while also keeping myself open to suggestions.

The first two weeks of my second masters program are complete and I am absolutely enthralled by my classes. The reading assignments, the engagement with fellow classmates, and the discussions in the forums have been wonderfully edifying. There’s a real community among the students in this program that I didn’t feel as strongly in my M.F.A. And maybe that’s not quite fair – there are several people from my M.F.A. program I consider myself close to, writers whose opinions and perspectives I respect. I think this new program feels different because it’s not focused on creative writing, and we’re reading the same assignments as our classmates. There’s more engagement, more conversation, more of a critical dialogue surrounding our reading assignments.

And on top of this two gigantic, amazing things, I’m on the verge of being able to announce something else that has simply filled me with excitement and anticipation. Sometimes I need to remember to take the time to really sit and revel in the wins, the victories, the good moments. It’s been a hectic week at work and that has meant a lot of exhaustion and stress, so taking even just a moment to really think about the good things that are here and those that are coming is soothing. Exciting. Inspiring. Motivating. Simply amazing.

I’m still healing from a lot of things, especially since certain people continue to lie about me on their social media. But then I remind myself that no one I respect, care about, and trust believes the things they’re saying about me. And if spreading lies about me makes those two people feel better about themselves, then I can live with that. It’s not an easy thing to ignore. It’s not an easy thing to continue to let happen. But that’s the thing with narcissists: nothing you do is ever right, ever good enough, ever their responsibility. They project their own faults and failings onto you, create a false narrative to try and control how people see you, and then throw a fit when you call them out on it. This is the pattern that has played out with them for years now, and it’s not going to change.

So I’m choosing to look at the good. This year has been and will continue to be a year of leveling up. 2020 and 2021 were years of massive healing, and now I’m finding myself feeling more grounded, more sure of myself, more confident, than I ever have been before. It’s not just a mantra I repeat to myself, it’s starting to feel like a real change in how I see myself. And fuck, it feels so good.

Be on the lookout over the next couple of weeks for my big announcement because I can’t wait to tell you all what’s coming next for me.

After Week One of My First Semester of my Second Graduate Degree

Week one of my second graduate degree is done.

I’ve done a lot of reading of texts that I’d never heard of before, including one by the same man who taught Queen Elizabeth I (Roger Ascham). This week we’re reading In Praise of Folly by Erasmus, a man I have wanted to read for quite a long time. He was a peer of Sir Thomas More, and the two of them (while deeply imperfect humans) were revolutionary for the time because they both taught their daughters the same lessons they taught their sons. It was not uncommon at the time for girls to be taught hardly the basics of reading and writing (even daughters of nobility were sometimes barely literate), and nothing at all of mathematics, science, politics, religion, etc. Those were the masculine pursuits. So for two such prominent figures as Sir Thomas More and Erasmus to teach their sons and daughters the exact same subjects, was pretty incredible.

Moreover, reading these writers in the context of understanding the movement of humanism is basically a personal goal of mine. I’ve been buying all the texts I don’t currently have so that I can return to them later and read them in their entirety. Not only am I fascinated by and completely enthralled with the literature of the Renaissance, but I have always wanted to better understand humanism, especially because I have such complicated feelings about some of the prominent figures within the movement (namely Sir Thomas More and Niccolo Machiaveli). More, a man I both respect and dislike, called himself a humanist, upholding compassion and mercy and, as I understand it, anti-war, and yet he was responsible for murdering many non-Catholics while he was Chancellor to King Henry VIII, burning them at the stake for heresy.

I’m simply tingling with anticipation to reread these texts and discuss them with my classmates. It just feels good and right to be in this program, challenging myself and moving forward in my goals to rebuild my life. The more I read, the more I understand myself and my needs. The more I write, the more I feed the spiritual parts of myself. It’s a journey I hope I can always pursue and work on. Especially now that I’m only a few months away from being entirely self-sufficient, it feels like I’m really – finally – at the place I hoped I would be when I left my ex. I’m still healing, I’m still learning, and I’m still managing my mental health, but I can see the changes. I can feel the growth.

