I have been wanting to write about this one for a while.

This past summer I went with my girlfriend Aly and her family to the Outer Banks. I was with Aly and her brother when we stopped at a smoothie shop. I don’t remember what I was feeling. I’m sure I was tired, overheated, dehydrated? I’m sure the very small, and very crowded shop made me feel overstimulated. I’m also sure that I was just being me- patiently waiting for my smoothie. The man at the counter looked to Aly, and gestured to me while saying, “Does she smile?”

I felt embarrassed, I felt like I was under a microscope. I became hyper-aware of how I look to others. I’m sure I forced a slight smile to assure this guy I was fine. Though, maybe I didn’t. Maybe it made me frown more, or even glare at him. I can’t remember how I responded, I just remember wanting to cry, hating him, and hating myself.

“Does she smile?” It took me back to childhood. I was at the grocery store with my mom. Again, who knows how I was feeling. I know I get overstimulated at grocery stores, I know my mom often made me irritable. I don’t remember if I was sad? I do remember the cashier. She was an older woman. She stared at me the entire time she was scanning our groceries. My mom was paying when she slipped me some candy. I went to thank her, just before she said, “Ah! There! I got a smile out of you!”

I remember it making me more angry, and I remember never wanting to go anywhere ever again. Both of these experiences made me feel horrible about myself. I believed I was darkness, dimming everyone else’s light, and bringing gloom into the world. I was that miserable kid in the grocery store.

In the cashier’s mind, she could have been thinking, “I did a kind thing. I made a sad girl smile.” For me, it carried such a different meaning.

“What is wrong with Haley?”

Oof. I heard that one a lot throughout my life. I would not know why, but I would be in a room full of people and my energy would die down from when I arrived. I would be spacey, sad, or just overwhelmed. I remember my aunt once assumed it was my pre-teen hormones that made me leave the room in tears. I didn’t know why I was crying, and she hugged me and joked, “I understand. I get this way too.” But do you understand?

Everyone would ask if I was okay. It is a complicated thing to be upset over, because sometimes I’m not okay and I appreciate people noticing. Other times, I am just in my head or being me, and that question teaches me that I am making others uncomfortable by being me. I will space out or dissociate and someone will wave their hand in front of my face. They will ask if I’m tired, or if I need food. I am in my 20’s now, so why is this still happening?

My mom once approached me after a family gathering. A relative had asked her if I was mad at them. They told my mom I had been glaring at them across the room. When my mom told me this, I was confused. “Mom, I don’t even remember a moment where I was looking at them or staring at all.” I realized I must have been spacing out, and this person just assumed I hated them. It makes me feel so uneasy to hear the ways that people view me, and perceive my behavior. What do the people I don’t know well really think about me?

I don’t think this post is going to have a positive twist. I don’t feel like saying, “I’m just going to embrace who I am, because who I am is enough.” I don’t feel like saying, “I’ve grown to not care what people think.” Yes, I can see compassion for myself by revisiting these stories, but I am writing this to acknowledge the hurt. It hurts. I’ve spent my life reassuring people I am okay, and turning my resting face into a smile when I don’t feel like smiling.

“Does she smile?”

Yes. I do. Can you see me with kind eyes if my face has a frown?

Sometimes I can walk around with the knowledge that I have PTSD, but it doesn’t hold me back. It is a part of me, but it doesn’t always rule me.

Today, everything is harder because of my PTSD.

My last job was so chaotic and stressful. I could hardly breathe. I would pop Ativan in my car on lunch breaks, hoping I wouldn’t be crying by the time I walked back in.

I feel safe at my job now. I go into work and my day is predictable. It’s not loud, I have many supportive coworkers, and I feel confident in the work that I do. I still experience panic attacks and dissociative episodes. It doesn’t mean my job is the cause, it means that PTSD follows me where I go.

I had a panic attack at work this week. It began in the middle of a team meeting. I didn’t understand what happened. I had been fine, talking, smiling, laughing. It happened suddenly. My eyes couldn’t focus, everything was too bright, the back of my neck hurt and felt heavy, my chest was tight, my breathing was shallow. My body was working overtime, and I was exhausted. I left the meeting a few minutes early. I went into a coworkers office and burst into tears. I was supposed to be heading to another meeting with a clinician. I couldn’t collect myself in time. I couldn’t do anything. I tried to go to my supervisor for help, but the words wouldn’t come. Everything was in slow motion, my surroundings, my thoughts, my behavior. She was walking out the door, carrying her laptop and notebooks. She looked at me, asking if I needed her. “If you have a meeting it’s okay.” I said, but it took me too long to say. “Are you dissociating?” She asked. She knows this happens sometimes. “I’m starting to.” She told me to go home. She told me to go home because I have become so dissociated before that I am unable to drive. It is better to catch it before it gets worse, while I’m still somewhat present.

It wasn’t my fault. It was out of my control. Still, I drove home with so much embarrassment. Embarrassed about the meeting I had to cancel last minute, embarrassed that this has happened at work more than once. I don’t like not knowing things, and I didn’t know how to prevent this. I still don’t. With this, something is triggering it. I haven’t figured out what it is yet. When there is something unprocessed, my body often responds before my mind understands.

Back to today-

I had a therapy session. I walked her through the panic attack and everything that led up to it that day. I was feeling fine, until somewhere in the conversation I felt anxious. My mind floated to flashes of old memories. Her questions were harder to answer. I felt overwhelmed. Things started to look blurry again. I found my eyes getting stuck at the same part of the floor. I fought it the entire session. I used my coping skills, we took a break from that conversation, but it was hard to break out of my shutdown. I held back tears. When the session ended the tears caught up with me. It was time to leave, and it sunk in that now I would have to continue to try to pull myself out of this feeling on my own. In a weird way, I wished I had released the tears earlier while still in her presence. I wish I didn’t try to push through.

My therapist told me her next patient wasn’t coming in for 45 minutes, so I would have the waiting room all to myself. She offered me tea, and let me stay until I was comfortable to drive home. This has happened before, and I appreciate her for this. I cried in the waiting room, and tried to bring myself back to the present. Within 20 minutes I heard someone coming and I darted from the waiting room.

During the drive home I was still struggling. I had planned to stop for gas on the way back, but at this point I just wanted to go home.

Now at home, I changed into comfy clothes. I made ramen noodles, climbed in bed, and put on Grey’s Anatomy (as if that will make me less emotional).

Sometimes I just need to dissociate into something else. I guess Grey’s Anatomy isn’t the worse thing. Feeling sad, or feeling empathy, is still feeling something.

I have been tracking my panic attacks with a timeline. I looked back at text messages where I mentioned a panic attack or dissociative episode. I wrote down the dates and times and what was going on. 8 days since November, not including the ones I don’t remember. Majority were on Tuesdays, and then Thursdays. What is it about Tuesdays? Why do the attacks usually happen after 3pm?

It’s frustrating to not know what is happening inside me. My therapist reminded me that eventually we always figure it out. I want to say a sarcastic “great”, but it’s not a bad thing. She is right. My pattern is usually that things eventually make sense. I will figure out the trigger, I will understand what my body is telling me.

Dear Me,

A) Don’t hate your body, don’t place judgement on your feelings.

B) Let your body do its thing, don’t fight it, care for it.

I need to broaden my understanding about what people who survived trauma look like or are capable of.

I came to this conclusion after expressing to my therapist that I do not understand how I endured what I endured, and also have a fairly ordinary life. I assumed that for one to be true, the other couldn’t be.

I don’t want trauma to be my identity, but it also is my identity. It is my daily experience without it being visible. Trauma runs my life, and it also doesn’t. From the moment I wake up in the morning to going to bed at night my trauma is what I have to navigate. At the same time, I go about life like everyone else. I get dressed like everyone else. I watch tv series that make me happy. I enjoy creating playlists. I get excited when I reunite with someone I haven’t seen in too long. I even have become so present that I forget I have trauma.

Sometimes I question my own reality. If these bad things really happened to me, and here I am working a full-time job, living alone, in a healthy relationship…does this even make sense? Does it make sense that someone with the trauma that I have had can do these things? So I realize, I still believe trauma has a “look”, and that it isn’t me.

