Nervous But a Service

Today, I went to see a psychologist. Of course, I was nervous. I'm never quite sure if it will be helpful or a disaster. My first attempts at therapy and medication as an adult were disasters.

As I've grown into a woman who has learned to better deal with myself--getting two degrees, publishing, working on branding myself--I fell into a common mindtrap. Maybe I'm somehow past what crippled me. Things are looking up. Yet after a couple of frustrating months, I couldn't pinpoint why I was struggling to be healthy. My focus grew erratic and my weight started to creep up. I knew the signs even if I wasn't willing to admit it. I had to face the truth and seek help.

It will take some time to find the right medications, but I wasn't forced into therapy. This doctor not only recognized how therapy often caused me to backpedal into old traumas, but she made it clear that there would be blood work and monitoring, an important aspect that was ignored in the past. I feel more confident that I won't be physically destroyed and my concerns will be listened to. There was no underlying current that she would enforce 'what's best for me'.

Like a great deal of women, it was a largely internal struggle. I knew I could be a rapid talker and fidgety and impulsive, socially awkward and end up 'quiet' when I sat on impulses. But a late diagnosis of ADHD is better than burying what I'd always suspected. I can manage the worst of it when I am extremely selective of situations I put myself in. Being able to choose when to work has become an important part of functioning.

Yet I wanted more than that. I don't care about being socially acceptable to the masses, but I want more agency with my desires. If I want to draw, I want to be able to do so for hours, rather than frustrated bursts. If I want to write, the words need to slow down to the speed of my typing. If I want to sleep, and am even exhausted, I want my brain to stop fighting it like I'll never wake up.

It was an important step when I started treating my physical issues but very important to grasp that fibromyalgia is also worse when physical and mental issues are not addressed jointly. I'm a very patient person when it comes to my health, as I'd adapted myself to come to terms with.

It's equally important to add that the eccentricities that come with being smart are not always normal. When the smartness can't be communicated, it is neither helpful to the self nor the people it could benefit. It becomes frustrating, to find yourself bound, glued to the spot, while all those ideas fly into walls and out of windows.

I can't say for certain I was born this way. There is a lot of trauma that could have caused mental illness to manifest as an adaptation. I was often caught in nightmare worlds where no one believed me, blamed me, or turned people against me when their lies were believed. My mom told me I was always impulsive but not mean-spirited or intentionally troublesome. I did balk against the perception of morality, deciding right and wrong for myself outside of strict social constructs.

What I want to focus on is being who I want to be. To stop feeling frustrated when I'm actually enjoying myself. To remember more, even down to what I just ate, without having to write everything down. To not let false chemical signals in my brain affect my nerves and mental processes.

I've never really felt like I was sick. Just entirely too tolerant in being adaptive. Feeling sick always came from swallowing everything that made me different, trying to please people who couldn't care less about me anyway. I've embraced my inner nerd and eccentric.

But I can't hug away the misfires in my body. Sometimes, I need to remind myself that it doesn't just go away because my life is better. My body fights battles I can't mediate away with logic and good intentions.

I'm optimistic about taking small steps towards wellness. I really feel like this doctor, and my medical doctor, really see me and listen to me. It's a step in the right direction.

More Writing Therapy

The real wobble of a day like this one is that I can't really anticipate how it will land on my shoulders. UnNamed's release last year on this day was therapeutic all by itself. I'd jumped from NaNo into a frenzied but focused edit and the date coinciding with my mom's death/birthday felt right.

So I thought it would do much the same. However, UnSung was three times the work and full of its own unique problems and solutions, January was a mountain of unpredictability while I healed and made changes and February was not a month I went into on full steam. Reaching today, while the book release is still a buffer and exciting on its own, is also a day where I'm not cushioned by any shock-laden steps of grief. I felt today, two years since I lost my mom, too keenly.