And rather than continuing the seek happiness and fulfillment entirely outside of myself, I’m learning to find it within. Because yes, learning, reading, writing, hiking, etc. are all external things that bring me joy and allow me to feel fulfilled, but looking inward and actually seeing and feeling the love I have for myself, and knowing that I’m only fostering that love to grow, is invaluable. Because now I know that everything I do is for my wellbeing and self-love.

Reflecting Back

It’s interesting being in another grad program after having completed a grad program last year, especially when I had some tremendously painful experiences in that grad program. I went into my MFA believing that I would come out of it with a newly rebuilt life, surrounded by the people I loved and cherished most, and in a way, this did happen. I just imagined other people would still be here with me. And really, when I think about everything those two people put me through, I’m glad they’re not here any longer. But sometimes it’s easier to be sad over the things we’ve lost than it is to see the upside to their absence. I used to get angry at the idea that my miscarriages could have been blessings, but when I started going through my divorce and realized just how abusive my ex was, I realized I didn’t want him in my life. At all. And if we’d had our two babies, I would be stuck dealing with him over custody and visitation. So now I do see my miscarriages as a blessing, one my body gave me long before I ever realized my marriage would come to any kind of end.

This absence, likewise, is a blessing, even though it’s left scars for me to try and mend. When people love-bomb you, tell you that they consider you living with them as a blessing (after you’ve asked them to tell you if they want you to find your own place because you know that you’re going through a hell of a lot and you don’t want to bring your own shit into their lives), and when they make you feel like you are safe with them, the hammer falling and shattering the facade is something I can only describe as emotional torture. It’s hard looking back and seeing how many red flags there were from the start, and how willingly I allowed myself to be lead into an unsafe living situation with two people who were not trustworthy. As my therapist has said more than once, the impulse to believe the best in people is admirable, until that impulse leads us to question our own instincts.

I didn’t just question my instincts, I rationalized them away by saying I was just feeling insecure from my marriage, that these were trauma responses, that I needed to learn to trust again if I was going to be in any kind of close, personal relationship with anyone. Codependency at its finest. My therapist has said that it’s always wise to be mistrustful of relationships that feel like home super fast. And it’s not that we can’t have immediate connections with people, but those connections that feel especially close from the beginning are not always the healthiest. Some people, whether they mean to or not, feel safe when they are anything but. And I did immediately feel at home with these two people, and it was a temporary balm to the pain of my divorce, so I welcomed it gladly.

I should have been more alert, more attentive to the red flags. Things that I thought were temporary issues (namely money and paying rent on time) ended up carrying over into every single month. And despite the fact that I was paying an equal part of the rent and utilities (and at times I was paying more than my fair share), I was not given autonomy in the home we shared. I couldn’t have people over without asking permission, and unless that person and I spent time in my room with the door shut, I wasn’t given any privacy with my friends. It had to be a group activity with myself, my guests, and my roommates. And this went both ways with their guests, too. I was always invited to play board games with them, and there wasn’t anything wrong with that at all, but I felt very much like I couldn’t say no. I felt like we were always more than roommates, except when it came to me having an equal share of the living space, or an equal say in the expressing and enforcement of boundaries.

So much of this I didn’t even start to unpack until I had been pretty much kicked out. (What else do you call giving someone the silent treatment for weeks on end and making them feel like so much of a burden that they can’t even go into the kitchen to make their own food?) With no warning, no explanation, and no opportunity for reconciliation, I was made to feel so incredibly uncomfortable in a space that was as much mine as it was theirs, that I had to try and move out within a single day. This was better for me anyway as it meant I didn’t have to worry about getting eviction notices every single month, or notices of late fees piling up that were going unpaid. But it didn’t make it hurt any less, especially considering everything I had already gone through up to that point.

I will not ever allow myself to be taken advantage of like that again. And I do share an equal part of the toxicity that was allowed to form because when I should have voiced my boundaries, I kept them to myself. When I should have expressed my own needs, I stayed silent. They made their choices and I made mine, and none of it lead to anything healthy or respectful. If I had been open about my boundaries and expectations, I likely would have known how toxic they were much sooner and spared myself the stress and uncertainty I carried for weeks. But hindsight is 20/20. And through it all, I learned huge lessons about myself and how easy it is for me to take the cruelty of others and erase it. I have since then allowed myself to speak more openly about my thoughts, feelings, needs, and boundaries, and I have been called a bitch multiple times because of it.