As a child if I was hurt by someone at school my mom would say, “maybe they have a hard home life.” Ok maybe they did, but does this mean that only bullies have trauma? Does this mean I would have to be on my worst behavior for it to mean I went through something? The same way that every child, every adult, every person can experience trauma differently, we can also cope with trauma differently.

I know trauma is more common than we think. I know that so many more than me are carrying a difficult story. I also know that one of the effects of trauma, which greatly impacts me, is the fear of not being believed.

I fear others not believing me, and I fear not believing myself. I’m still trying to grasp that just because something is unimaginable, doesn’t mean it did not happen.

Living with C-PTSD, I experience steps forward and steps back. As hard as they are, those steps back help me to recharge and move forward again. At some point in each year I will reach a low point, and sometimes more than once. I am able to bring myself out of it, but I am starting to accept that I will eventually crash after living my life like everyone else. My body catches up with me. In the times of these lows, I surrender to my pain. My emotions are heavy and intense. I isolate, or I lash out. This is my unconscious way of saying, “See me. Believe me. See the pain I carry.” In a complicated way it is healing to believe that in these times my trauma has a look. My trauma can be seen without having to share what happened to me.

Dear Me,

Is it possible that you are able to do what you do, because people with trauma are still capable of living a full life? Is it possible that while living a full life comes with work, it is doable? Is it possible that it is not weird that you are able to do these things, but that it is a strength? Is it possible that it is a strength, because people who have experienced trauma are strong? Lastly, is it possible that they are strong not just because they had to be, but because they are? Because you are?

Just because people do not know, does not make it any less real for me. Just because people would be surprised, does not mean I am living my life wrong as someone who experienced trauma.

Trauma does not have a look, and that is the point. It is something that happens to a person. Even though I can go to work, a store, drive, etc, doesn’t mean it is always easy for me. I can live with trauma, and still laugh at funny videos in bed at night. All of these things can be true.

My story is real. Trauma’s appearance comes in many forms. I am not a fraud. I may not always believe this, but I guess this is a start.

I am not writing this because I had a massive epiphany. I need some self-talk from time to time to remind myself what I know to be true. It may be that someone else needs to hear this too.

No matter my abilities, inabilities, successes, failures, choices, emotions, or behaviors-

I am a trauma survivor. I wouldn’t have chosen it, but I would choose to have others believe me, and for me to believe myself.

photo by unsplash

Do you ever have something you believe to be so nerdy, and unique about yourself that you never told anyone?

Some of my childhood interests, I believe, had stemmed from my dissociation. My ability to dissociate was a way to cope, without me realizing. Dissociating for me, was not always the freeze response or forgetting where I was. Dissociation also was my imagination and play. I would explore other time periods and settings as a way to cope. I would do this to separate myself from uncomfortable or fearful situations, and also to create a life I wanted.

From a young age I envied the old-fashioned dresses in movies. Yes, even corsets. I wanted to be those girls.

I’m not exactly sure where it first started..

I know I would read Dear America books in elementary school which were historical fiction about different girls' diaries from different time periods of history. One book from the series I loved was called The Winter of Red Snow and it was about a girl who lived during the Revolutionary War. Come 5th grade my favorite movie, even to this day, was Pirates of the Caribbean. I wanted to live the life of Elizabeth Swann. I still am unsure if I wanted to be her, or if I had a deep crush on her. Let’s be honest; both.

I had “imaginary friends” and an “imaginary family”, but I also would be a part of different worlds. I would imagine myself in a dress like Elizabeth, having sword fights. This interest in this era at such a young age, clearly did not have me thinking about the racism or hazings or witch trials or homophobia or lack of electricity or hangings or sickness or war. Would I live in that era now? Hell no! To younger me, it was about the innocent things like dresses and bonnets and candlesticks and bravery.

I developed an interest in the Revolutionary War era and the patriots vs the loyalists. Why would I become so intrigued by this aspect of history as an elementary/middle schooler? I realized later on that the same way I wanted a voice, and to escape wrongdoing, the patriots wanted to fight and protest as well.

Patriots didn’t want the king to control the colonies, while loyalists were obviously loyal to the king, and wanted to keep the peace. I became fascinated in this divide. Despite where that history led to, maybe in a weird way my fascination came from my desire for freedom, and associating that opposition to escaping the unhealthy cycle of my family. Perhaps my family were the kings and queens, and I didn’t see why I needed to support all of their choices and share their beliefs. I know I did not see it this way at the time. It was about what made my heart happy, and my mind busy.

Child Haley likely came through many times as I got older. I’m sure the same things did interest me, but I’m also sure in times of distress it became impossible to turn away from this part of me. My favorite American Girl doll, Felicity, was from Williamsburg, Virginia in 1774. I stopped playing with dolls, but when I reached my sophomore year of high school I was too excited to tour the College of William and Mary during a visit to see my grandparents. I wanted to go to school there and work at Colonial Williamsburg (Yikes. I know, I know). Every time I visited I didn’t want to leave. If it was possible I’d live in the Governor’s Palace. I learned that trip that my GPA left me with a slim chance of being accepted to that prestigious school, and I know now I wouldn’t fit in there anyway.

It gets better. I wanted a vintage nightgown as a child. This could have very well been how I wanted to support my daydream of pretending I was walking to the bathroom with a candlestick in the middle of the night. I got one for Christmas, but it was the wrong size and I never got one that fit. I remember holding it up, twice my size, and saying “what is Santa trying to tell me?” So here we go, in my early 20’s I ordered an adult one on Amazon. I said “fuck it” because I live alone and can live in my own fantasy when I want to. When I would wear it, I would find myself feeling more worthy, maybe even prettier. I stood a little taller, and for some reason it was harder to slip into self-hatred. This is probably that dissociative part that got me through childhood.

I love period pieces. Pure, and historical fiction. I love Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables (highly recommend Anne with an E). Despite the brutal things that happen I also love Outlander, The Patriot, and Glory. I love Little House on the Prairie, Pride and Prejudice, Pirates of the Caribbean, and so many more. While I don’t watch these every damn day, several of these are my comfort films.

Allowing myself to live through books, movies, and different time periods saved my mind. Is it weird, or an example of my inner strength? I remember being so embarrassed to tell my therapist about all of this. I remember her asking why I loved the colonial times and I wouldn’t say. “Of all the things you told me this is the thing you don’t want to tell me?” I laughed. Eventually when I told her about all of this, she said, “What a wonderful life you were able to create for yourself.” I never thought about it this way. She didn’t find it weird at all, and she wanted to hear more about it.

I can no longer be ashamed for holding on to the comforting parts of my childhood. I shouldn’t be afraid of my coping mechanisms, even if they are different from others.

My therapist shared a quote with me, “We are the age that we are, and all of the ages that we’ve been.” I always wanted to keep these things to myself, even as a child. While this doesn’t take up my life as it once did, when I feel the pull to remember this piece of me, I know it’s my inner child reminding me what once saved her.

Maybe I don’t have candlesticks or sword fights, but I guess these things do speak to bravery. I can’t be ashamed of that.

Yes I have been emotional lately, yes I have not been sleeping well, and yes..several days ago I found myself crying over 4 words, “bows in my hair.”

There is a chance this would not have upset me if I was feeling better, but feelings are feelings and they are very real when they come.

I scrolled through many pictures of me as a child under the age of 6. Bow, bow, bow, picture after picture. By bow, I mean those tiny bow hair clips.

My childhood was confusing. I was given so many hugs, received so many I love you’s, and never went without the things I needed. The confusing part was that there was so much hurt, so much emotional neglect, and abuse by my father that went unnoticed by too many. I didn’t always feel seen or safe. I wasn’t always treated like a person.

But then… there were bows in my hair?

I cannot wrap my head around it, though I am starting to understand.

I went to school dressed in Gymboree outfits from my grandparents. Teachers saw a sweet, shy, small, well-behaved little girl. They had no reason to suspect anything other than that.