Days don't often have that power. I don't build up a frenzy for holidays, although I do anticipate the days when I get to give someone a gift. I certainly observe those death anniversaries with an acknowledgement but the day of mourning has never been my deal. Yet, at two years, I can't deny the stages of grief rub raw. The anger, the sadness, a reluctance to let any of it burst into a mess, but knowing that bottling is a big no-no.

For better or worse, this woman fuels my writing. I look for resolutions in our one-way relationship by talking to her through my stories. She isn't any one of my characters but I feel her traits coming through. There's a female cardinal outside the kitchen window that teases my cats so spiritually, it's definitely not unlike her.

I'm probably romanticizing this day more than I typically might. But I want the lump in my throat to go away so I can celebrate again. Nothing fills where people are gone, but nothing feels better than honoring them through bettering the self. So if I must concede this day to pain, then let it flow through and give me more days of triumph ahead.

How's that for a mantra?

Writing Therapy

When writing the first draft for the third book of my current series, I revisited a long-term trauma of childhood to pass to a character; not to solve it, not to unearth the skin-crawling details, but to work with a theme I didn't need to research. It was a challenge that was both intellectually lazy and emotionally heavy. I wasn't sure I'd be able to integrate it. For one, some traumas create blind spots and bewilderment that can be difficult to make coherent for others. Then there was the fact that the character was distinct from me so I had to think of how her circumstances would alter how she reacts and copes.

So the part about therapy shining a light towards healing wasn't a myth. There was a euphoria in the Eureka moment, a high in both understanding what happened to me and being able to sympathize with her for the differences that didn't belong to me. Yet the happily ever after isn't realistic and, once I moved on from it, a familiar dread crept in. The bright light on the other side of the door dimmed and it creaked shut slowly, with me on the other side.a sense of dread settled in--that this was a draft I'd have to revisit, to refine later, brought in a different sort of vulnerability. Would I be able to add to her story or would I sand away the rough edges to comfort myself?

I like to think I'll tackle it with stoicism and evoke the raw emotion, but writing from a place of vulnerability means that I've created a place I'll either be cold or hot to and extremes are murky places I often try to avoid. The writer in me knows that this is just one part of a story and not even at its core. It has to be important to that story, but how much honesty or detail is interesting or evocative? While that's my burden to decide, I am keenly aware that the person who discovered the insight was not preparing for the person who needs to refine it.

It's likely that I'll find the solution, that I'll create the distance once more while preserving the raw emotion. Yet to say I'm not apprehensive, well, plans always tend to create an anxiety, but one that usually melts away once I resist the urge to flee or procrastinate.

One thing is certain--I'm not at all new to the vulnerability of a bald confession of my own life story. Real life apathy or criticism or disbelief is not virgin territory. Yet I've never padded it through fiction quite like this. Whether or not that should make it easier is moot. What exists is an approach I haven't tested and that is the playground for the apprehension. No, I'm not going to take criticism of her character personally, but I also don't know how to be her champion.

Does a strong woman need a champion? Yes. Everyone needs one sometimes. I can't say that having to defend myself was always ideal. Always being defended is not better. Expecting people to read my mind is ridiculous. So there is no ideal situation yet, like most situations, being wholly unprepared is foolish. What I am certain of is that I don't want to pretend her story wasn't heavy. No matter how much I distance myself from the story, it would be an injustice to be flippant of the gift I give to my characters. Even though I bled for the words, I healed through the words, but the wounds don't just vanish. They are the scars that ache when it rains and they will always carry that weight.

Perhaps that's why I enjoy having the print copies. Attributing the weight of my work to an actual physical weight seems to mentally cement the journey I once took, the sacrifices I made, the joys of the craft as well. Even when the epiphanies fade, the residual magic tingles in my hand when I hold the paper and ink. Those lives I visited flash through my mind and I feel a genuine pull of satisfaction at the corners of my mouth.

Mostly one corner. I'm a bit of a smirker.