Good. It means I’m finally not shrinking myself for everyone else’s benefit. If people want to make me the scapegoat so they don’t have to confront their own insecurities, then that’s fine. I’m going to keep living my best life surrounded by the people who have cared about and supported me through everything. In a few months, I’ll be in a place where I could afford a cheap apartment on my own, if it came to that, and I am beyond thrilled to see myself moving in such a positive direction. This is how we rebuild our lives: lesson by lesson, brick by fucking brick.

Sometimes the Excitement is Overwhelming

Well, it’s been about a week since my last therapy appointment (maybe a week and a half), and I can already see an immense difference in my mood, motivation, and mental health. I have done what my therapist suggested and returned to my love of nature, and I intend to continue doing so in increasing amounts as the year goes on. When I take my puppy outside, I say hello to the trees in the condo complex. I talk to the birds and the squirrels. I take the time to stop and brush my fingers along the branches of trees and shrubs, just to feel myself connected to their energy.

And this week, I’ve been better at getting things done when I need to. Which is a good thing because I’ve started my second masters program this week and there is already so much to read! I’ve realized that reading books of all sorts is also part of my spiritual expression. This week I’ve read two chapters for my Theory of Writing class and started reading one of two gigantic reading assignments for my Humanism in the Renaissance class. I’ve started with The Schoolmaster by Roger Ascham who, I was thrilled to learn, was actually her majesty Queen Elizabeth I’s teacher. My very Tudor-obsessed brain did a little jig when I realized who Ascham was.

And the book itself has been fascinating so far. In it Ascham describes his personal views on the ways students (whom he refers to as scholars) were taught. Namely, he derides the impulse to physically beat children as a means of getting them to learn, arguing that doing so builds a resentment and hatred for learning before the student even understands what learning is or its importance. These musings come about from a discussion he has with several members of Queen Elizabeth’s council; some agree with him, others adhere to the tradition of beating children as a means of getting them to learn. And so he decides to write this book theorizing what he believes to be true regarding the best practices for teaching.

I haven’t gotten far in this book, but I am thoroughly loving every word. Not only am I a total sucker for all things related to the English Renaissance (like I said, Tudor obsessed), but humanism in its entirety is fascinating to me. From its inception in Greece and Rome, up through the Renaissance, humanism is a subject I’ve long wanted to better understand. I’ve read Sir Thomas More’s Utopia. I’ve read Niccolo Machiaveli’s The Prince (both of which I’ll be reading this semester). But understanding these works in a larger context of an entire theoretical, political, religious, and artistic movement is daunting to do on one’s own, and now I have a class giving me this chance. And to start out with a book by the man who taught Queen Elizabeth I…well, it can’t get any better.

I’m also excited because I got a raise at work! A substantial one. And that means that I am only a few months away from being in a position to provide entirely for myself, should the need ever arise. And that includes affording my own place. And right now there’s no fear of that, but it has been my goal since my divorce to get to a place of complete self-sufficiency. I’ve been in too many situations where I was reliant on other people just to survive and never again will I let that happen. It feels so good to have gotten myself to this place. And once I can actually close out my storage unit, I’ll be even better off every month.

So here’s to the continued process of healing and self-improvement!

First Steps In Publishing

And the day has finally come: my first meeting with the editors of the press that has accepted my debut book of poetry for publication!

I’m still in awe that this is the life I’m blessed enough to live. 2022 has already had its share of hardships, but seeing this next phase of my writing dreams unfold before my eyes is simply astonishing. No matter what happens this year, good or bad, I will have a book published. Me. I will. I keep waiting for it to be true about someone other than me, but then I keep communicating with my editors and filling out questionnaires for them and, whaddya know, this unfolding dream really is happening in my life.

The biggest thing I have been dreaming about since I was a child and working toward for seven years, is finally starting. It’s the culmination of so much hard work and dedication. It’s the product of a series of difficult choices that have lead me into and out of some of the darkest moments of my life. And more than anything, it’s an artifact honoring not only my journey through pregnancy loss and domestic violence, but also into the deepest parts of who I am, to better know and love myself.