There I was just recently, crying on my bathroom floor, looking at some childhood photos. I remembered that the parent who hurt me the most enjoyed doing my hair the most. I sometimes struggle to have compassion for that little girl. I see her dressed in disguise. It wasn’t her doing. It wasn’t her fault, but I ask myself so many questions. If my parents didn’t spend so much time on my hair, if I wasn’t dressed in clean, nice clothes, would they have noticed? Would my teachers have noticed, or wondered? Would they ask if there was more to my shyness and kindness?

Then I feel guilty. I was told “I love you” and I had things when other kids didn’t. I don’t know how to see my childhood sometimes. Yes, actions speak louder than words, but I was shown both sides. Should I be disturbed or grateful? Can I be both? Is it bad if I don’t always feel grateful? I didn’t need things, I needed safety. I didn’t need to be told I was loved, I needed to feel it.

What I do know is that having bows in my hair has a greater meaning to me now. It allowed the world and my family outside my household, to believe everything was fine. It made me believe that despite how sad I would feel, I was expected to smile with those clips in my hair. Every day would be school picture day in my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I imagine I loved the bow clips. I probably even loved my parents doing my hair. That was my life. However, when you grow up, you can look back and see so many things differently. I can see how many photos masked my story.

I want to look back at photos of little me and see her, not the bows in my hair.

It is a new year. I said that I wanted to try and write about new things. I always say this. I end up realizing that it is OK to write about where I am at, and not pressure myself to write by pushing myself where I want to be. My posts may be more gray and gloomy lately, but I have to ride this wave. No matter how long it lasts.

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“What if I become more like someone else and then more things change, or people don’t like me the same?”

This is an old fear. I was reminded that historically the evidence has been that the right people seem to like me, flaws and all.

I was complimented recently for being an independent thinker. This is a good thing, but it doesn’t always feel like a good thing. The problem with going against what others expect you to do, is that people don’t like you as much.

I joked to a friend that I needed to go to Bitch School. Bitch University; taking a course in Bitch 101.

I was joking. The goal is not for me to become a bitch, but I do want to worry less about becoming somebody I would not want to be. I grew up believing that if I stood up for myself, I was being a bitch. I was told that I was. I am afraid of changing in a negative way. Instead of this “what if” I would like to ask myself “what if I change into someone I really like?”

There are 3 specific parts of me who are coming to the forefront lately. There is someone older, who wants to do good, but gets too caught up in her feelings. There is someone who is angry and feels incredibly misunderstood and unimportant. There is also someone younger, who is a bit naive, and surprised that nothing is how she imagined it was. There is another part that I can’t name right now. I believe this is the part that is in the process of changing and becoming.

Lately I have been asking myself in different situations which part of me is showing itself. Sometimes I am feeling all of those things at once and everything becomes clouded. It has been helpful to notice this when everything feels mixed up. I am able to say, “Oh okay this is coming from this, and this is coming from this. No wonder I am confused!”

I am feeling so good and also so terrible. I am feeling good about the space I have created, and I am feeling a bit more peace. I am also feeling terrible because I feel like I am disappearing. I know I wrote about this in a recent post. Everything feels harder because of this dissociation/depersonalization. I tend to confuse dissociation with depression. I know it would make sense if I was feeling both of them. Maybe I don’t even have to name it.

At times where I am struggling, I have to treat it the same as I would a physical sickness, or my arthritis. I have to take extra care of myself, and right now I am dragging my feet.

My work is so close, but driving feels exhausting. I have to work harder to focus whether it is remembering conversations, eye contact, where I am going, where I came from. When I meet with people at work I want to be 100% present with them, but I worry they will also recognize I am different. I wish I wasn’t working right now. I wish I had a break from more in life, not just certain people. I also know that working is helping me to get out of my head a bit.

I feel incredibly lonely and alone. Just because I have less people who are there for me right now, does not mean that those who are there for me are not making a difference. Those who are there for me at this time are helping me without even trying to “make it better.” It also would make sense that I feel alone, because I feel less connected to myself. I am trying so hard to feel present again. I worry that if I push myself out of how my body is choosing to heal, the pain will be unbearable.

Most of my writing lately has sounded like one big contradiction. I am sorting out my feelings, my opinions, my understanding. It sounds so simple, but I’m not sure people can truly understand how overwhelming this feels. I need to accept that some people just can’t understand. I can’t blame them. I just want clarity. I want things to start making sense. I also wonder if I am asking these questions because I am already on my way to things making sense.

If that makes sense..

how my body has responded to setting a huge boundary:

My reflection is a stranger.

The world is a dream through my eyes.

I move my legs and I feel nothing.

Do they even belong to me?

I look in the mirror and someone is staring back at me.

I’m not sure that I know her.

I hear myself talking to familiar faces.

My voice doesn’t sound like mine.

I move my hands and they look smaller;

they look unfamiliar.

I worry I have to re-teach myself how to drive.

I hit the road without thinking about the motions.

I still am unsure how I got from point A to point B.

Even right now I am typing,

but these thoughts don’t feel like mine.

If none of this is me, I’m not sure who it is.

It has to be me, it couldn’t possibly be someone else.

I have experienced something similar before.

It scared me then, just as it is scaring me now.

I know I feel this way now, and it doesn’t mean I will feel this way forever.

I am well aware that this is my body trying to protect me.

I must remind myself of this when everything feels against me.

But I sit in the tub and ask myself when the switch will flip.

When will the light turn back on?

I made one decision.

I made one hard, impossible decision.

I do not regret it, but it hurts.

It even hurts when I feel nothing at all.

I didn’t expect my world to turn upside down.

I didn’t expect to lose myself in the process of finding myself.

When something is missing, it doesn’t mean it is gone.

I am in there somewhere.

Lately I have been worrying about being a bad friend, a bad girlfriend, and feeling like I could be doing more at my job. I feel weird even typing that, because I don’t fully believe it. I think that despite everything I am going through, I have been doing my best. I have been good at staying connected with others. I don’t have proof that I am not doing enough, I am just afraid of it. I am afraid, because I don’t want the focus on me. I don’t want others to get tired of me. I don’t want to burden others. I don’t want it to look like I’m not trying my best.

I worry I will be seen as self-centered or selfish or inconsiderate. Where does this worry come from? There have too many times I have put others needs first, and learned that people didn’t like when I started to put myself first. I was made to feel like it was wrong to turn inward, listen to my gut, understand what I think and feel. This is an incredibly difficult time of year, and I am experiencing a range of emotions as I set boundaries and express my needs.

I have cried every day for the past 10 days. Christmas is around the corner, and my heart has been hurting from emotional pain. I am flooded. I am exhausted. I am dissociated. My eyes can’t focus, and my memory isn’t clear. As much as I want to give and give to others, I have limited energy to give to myself.

Sometimes I hear that people don’t want to burden me by sharing their struggles, because they know what I am going through. Though I also worry about being a burden, I always reassure people that it doesn’t work that way. Just because I am hurting does not mean they cannot hurt too. My hurt is not more or worse, and certainly not more important. Two people can support each other no matter how much “battery life” they have. Two people can be hurting and be present for each other in their hurt. It’s okay to “take turns” listening and offering support. It’s okay to just simply be there. Nobody should feel alone.

What is important is being honest about where you are at. I will typically apologize if I’m a bit dissociated and have trouble with eye contact. I will tell someone when I want to hear what is going on with them, but am not in a space to take it in at that very moment. Last week, a coworker came into my office and noticed I wasn’t myself. They asked if I wanted some space. I usually say “no”, I usually force a smile and sweetly say “it’s fine”. This time I said “yes please” and reassured them it was not personal. They were not offended one bit. They thanked me for being comfortable enough to set a boundary with them. Communication is key. It’s not easy being open, but I know it eliminates the possibility for people to wonder what’s going on, or wonder if it’s them.