Loving myself. It sounds like such a simple concept, and yet it is one of the hardest things I have ever had to learn to do. And in that process – one which is ongoing – I am finding more and more of who I want to be, the parts of me I want to nourish. I am a poet, which means I am always dreaming and reaching towards things forever unknown, just out of reach.

But this…this isn’t just out of reach. This is a dream, a part of me that has been achieved. My debut book of poetry will be released this year. I’ve met with my two editors and discussed the publishing process from this point forward. I am in awe. In reverence of their generosity. I am blessed. I am full. I am excited. I am a tower of too many feelings to list.

Faith In Things Unseen

Okay, so this is probably going to sound weird, but I’m excited and kind of can’t believe it myself, so I’m writing it out to try and solidify/manifest more of it.

My therapist said a lot of things in my therapy appointment yesterday, but one of the primary things I took away was the concept of the awakened mind. I’m a spiritual person, always have been. I carry deep, strong faith. But since leaving organized religion, my soul/faith/spirit has been emaciated. By reading and writing, I’ve been sustaining it to an extent, but by disconnecting from nature (specifically forests and trees), I’ve been depriving my soul of the one form of faith that has remained constant: my faith in the earth.

And she’s completely right.

2020 was a year I wrote more than I ever could have imagined, and it was a year filled with trips out to the woods. Sitting riverside and reading, writing, breathing, thinking, meditating, talking to myself, hiking. It was year I saw so much personal, emotional, mental, and physical healing. Then the wildfires happened and I got shut indoors and I’ve hardly been in nature at all since August of 2020.

I used to hike year-round. Rain or shine. Or snow.
I’ve hiked four miles in the snow in a dress and snow boots.
I’ve eaten lunch on a completely frozen lake, staring up at Mt. Hood.
I’ve hugged so many trees – literally – and let their divine essence breathe into mine.
I’ve talked to birds and bees and spiders.
I’ve had an orphaned baby deer adopt me for a year and a half, come to my home, eat apples and carrots and berries and sleep under the trampoline in our front yard while I was on top of the trampoline reading.
I’ve had hummingbirds fly up to me and follow me through the woods.
I’ve made eyes with foxes in the wild.

Last year? I memorized some of the species of birds that eat from our bird feeder, but that’s it. I haven’t connected to my soul or let my soul connect to the woods in over a year, and as a result, my faith-self is shriveled. And the result of that is where I find myself now: a state of increased detachment from myself and hardly any motivation or focus. Because honestly, connecting to my faith is really fucking hard and scary now that I don’t identify as any specific religion. Who am I spiritually if I’m not a traditional “Christian?” It’s scary, asking that question. It’s even scarier still to search for the answers.

But the longer I deny my spirituality, the less I feel like myself. And this, my therapist said, is why I’ve felt stifled creatively lately. Why I don’t have the motivation to read or write. “You’re a poet, Riley,” she said, “You’re not satisfied with the mundane. As a poet, you’re called to write about the higher things, about death. How can you write about death if you’re not allowing yourself to see, breathe, live?” And I felt like she’d punched me in the chest because the director of my MFA program said over and over that he’s a writer and “that means I dream of the end of things.” “To write content of substance, you must be connected to your faith,” my therapist said, “You can’t afford to let this part of you keep starving.”

So yesterday after the appointment, I took my dog outside and talked to the trees in our condo complex. I hugged them. Acknowledged them. Spoke to them. Stared at the sky. Breathed deeply and focused my mind on the part of me that has always been moss and dirt and leaves and bark. “Take the small steps,” was my therapist’s instructions. So I did. It felt insignificant, but right to smell the trees and place my forehead against them. To quote Mary Oliver, “I believe in the sentience of trees.”

And the result?

I’ve finally figured out the plot of the first book in my Greek Mythology series. I figured out the overarching conflict. I know how the Regency time period plays into it all. I don’t know all the details, but I have so much more than I did. I actually slept last night, and I dreamed. And I feel like I could write whole chapters after work today. From ten minutes outside just letting myself express my love for trees.