A guilt I have had since I moved away from home, and since graduating from college, is that I am not always good at checking in with people I hardly see. There are friends I haven’t seen in months, or years, and I feel guilty when I only text them a “happy birthday” or comment on an Instagram post. It isn’t that I don’t care or don’t think about reaching out. I realize I have lived much of my life surviving. Trauma exists even after the events occurred. Even when I no longer need to “survive” I still feel as though I do. I face each day to get to the next. Days go by, weeks go by, I go to therapy, I go to work, I see Aly, and sometimes guilt sets in when I realize the time that has passed. I worry that if I don’t check on others they will think I don’t care. I fear losing connections.

I take a moment and recognize that it goes both ways. If people wanted to chat, wanted to hangout, wanted my support, they would also reach out. Just as my life is busy, so many others are experiencing the same. It doesn’t mean people don’t care. Life is just hard. I can’t predict what is going on in others lives, just as they cannot predict mine. I write about a lot, but certainly not everything. I am very much aware that just because I write my story, doesn’t mean my story is the only story out there. Everyone has a story with peaks and valleys, whether they share it or not.

I often feel alone. I feel alone, because I live alone. I feel alone with my feelings. I feel alone when I cannot relate to how others are presenting. I feel alone, because of those friends I haven’t seen in months or years. Writing has been healing for me, but it has also helped with connection. Maybe it will be months or years, but then I will exchange a few messages with someone, and it feels as though nothing has changed. I tend to forget all of the people I have, when I only see who lives nearby, or is in my immediate circle. I am really lucky to know so many true friends. I guess sometimes I need to stop worrying about being a bother, and instead reach out, and receive those reminders from time to time that people are still there.

As horrible as right now feels, lately I have been talking to several people going through similar things as me. I have even reconnected with friends who live across the country. Many of my friends are navigating holiday blues, family, or grief. We are checking in on each other each day, even if it’s just a brief text. Having extra support is the best thing I have right now. I am proud of myself for utilizing it. As I take care of myself this holiday season and remind myself that I matter, I am making sure I remind others that they matter too.

I cry a lot, and I have always disliked it. I cried when my mom dropped me off at preschool. I cried when I forgot my homework. I cry at songs. I cry at movies, I cry at things I wish I had that I will never have.  I cry when I think about my childhood. Funerals feel debilitating to me. I also cry when I’m happy, but those are the best kind of tears.

I have been in therapy for 7 years, and with my current therapist for 4. It was not until the past few years with my therapist that I started crying in front of her. I had been so shut down from all of my emotions and they were too heavy to bear. I have C-PTSD and a load of grief. I don’t always mind crying, many times I know I need to let it all out. I do mind crying in the “wrong” places. When things had been really bad with my depression, anxiety, or trauma triggers, I would shut the door and cry in my office at work. I have cried in front of my supervisor a handful of times. I still feel so fragile when it happens. 

What I have learned is that one of my strengths is that because I have experienced such pain and hurt, I am also able to experience love and joy more intensely than most people. I can’t change my sensitivity, as much as I often want to. I often feel like I struggle to fit in this world.

Not too long ago, I could not go one day without crying. I could not take it anymore, so I went back on an antidepressant. I did not cry on it, but it did not change how sad I felt. I had no way to release my feelings. I felt more numb and dissociated than I did before. I would try to cry, but I couldn’t. Antidepressants are life-savers for many, but too many have not worked for me. I now take a mood stabilizer and my lows are not as low, but I still experience a lot of grief and sadness. I learned that grief does not go away, but over time it hurts differently and becomes more bearable. I am holding out for that.

I live alone and even though I have a support system, I can feel so incredibly lonely. It is so easy to get caught up in my head. When I am home and I start to feel flooded with emotions, I write them all out. Often I bring my writing to therapy. This helps in case I am not in a position to speak about it all. My therapist will read my writing, and then we will discuss it. At home, I will also curl up in my bed, pet my cat, and allow the tears to fall and remind myself that I am safe. I had a realization that I may cry so much now, because I am releasing years and years of tears I never cried.

I used to be disappointed that a day that begins with happiness, would leave me crying in my bed at night. When I am crying, and alone, I realize that nobody else knows I am crying. Not unless I tell them.

I now know it is normal to experience more than one emotion in a day. It is ok to not be happy all of the time. I likely will always be an emotional person, but I do believe that there is so much I have already healed and so much I will continue to heal. There were too many times where I did not feel safe to feel. As much as I want to cope better with my emotions, I know I need to be patient with myself. Many people do not know my story or what I have been through. In a weird way, my tears help me to keep going. It can be hard to be a person who feels so deeply in a messy world that has expectations of who we are supposed to be.

I can be both soft and strong. When people see me at my weakest moments, it does not take away from everything I have overcome and the strength I carry every day. It does not matter what others think of me, it matters what I think of myself.

[TW: medical trauma]

In this post I will talk about one of my PTSD symptoms: shaking.

I have been in a support group these past few months, and a memory popped in my head during one of our recent sessions. In 2016 I was in a bad car accident on the highway. I was lying on the side of the road on January 1st (New Year’s Day) without a jacket and shaking as I waited for the ambulance. I was cold, but I wasn’t shaking for that reason. It was my body’s response to the trauma I experienced.

A woman pulled over and draped a coat over me. I continued to shake. I have experienced this trauma response more than once but it took me a while to recognize that it was helpful. I was shaking to release the stress that was stored in my body.

This memory led to so many more memories of shaking. In 5th grade I broke my arm badly. I was sitting in a wheelchair at the hospital shaking and teeth chattering. A woman at a nearby desk asked if I wanted a blanket, and me being me, smiled through the pain and muttered “no thank you.” She brought the blanket anyway. While this post mentions shaking, it is not the same as a shiver from the cold. Shaking for me is losing control of my body, and not knowing when it will stop. I remember learning that traumatized animals who do not shake, can die. This taught me the impact trauma has on the body.

2019

2020-2021 were incredibly hard years. While I was in graduate school in Hawai’i, I had many scary episodes of shaking. Granted, a lot was happening to me health wise, but my PTSD was also bad at this time. I remember sitting on my floor, my entire body shaking, and calling my psychiatrist from across the country. I told her I did not know if this was my PTSD or my heart condition. I was experiencing tachycardia and shaking so severely that my roommate went with me to a hospital in Honolulu. At the ER, they chose a horrible way to try to get my heart rate down. I don’t remember what they called it. I had to blow as hard as I could into a tube, and once I stopped, they lowered the head of my bed, and 2 male nurses grabbed each leg and held them in the air while I was basically upside down. My roommate sat there watching my legs shake even more rapidly. My entire body was convulsing, and I was terrified. I was convinced I was going to go unconscious, and I had zero trust in these people to help me. When they brought me upright again, my heart rate was just as high and now I was more traumatized. They gave me something to lower my heart rate, and when that did not work, I asked for ativan (thinking my anxiety was obviously related). They gave me a small dose, and not much longer, I was not shaking anymore, and my heart rate lowered. They joked that they should have given that to me in the first place. At this point I was dissociated. I just wanted to go home, but they gave me a psych evaluation before I left. Not long after that episode, I left my graduate program. If it isn’t obvious, my move to Hawai’i was not exactly paradise.

honolulu winter 2021

Back home in July 2021 following another traumatic incident, I found myself in fetal position on my psychiatrist’s office floor. I never did that before, but I just instinctively went to the ground. I was nauseous and my whole body was shaking and would not stop. She put a blanket over me (I’m realizing the blanket theme now). The added weight helped, but what helped more was having my body covered and feeling less exposed and vulnerable while in a ball on her floor. I remember worrying that I was having a seizure. I remember trying so hard to stop shaking, without knowing my body was doing what it was supposed to do.

summer 2021 following that therapy session. sweaty and exhausted. (feat. arthritis fingers)

When you’re triggered, when you’re scared, when you’re shaking, often others want you to stop shaking. As much as I want to stop shaking too, I know that this is not always possible. I have to wait it out until my body believes that the danger has passed.

Many times, I have been triggered and will tense my body to keep myself from shaking. It is terrifying to feel that loss of control. I believe that my body is betraying me. It still happens, and most times it is accompanied by fear. I often do not have a reason to be afraid. I will know that in those moments I am truly safe. There are also times where a trigger takes me back to something in my past that was worthy of fear. I can know where I am, but also have my body believe I am somewhere else. My body will believe that the thing of the past is happening all over again.