Now I know some people are going to say, “Riley, this is coincidence. Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” and yeah, you’re right. But this is what faith is: belief in things unseen. My whole life people have seen that I am a spiritual being. Leaders in the church have said it to my face, or given me nicknames about my spirituality. One pastor once called me a “planet-shaker,” and wouldn’t you know it, Poseidon himself – a character in my series – is often referred to as an “earth shaker.” My faith, my spiritual self, is the core of who I am. And my writing is an integral part of how I express my spiritual self. I wrote an essay specifically talking about how poetry, and writing in general, grants us access to the divine. (Hilariously, it was aspects of this essay I was falsely accused of plagiarizing.)

I can’t prove the things I feel in my gut, my spirit, my faith. I don’t know if I believe in god, but I do believe in energy. I believe in memory. I believe in dimensions of existence. I believe dragons exist. I believe magic exists. And I believe that nature and literature and writing are portals through which we can access these things. Belief in things unseen.

People will think I’m weird. That’s fine.

People will roll their eyes and criticize and mock and make fun. That’s fine.

I have called myself a forest/hedge-witch for years because they’re the only things that actually fit how I see myself. And while I absolutely believe in things like The Golden Rule as markers for life and how to treat people, I need more. I need deeper. I need weirder.

Last night I dreamt about rereading Aristotle’s Poetics, not because it’s a book I particularly enjoyed, but because it’s an extension of poetic theory, and my soul is thirsting for everything poetic, artistic, creative, and challenging.

If there is a god inside me, she’s Calliope, the goddess of poetry, and one of the Muses. (My creative writing teacher in undergrad said my poetry reminded him of Sappho, and she has been considered a Muse throughout all of creative history.) There’s too many of these “coincidences” for them not to be correlated, in my mind.

So, get ready. I’m not going to hold in my spirituality anymore. I’m gonna get weird and freaky and I’m gonna nurture my most authentic self. Time to find my faith/gut/goddess.

Hello From 2022

It’s been almost one whole week since 2021 gave way to 2022.

Our work office has gone back to occupying the office. Those who want to work remotely part time, can. I work remotely two days a week and I’m in the office three days a week. It’s both scary and comforting. I am not a home body. I like going out and seeing people and interacting. It makes me feel the most connected to my environment. So in that way, I’m glad to be back in the office. But it’s also very scary because Covid isn’t anywhere near “over” and won’t be for…well, I don’t really see an end to this at all when so many people refuse to get vaccinated and wear masks.

In our office, it’s mandatory that we wear masks in the office. Period. We can take them off if we’re actively eating, but otherwise, they must stay on (which I appreciate so much.) I also got my booster on Monday, so I feel better knowing that I’ve done what I can to protect myself and others. But really, when so many other people refuse to be vaccinated and refuse to wear a mask, even getting the booster can only do so much.

And in only a couple of weeks, I start my second masters program! It’s an exciting prospect that makes me tingle every time I think about it. The classes just posted their syllabi so getting to see the reading and assignment schedules has been fun. And at some point in the next month or so, I’ll start the process of working with my publisher to release my debut book! (Still can’t really believe that’s happening!)

I’ve also been thinking about all the things I want out of my life. Do I want to get married again? Or have kids? What do I want my career to be? What are some goals I have that aren’t related to work, school, or writing? Are there places I want to visit? What do I need to do to get there? What are my personal ambitions? Do I want to invest? What are activities/places/things that make me feel fulfilled and excited? Lots of questions that I have to figure out the answers to, but one thing I know for sure: I don’t want 2022 to be a year of passivity. I want to actively take steps forward and progress towards something that excites me. Or lots of things that excite me.

Anyway, the New Year is always a time of inspiration for me, a period where I crave change. And right now there’s not a lot of change that I can pursue given the fact that we’re still in a world-wide pandemic that has killed over half a million people in this country alone. But little by little, I’m finding ways of seeing friends and accomplishing goals. Hopefully I can keep that momentum going.

Happy New Year!

Happy Holidays?

I am always very conflicted when it comes to the holidays.

I love the aesthetics. The lights and decorations and the music and the “giving” spirit that is encouraged. (I put “giving” in parenthesis because even though there is an air of giving that comes out during the holidays, it also seems that people’s worst personal traits come out at the same time and they get even more rude than they are through the rest of the year.) But I am always conflicted at this time of year because it’s like we, as a society, completely forget about the most needy among us. Churches and corporations and individuals might donate money or food or clothes to be given to families, but we don’t do anything to resolve the issues that lead to so many people living in or below the poverty line.