What works:

There are limited ways to help myself when in public, but when home, I will cope by climbing underneath the covers. I will take a hot bath with the water up to my neck. Sometimes, the shaking won’t stop until I take a beta-blocker that helps calm my symptoms. I have a heart condition as well, so my psychiatrist and cardiologist were on board with this one. The closer I am to the floor, the safer I feel. I have thrown my pillow and blankets on my carpet and curled up there as well. I love all of kinds of music, but I have my “comfort artists” who I listen to when my nervous system is overactive. All of these things make a difference.

It is helpful that I have learned what works. I may not be able to eliminate this trauma response, but I have noticed that each year it is happening less. This could be due to the fact that my life has been more peaceful, and predictable. I used to be in constant crisis and always on guard. I still have my triggers and I always will have triggers. It is about how I navigate those triggers when they arise. It is about trusting my body, even when I really really do not like how it feels.

I am sure I have written about some of the same things before. I can’t remember everything that is in my older posts, but I can always share things in a different way. I know I have shared this before, but the reason my site is called Very Haley is because it is a phrase I have heard since childhood. As a child I would hear, “That’s very Haley” when my mom saw or heard something that reminded her of me. The phrase was used with flowery prints, musicals, goofy sayings, my favorite colors. There were many things that made me who I am, and “very Haley” was the happiest and most proud part of me.

I was always called “the life of the party”. I could make just about anyone laugh, and some family members encouraged me to join a play. I was too scared to ever audition, so I entertained my family and friends instead. When I look back at childhood photos of myself I often do not recognize myself. Part of it is my dissociation, but a bigger part is that I tell myself “that kid doesn’t look like she was abused since toddlerhood.” My family took a lot of pictures and I was encouraged to give “big smiles” so much that it became a habit. It wasn’t that the photos were not genuine at the time, but what the photos never showed was how goddamn sad and scared I was most days.

I was called “happy-go-lucky”, but I also was abused in brutal ways. I believe I tried to hold on to my happiness, and making others smile was something that made me feel better about myself. When I got older and was able to communicate my depression, I heard disbelief. It was as if there were two sides of me, and the one I wanted everyone to see was ignored. Maybe it was unintentionally, maybe they did not want to see it, but I felt like a fraud for everyone thinking I was a human sunshine. Later on I would ask myself if it was my fault for not expressing more clearly what was happening to me. I could cry so easily, and I felt more like a mushy raincloud than the sun. When I did express my fear and sadness as a child, I was distracted or consoled. “Here Haley blow the bubbles.” What I needed in those moments was not someone telling me I was OK, but someone to try to understand WHY I wasn’t OK.

Even today I have this way of trying to turn off my emotions to protect others, and protect myself. I fear being a burden. I will cry myself to sleep, have anxiety and panic attacks, I will sit on the floor of my shower and feel incredibly alone. I have cried getting ready for work, or while driving to work. The moment I walk through the door, I ask everyone else how they’re doing. Even if I’m not OK I seem to throw on a smile, and make a joke about it. I let others believe I will be OK, because I want to assure myself I will be OK too. I am not always able to do this. Often I cannot hide my sadness. I have turned my camera off in staff Zoom meetings because I can see myself looking sad in the reflection.

I do believe it is a strength of mine that I am able to be happy despite how much I struggle. The times I feel genuinely happy, I can feel how bright my energy is. There have been times where I felt so good that I would also cry from pure joy and gratitude that I was able to experience that. I do believe that when you have experienced such heartache, it is easier to appreciate the good feelings. Good feelings become overwhelming too, but in the best way.

I wrote in my post, August Slipped Away that it is normal to have days that consist of both happy and sad. I think my whole life I did not know how to define myself. Am I happy? Am I sad? Am I a coward? Am I fearless? Am I shy? Am I confident? It certainly depends. It can depend on the day, the moment, and how safe or unsafe I feel in my environment. I can be all of the above, and it is because I am human.

[TW: mentions SI]

This post a bit longer.

It is November and I am remembering August. It was not too long ago, but I was in a drastically different place. I want to write about this very vulnerable time I went through. Last weekend I was on a trail with my girlfriend Aly when I found myself dancing and lip-syncing down a hill. The happiness I felt was consuming me like a fire inside me refusing to burn out. I thought, “this is the feeling I wanted in August.”

It is surreal to me to see just how bright my light was on that day in the woods, when several months ago I was re-experiencing depression and suicidal thoughts.

I want to tell myself, no, that is not what it was. I want to tell myself, that was years ago. The last time I experienced suicidal ideation was while waiting for heart surgery in 2021. I felt like my body was failing me, and I did not want to continue to live that way. In the past I had been hospitalized for suicidality, and I wanted that to stay in the past. It feels weird to name it now, but that’s what it was this past summer. The difference is that this time I got through it without a hospital. That does not mean it couldn’t have helped..

It is terrifying, but when I experience a depressive episode that has no end in sight it is easy for me to have the mindset that the pain may never end. I am writing this now because it did end. It always does end, eventually. I have experienced depression many times, and I usually know how to navigate it by now. This recent time felt different because I was not able to get through it as quickly as I had times before. Depression paired with dissociation made it feel harder to climb out of. I thought, “Why am I trying to live when I don’t even feel alive?”

This year, it began the end of April. April, May, June, July, and August were never-ending months of depression, depersonalization, and derealization. May is usually hard for me, as is June- but it did not seem to end. I had done well off of medication for a while, but knew it was time I go back on it. I went to the pharmacy and picked up my prescription, and the waiting game began.

I would stare at the wall every day and feel overwhelmed because I did not feel real. Nothing around me felt real, except my cat Eloise. I could not imagine what clarity felt like, or feeling present. I was incredibly burnt.

One August evening I called my therapist during a panic attack but she did not see my call until the next morning. I did not know it was a panic attack because it felt different than times before. Something had triggered me, but I did not know what. Everything seemed far away. My head felt “weird” and that’s the only way I could describe it at the time. My mind was on a loop of negative thoughts about myself. It felt like a volcano could erupt inside me. My chest hurt, and when I looked at my hands they didn’t feel like they belonged to me. I sat on my bathroom floor for hours, and eventually curled up on the cold tile. I could not stop sobbing. 

In the morning I assured my therapist that I was OK waiting until our next session to talk about it. It was hard to get out of bed that next day. I barely ate, barely moved, and it felt like I was recovering from a car accident. (I’ve been in a car accident so I feel like I can say that.)

Before that panic attack there had been months of driving to work every day crying. I was dissociating at work. I would avoid contact with my coworker who I share an office with. I wouldn’t turn around from my laptop. I was hiding the tears to the best of my ability. 

I avoided taking a medical leave, and I just kept telling myself this would all end soon, and one of these days I will wake up and feel happy. Then, August came. August is my birthday month. I’m not sure why but I get really sad around the time of my birthday.

My mental health became so troubling that I was weighing my options. No, I don’t want to go back to a hospital.. I’d likely feel the same there. If I did go to a hospital I would only want to be in a specific trauma inpatient treatment. I could do a partial-hospitalization program. I could take a medical leave. I was stuck. I did not know what to do. I just knew that my birthday was coming and it was hard to look forward to another year. 

At the end of the month my therapist was going to be away for a week. 1 week feels too long for me, as I have been used to my consistent sessions weekly for years. It especially felt long when I was waking up every day waiting for the day to be over. My therapy sessions helped me have something to hold out for each week, and I was terrified not having that. At the end of our last session before her vacation, I fell apart. It was a telehealth session and when I saw her face disappear from my screen I was scared. My heart ached. I felt so alone. I was ready to give in and go to the ER.

I called Aly instead. I’m not always good at reaching out to people in the moment, even her. I tried to pull myself together and the two of us brainstormed how we were going to get me through the week.

Aly and I discussed every option, even the ones that did not seem likely. She was willing to watch Eloise if I went anywhere (hospital) and she also was willing to stay with me at my apartment if I didn’t. 

Something shifted in me when I was talking to her. I told her “I know how I am and I feel the worst of it right now because I just got off the call with her. Maybe I need a nap, just to reset. It’ll be less overwhelming when I wake up.”

I told Aly I know how this works. I’ve been here before. When I was hospitalized the first time in 2016 I couldn't wait to be discharged and promised myself I’d get my shit together if I was getting out. I had choices. I knew about them, but I just needed to care about them.

1. Stay where I was headed.

2. Or try. Try to have compassion for myself. Try to find worth in living. Try to find trust that my life can be different. Try to get more help.

I was still thinking about my therapist in that moment and how she felt like my lifeline. I told Aly. “She’s coming back in a week. I want to be able to tell her that I was OK and that I did things to help myself while she was away.”

After my call with Aly, I emailed a place about a virtual Women’s Trauma Group that started early this fall over Zoom. I knew that therapy couldn’t be my only lifeline and that I needed more supports I could turn to. I continued to look for ways I can get more therapeutic support as well as personal connections. After I gave myself permission seek more support, and try to find hope, I was beginning to experience more moments of feeling like my old self.

When night came it was dark and quiet and I found myself feeling sad in bed. I was starting to cry and at the same time telling myself not to. This didn’t work; I was sad again. I thought about how I couldn't go one day without crying. The week would feel so long. I took a breath. I tried to allow myself to cry, and tell myself it would be alright at the same time. I tried to be okay with having a day both happy and sad. It is better than a full day of sadness like I had been experiencing for months. I realized I could lie in bed sad and alone or I could let someone know. I had already texted Aly goodnight but I sent her another text almost an hour later. I told her I was sad, that I was ok, but sad. I told her how I was feeling and that I didn't need anything, but that it was helping me to write that to her. It was helping me to feel less alone in my sadness. I didn’t know if she was sleeping but she wrote back. “I’m glad you texted me. you’re right, it is okay to feel all kinds of emotions in one day. Nights can be hard because you start thinking about a lot. You’re so strong Haley. It’s one of my favorite qualities about you. So I know you will be okay.”

Before my therapist returned I listened to 3 audiobooks about self-compassion. One way I know to get out of my sad brain is to take in more positive and healing content. I was sucked into a poetry book from one of my favorite authors I discovered this year. She writes about trauma and depression a bit.. but not directly.. and not in a way that is triggering. It is hopeful and comforting to know she's felt what I feel.

Even though I couldn’t wish my depression away faster.. I was trying. I was trying to find a reason to be happier. I was trying to sulk less. I was recognizing my medication helping once I landed on a consistent dose. I had moments of feeling here and present. “Moments” did not feel like enough, but I know they mattered. Over time I felt inside myself again, and the moments became days.

What I realized is that trying harder to be happy makes me feel very disappointed when I start to feel sad again. I’ve been trying to take what I’ve learned and try not to place judgment on my feelings. It is a work in progress, but right now it’s more about reminding myself of it when it happens. I’m trying to simply notice how I feel. It is still discouraging to realize those shifts in emotion when I start to feel good and then feel horrible again.

I couldn’t escape my birthday, but I do have things to look forward to this year.

Even though I wanted to tell my therapist “look at the steps I made” when she came back, I also did this for me. I needed to light a fire inside myself again. I have continued my work in therapy, but I also have been participating in a 12-week support group which ends the end of this month. I also have been leaving my comfort zone to connect with others, and that has helped me to feel less isolated. I do not doubt that those positive changes had something to do with my dancing in the woods.

I still have triggers and flashbacks, and times that almost scare me where I don't feel like I’m here. This happened very recently. It makes me feel like I am rolling down the hill I just worked to climb. But I have noticed times where I do feel here. It’s weird to me, to see things clearly in those moments. It makes me think, “So this is how being alive is supposed to feel?” 

April through August was dark and painful. Sometimes revisiting the lowest of the lows allow me to also revisit lessons learned.

What I know:

• Happiness is worth the wait.

• I can be in a “good place” and still have trauma responses.

• The bad days/moments do not cancel out the good.

• The pain and fear I try to fight, is fought with an abundance of strength.

You know how people say that a part of mental health awareness is talking about it? How people with anxiety or depression keep things to themselves because they are ashamed, don’t want others to worry, or do not know how to talk about things? I have come a long way as far as being honest about my mental health and my struggles.

I have shared tough stuff with my friends and family because it helps them to understand what is going on, and it is important I have support.

One thing I keep inside all the time, is my PTSD.

….

This article in The Mighty is a good example of what I go through.

….

Those who care about me know about it, but I realize I always refrain from talking about it when it is bad.

My reasoning is that my trauma is always there, so when I see others I’d rather talk about other things or show them the better sides to myself. I also struggle with some things that feel taboo to talk about, so I do not want to put that on anyone else. I am also afraid that the response I will receive will not be helpful, or will further trigger me.

My therapist pointed out that she is the only person I talk about some things with, and she said, “no wonder you feel so alone with it.” I thought, she doesn’t understand. I also thought, is she thinking I am doing this to myself?

How the hell do you seek support from loved ones when you have PTSD? It is a question I am asking myself.

Why is trauma so hard to talk about? Part of being misunderstood is not giving people a chance to understand, but trauma convinces you that nobody will ever understand anyway so it’s best to keep things to yourself.

I am a survivor of child abuse and the memories have affected me every day since the day they started coming back after years of blocking it out. It seems to rule my life most days, as much as I try to not let it.

Having nightmares every night, repetitive memories, body memories, many nights of tears, weekly therapy… it’s exhausting.

I’m always tired. I know the people in my life are tired of hearing about how tired I am.

I am anxious, and feel safer in very few places.

I get quiet, because my mind is always active and on guard.

Since I have had so much therapeutic support, and am better at taking care of myself, I really have been doing a great job. I really have been well considering everything. Maybe people would read this and be concerned, and that is understandable. When you live with PTSD, and have for years, you learn how to live with it even when it is hard. It is complicated trying to explain the fact that while I struggle, I am also OK..

I am starting a new job.

I graduated from a training I am passionate about.

I am back doing graduate school online.

I have a silly, energetic, snuggly cat who keeps me happy.

I’m in a relationship that is healthy and happy.

For the first time I live somewhere that feels like home.

Still, there is my trauma, my abuser being a family member. My family not all being understanding and supportive. I thought that opening up would help me stay connected to people in my life. It has felt that I have sometimes been avoided instead. Or that I learned how speaking my truth can damage someone else.

When I already have trouble staying in touch with people, it does not feel right to only reach out when I am struggling. I want to be there for others and not have the focus only be what goes on with me. I do not know many people who struggle with PTSD or CPTSD. The ones I know who do, struggle with the same things as me. They also live their lives but go through periods of hibernation and have trouble keeping up socially.

I have learned through the years that true friends, and good good people will not feel you are a burden.

I will never forget..

the friend who drove to my house and brought me cookies when I was missing too many days of high school due to debilitating somatic symptoms..

the friend who brought me Panera Bread and visited with me while I was in a psychiatric hospital, when nobody else, not even my family had visited me..

the friend who tucked me in to her twin sized bed, ordered Chinese food, and painted with me when I had a hard day..

(Ok I’m noticing a theme of food here..)

the friend who texted me he was coming to get me to go on a hike- not giving me a choice to make excuses.

or my psychiatrist who visited me in the hospital after waking up from heart surgery

Asking for help can feel daunting and as if you are asking someone to give you the world. In reality, it is the little things we can do for each other that make the world of difference. Talk or paint. Stay inside, or go out. I know I might not always know what I need, and when I’m struggling it is especially hard to make decisions. I’ve learned that sometimes, “I’m struggling, I don’t want to be alone”, or “I need to talk to someone” is a good place to start. Those who know me best, know where to go from there. Saying the words; that part is on me.

My site was meant to be honest with myself and others. I think it is important I talk about living with trauma. It is hard feeling like nobody understands but you want people to understand. It is hard wanting to show the best sides of yourself, but also wanting to feel true to yourself. It’s hard worrying too much about making others uncomfortable. It is hard not knowing how you should be, what you should do. Rest, or push yourself. Open up, or keep some things private.