I think of how the Biden administration pushed back the student loan payback date, and all I can think is…why not just cancel student loans all together? The pandemic isn’t over, even though we like to act like it is. It’s still spreading. People are still refusing to be vaccinated. People are still refusing to wear masks. And far too many who can’t afford not to work are having to choose between risking their lives for barely $15 an hour, or living off of unemployment and risking homelessness. That simply shouldn’t ever happen. Period. What’s the point of having a community in the first place if individuals and entire families are facing not only impoverishment, but the requirement of working during a deadly pandemic.

And see, if people would just get vaccinated or, at the bare minimum, wear masks without making it out to be some huge injustice (when it’s not – wearing masks is safe and very effective. Stop being a piece of human shit), working wouldn’t be quite so dangerous. But this is my whole point anyway: we’re a country of selfish pricks. Forget the common good. Forget charity and kindness. Forget treating people the way we want to be treated. And forget, ya know, looking out for one another.

And you’d think people would be more understanding and compassionate and selfless during the holidays, but no. That’s never been the way of it. Christmas, for some reason, brings out the absolute worst in people. It’s heartbreaking, and yet so common place at this point that I think we’re just numb to it now. And how sad is that?

My partner and I exchanged our Christmas gifts last night. I was excited for him to open the gifts I bought him. They’re very nerdy gifts, both part of the World of Warcraft universe. (They’re figurines.) The look on his face when he opened the gifts filled me with so much excitement and happiness. He was genuinely excited by them, and I love seeing his face light up the way it did last night. And the gifts he got me were simply perfect. He got me some rubber wine corks, a 3 season woman’s sleeping bag (for when we go backpacking next year), a Pride and Prejudice pouch, and gaming dice from The Witcher (cause it’s currently my favorite fantasy show). Like, he completely understands the kind of nerd I am. And I love him so very, very much.

You all know I’ve been struggling with my mental health. But one thing that I can say for sure is that this struggle has not been in vain. I’ve been on this new medication now for about a week and a half, and I’ve seen a big difference in my mood and motivation. I want next year to be better than this one. And it’s not that this one has been bad, just that it’s been much harder than what I expected. There’s been loss. Deep grief. A lot of pain. But also accomplishments. Big accomplishments. I graduated with my M.F.A. And now I’ve signed my very first book contract. Like, how fucking awesome are those things?

I guess part of healing is accepting that things are, most of the time, built by conflicting truths. I have had a great year, but it has also been deeply hard. I love the holidays, but I also hate them. I’ve been struggling a lot with my mental health, but I’m making the necessary steps to look after my health and wellbeing. When I think about where I want to be next year, I see a woman much more in control of her own emotions. I see a woman genuinely letting go of the things that no longer serve her. I see a woman making the scary, hard choices.

What are your holiday hopes?

Medication and Struggles

Last week I had a first appointment with a new primary care physician. We discussed my mental health issues and she prescribed a new anti-anxiety medication to use in tandem with the Prosac I’m on. Since starting this new medication, I have faced consistent headaches, persistent brain fog, and insomnia. It takes up to two weeks for the medication to be fully active in my system, so I know that this is my body and brain adjusting to this new medication, and I know this is part of the process, but honestly I hate this part of the process. It’s exhausting, even more so than the exhaustion of my depression and anxiety. Or, at least, until they get so bad I can’t even get out of bed.

And that’s why I’m going through this process. The longer I ignore the severity of my mental illness, the harder it gets to manage. I’m still in therapy. I’m still doing what I can to take care of myself, but that has to include even the hardest parts of this process so that I can find the best options. I don’t have to struggle endlessly, at least not as often as I have been. But it is a process to find the best medication to help me, and it will mean facing some really severe days for the chance to get through the worst.

Today is a struggle. I have a headache bordering on a migraine. I’m irritable. I’m extremely tired. But I’m also proud of myself for taking the necessary steps to take care of myself. I know not everyone has that privilege because our healthcare system is pretty much fucked and no one cares about the mentally ill. Hopefully this will help me to learn how to be a better advocate for myself, too.