I’m trying my best. That is what I want people in my life to know. Perhaps they already know. Perhaps it is me who needs to remind myself of that.

I was never able to identify my triggers, I just knew that I had them. I could not name what would trigger me, and because of this it was hard to avoid or prepare myself for triggers. When I would become triggered, I would be asked what happened to set it off. “It” being a panic attack or dissociative episode. I would say, “I don’t know.” I would be fully aware of the shift in my mood, and could not give a reason for why it happened. When the words “I don’t know” are spoken, I become raveled in negative self-talk. I blame myself for how I am feeling, when I am unable to stop it.

I realized over time that in order to identify my triggers I had to listen to my body more.

When would my face feel warm? When did I start playing with my hands? When did the nausea start? The choking feeling in my throat..

Even if something was not obvious or did not make much sense I would start to notice my responses in my interactions with others. “I’m not sure why, but when when you said ___ I started to feel dizzy.” These are things that I shove aside and try to fight, when in reality my body is giving me messages that it is starting to become overwhelmed.

It helpful to identify triggers when you notice them. This is not always possible, but sometimes I find acknowledging them makes them go away easier. When I fight against them, I become more triggered, and my body goes into greater stress.

I have found it “cool” (when I am not actually feeling it.) My body gives me signals, and it speaks to me every day. I just ignore it. When I understand it, I sometimes give self-talk and tell myself “Thank you. I’m going to take a step back now.”

Even if I am watching a show and starting to feel overwhelmed by what I’m watching- I get very emotionally invested and sometimes feel depressed after watching too many dramas. I have learned to watch things that make me feel good, laugh, or that teach me something. I have been rewatching a lot of comfort shows and films and it has been helpful!

Sometimes writing helps, but sometimes writing triggers old stuff to come to surface. I have to be very careful of the content I consume, the places I go, the people I surround myself with. My energy is important and I want to protect it. When you have trauma, it is easy to picture your body boxed in or with a shield. The shield is never really there..

We do what we do to keep ourselves feeling safe. Even when we don’t understand our responses, are frustrated, embarrassed-

it’s OK!

& it’s OK to need reminders of that. I know I do.

"You can fly away too that’s on you, but don’t tell me what I cannot do. I can tie all my shoes and put on my coat, living a history, the one that I wrote.”

What’s this? Lyrics to one of my favorite healing songs.

Build It Up by Ingrid Michaelson came on my playlist when I was in the shower, followed by Hamilton, Frozen 2, LeAnn Rimes..

let me just say my music taste tonight has told me a lot.

I have music for every mood, and for a while lately I have been having songs to cry to which include things from Anson Seabra to Patty Griffin, and Build It Up usually makes it on that playlist too. It’s a song that hits me differently depending on my mood. Sometimes it’s a tearjerker and brings me a lot of grief and nostalgia. Other times, like tonight, it made me feel a little bit stronger.

Friday was messy. The day before Halloween. It involved a flashback within a nightmare, wine, lots of crying- and not the sad song healthy release kind, like the these tears might kill me kind. I reached out for help, and the next day I was grateful that though it was a Saturday, and Halloween, my therapist spent almost an hour on the phone with me. I was exhausted, but feeling a little bit better. I even motivated myself to make a last minute Halloween costume. Which wasn’t exactly a costume, but a look inspired by a childhood favorite. It involved playing with my roommate’s makeup and making use of the pink in my hair.

And that was after my therapy call! I didn’t go anywhere, I stayed in and watched the movies on the list I made weeks ago “Halloweekend” and crossed them off as I went. I ate ice cream, and popcorn, and drank some more wine and by 7:30 I was practically falling asleep watching Halloweentown. Still, it ended up being an OK day.

Today, I woke up at 9- which is early for me! I got coffee and went crystal shopping with a friend, adding orthoclase to my collection. I knew nothing of this stone, but from what I learned it heightens one’s self esteem, is helpful to those who are grieving, enhances intuition, and helps one to recognize their life purpose. Basically, I’ve learned from crystal shopping that certain ones tend to call to you, and this one sure did before I even knew its name or healing properties. I came home, a sleepyhead, but somehow banged out a 5 page paper. By the time I went to shower, I didn’t want to listen to the songs I have needed to listen to recently. I needed louder, stronger, songs that told me I was going to overcome something rather than songs that told me I was still stuck.

It amazes me how in a few days I can have that big of an energy shift. Amazes, yet scares me too. My therapist reminded me of a drawing I did recently. I was surprised she remembered since I told her about it. It was inspired by the grief of coming to terms with my trauma, and trying to let it go. I was grieving my childhood self. I was feeling confused by my identity. I felt like so much had changed me. I found myself googling '“having a funeral for your old self” and no it is not as morbid as it sounds. I thought, maybe I could make a ceremony out of it. A self care or healing ritual. Something to recognize what I’ve gone through, what has been, but also what will be. Grieving the old, but celebrating the new Haley, the changed Haley. I started writing and it sort of turned into a poem. I finished it by drawing a picture of my old home. The home that sneaks into almost all of my dreams. My childhood home for the first 16 years of my life. I drew all of my childhood pets. The swing set in my backyard, this big rock I used to enjoy climbing on, and the woods I used to spend hours in. I then drew my Nana and Papa’s old house which was sold after Papa died. I drew both of them together in the front lawn. I drew the pool where we had summer parties and family reunions. I drew the bridge he built in the brook near his house, and the tree we would light every Thanksgiving and sing carols around. I used different colored markers, I had a candle lit. I don’t believe I shed a tear. I taped it on my wall, and this Saturday, in a phone call with my therapist where I did not see much hope in many things..she reminded me of my drawing. I don’t think she knew that at that moment I had the phone to my ear, and I was looking right at it. Like, oh yes, I forgot about you.

I won’t share a photo of it here. I think I’ll keep this one for me.

Healing looks different every day. Some days it is dark thoughts, asking for a hand, eating my feelings or not eating enough, crying to music, or singing along, sleeping all day or waking up early. Of course I’m sick of it, of course I just want it to get easier. I want to forget everything that hurt me and continues to cause me pain. I want the good days to last longer than they have been. But sometimes I use my hurt, to be there for someone else who is hurting too. I am reminded I am not alone. Nobody deserves to feel unsupported, alone, not seen or heard. I am stepping up in my internship as a crisis text counselor, and my feedback from my supervisors have been good. I am checking in on others in my life from time to time. And I’m letting myself be a Barbie fairy for Halloween because I feel like it!

Healing is terrible,

and ugly,

and inconsistent,

and powerful,

and wonderful.

It always makes me feel like I am getting smaller, but I’m not. I’m becoming more than I am.

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I am attempting to write this post with a wrist brace on my right hand. About 2 months ago I started experiencing the pain in both hands. My fingers would cramp up, and soon it became difficult to hold a hairbrush or turn a doorknob. I cut the ends off of compression socks and made thumb holes, sleeping with them on my hands just about every night or paying for it the next day. 22 years old with carpal tunnel symptoms- fun! One connection I made was that the pain got worse after increasing my nightmare medication. I decided to go off the meds, choosing the use of my hands over not having as many nightmares. For some reason the pain in my left hand disappeared, but my right hand has still been a problem.

It took a little too long before making the connection that months ago I fell on the beach- a very Haley moment- chasing someone’s plastic bag that was going into the ocean. I went all “save the turtles” and wiped out on the sand falling hands first. Laughing hysterically, in embarrassment, but about a week later ta-dah the pain appeared.

Why am I sharing this? I am quite stubborn when it comes to pain. Nothing beats what I experience with endometriosis, and everyone kept telling me “what if you fractured your wrist and don’t even know it!”

And honestly- I was avoiding the doctors. I have been avoiding a lot of things. My life has become the same old, zoom classes, online therapy, week after week. I get my groceries delivered, my prescriptions, and because I have been isolating more I am triggering old social anxieties where I felt safer being inside. Safer, but not happier.

I took a big step one week where I was really struggling. I reached out to several people to express what I was going through. I was also proud of myself for shooting one of my professors an email that I was struggling emotionally and it was difficult to keep up with my coursework. I asked her if we could chat soon and she sent me about 5 times within that week where we could have a video call. I was not expecting to open up to her as much as I did, but she made me feel comfortable enough to do so. I truly could feel that she cared about me. Our meeting was scheduled to be an hour but this professor spent a little over 2 hours on a Zoom call with me. We did not talk much about class, but more so about the depression and trauma I was healing and how I can best take care of myself.

“When was the last time you looked in the mirror and told yourself you love yourself?”

“What brings you joy?”

She reminded me that as important it is to do the trauma processing in therapy, it is important to have a balance. To have things in my week that bring me joy as well. Treating myself with love, and speaking to myself with love will attract more good coming my way.

Let me say, at the end of the call she commented on how I was smiling again. I sent that lady a long email thanking her. It was just what I needed. All because I was honest about how I was doing, and reached out for help. Someone gave me a hand.

I also had an appointment that same day with a holistic chiropractor where I had some alignment exercises, but also much needed energy work which awakened the spiritual side to myself I had been shoving down for quite a while.

I slept like a baby that night, had more energy that next day, and was back to using my crystals, candles, epsom salt, and gratitude journaling.

I finally brought myself to an orthopedic doctor and got an x-ray. Thankfully, no broken bones, but because my wrist does not bend as it should I will be needing physical therapy starting the next few weeks.

I haven’t been doing so great. I am getting by, but there are weeks I physically feel sick with stress and cannot make it on to my class without crying with my camera off. I have had several medication adjustments which has made me more emotional as it feels worse before it feels better. Sometimes I text my psychiatrist during the week, even after we had our 2 sessions. I still have some pretty violent nightmares, and though sometimes I am feeling good and can celebrate going days without tears, I have other days where I feel drawn to my high school unhealthy coping mechanisms and I really have to distract myself and remind myself I am not 17 years old anymore.

I have also spent more money on psychic readings this year than I want to admit. But I am learning so much more about myself, and what I need to heal. I’m constantly searching for answers, because I’ve been feeling quite lost.

I’ve (temporarily) dyed my hair pink-ish and you know, sometimes change is a good thing when you are healing so much.

I started my role as a crisis text counselor and had positive feedback from my supervisor after my first shift, “Haley had her first shift today and totally crushed it. Haley’s texter was going through some pretty intense things and Haley remained calm and followed the stages of a convo beautifully!” I felt good.

My old buddy Paul has been “kidnapping” me almost every weekend to go on a hike.

My lovely Leo friend Stacey who did an AirBnB photo shoot with me in 2018 is doing another with me next month. Hopefully a much needed self-love and self-esteem boost!

& I am trying to muster (lol that word) the energy to turn my blog more. It was a great outlet for me when my high school self was feeling low, so hopefully I can continue to find my way back to writing again.

I am often hard on myself, thinking I could be doing more and should be feeling better than I am. I am writing this post after a long cry session, and I think that in itself is a good example of how I am able to rise above.

It is a rollercoaster, and not the fun kind, that I am dealing with. As my psychiatrist reminded me, “It’s darkest before sunrise.”

I trust that I will get there.

**trigger warning**

Here I mention childhood abuse, sexual trauma-

but no specific details of abuse described.

---

This post has been sitting in my drafts for months, but only now am I taking the breath in and allowing myself to hit publish.

I have been delicate about the topics I share on here, even though I have shared a lot. I want to share something difficult, not with the intention of triggering anyone, or looking for attention, but to simply get this off my chest.

I have shared before the story of my sexual assault in Boston by my co-worker, I did not keep that post when I updated my site. It was a big thing that had happened. My job dismissing it, my police report being scoffed at. My sophomore year. Somehow, I let that story be told but I hid a story from a year before that. May, freshman year had ended and at the start of my summer I was raped and needed doctor’s care. At the time I paid out of pocket, because I did not want my family seeing the insurance statement. As much as I believed it was my fault for a while, I let my “work story” be my only story because for it to happen again in such short of time it had to have been my fault for sure, right? (emphasis on that being my trauma brain speaking)

I’m one person and I’m small but I can carry a lot with grace, I’ve proven it many times before. I can say that emotional pain is different than physical pain but it is still painful. Those assaults are a lot to juggle. I have to say that with PTSD involved, my brain is spinning with memories going back to high school, and early childhood. I couldn’t see it for a while but some things started to stick. And I bottled it up. On June 2nd, somehow I spoke of it in the backseat of my car during FaceTime therapy. I was told my mind was not playing tricks on me, and I sobbed in my car for an hour after. What am I trying to say? I was sexually abused as a child.

Though I suffer from flashbacks and my body reminds me often what did happen, I still sometimes have trouble trusting myself, and believing my gut.

I am not broken, but I have not felt like “me” since. My identity is no longer familiar to me. I’m trying to be her, the old her that got away with pretending things were OK. Who is she now? I’m still figuring that out.

While doing trauma work in therapy, I am processing my triggers, my nightmares, memories, and dissociative episodes. It has been a difficult process, and sometimes I nap for several hours after a therapy session. It makes sense why I am tired all the time. Sometimes I don’t know if it is my body, heart or soul that is tired. Emotionally, I am exhausted.

I have felt anger that things were not discovered sooner. That I didn’t get help sooner. I feel sadness, like I am connecting with the hurt child deep inside me. And trusting others, seems far more difficult to do. I’m afraid of getting hurt, I’m afraid of what I know, and what I might not know! I just graduated with my social work degree, and I’m now living in Hawaii working towards my Masters. Good things are coming my way, but there is all of this- all of this stuff I am carrying, and some days it weighs me down more than other days.

---

I think people assume I just graduated from undergrad, now I’m thriving in my dream place, Hawaii. So many of you do not know what has transpired since graduation. Leaving for Hawaii, was not only a comfort for me, but for my family. I was difficult to live with when I was dealing with all of this. I was causing other people pain.

I used to feel such fire in my belly, a passionate energy, dreaming about the future and all of these possibilities for what I can achieve. Everything that has happened these past 5 years, including now dealing with the changes brought from this covid-19 pandemic, I only feel stuck. My job is take it day by day. Therapy twice a week, 5 graduate courses, and soon starting an internship as a crisis counselor- I am working every day to take better care of myself and trust that though things are hard, and that things have been hard for a while, I will get the break I deserve and have been craving. This darkness can not be my full story, there has to be much more out there; more good for me to discover. I owe it to myself to learn how to love the parts of myself that hurt terribly, and which make me doubt myself and find it difficult to be living in this skin.

I’m very Haley because I bring light and acceptance to other people. Because I still sleep with stuffed animals. Because I like to journal. Because I’m clumsy, yet caring. And because I find my sense of humor to be a savior.

None of this trauma makes me who I am, but I can’t neglect this to be a part of my story.

Would I be in this very place today without any of this?

a Pinterest find

I want to share something great that has happened since moving to Hawaii! I am living in student apartments, and during my first 2 weeks here I was in quarantine in a 1 bedroom unit. I signed a lease for a 2 bedroom apartment, and had filled out a form online to match me with a roommate.

And very curious about this freshman feeling of having a random roommate whoever this could be.

However, I got very lucky. Not even lucky, we seriously think this was meant to be! My roommate Deanna is the best roommate I could ask for at this very period of my life. She’s 26, from California, and a culinary student. I moved in first, so when I met Deanna it was during her own anxiety of moving from a quarantine room, boxes and boxes one by one up and down the elevator. I think one of the first things she said when she arrived was “sorry, I’m just having a lot of anxiety.” and I just got it. I could see it, and it was so familiar to me. She was so sweet, but I could also tell she had been anticipating this interaction as well and she smiled but was shaky. She is a great communicator. “I just want you to know that if you ever see me seeming off or if I am in my room for a while I don’t want you to think it’s you.” Considerate, honest. We have had great talks and have quickly realized how though we are both very unique, we are very alike in many ways. There has just been a weight lifted since living here, feeling like I can be just as I am and that is okay. We both have commented on how we both feel emotionally safe in our living situation and how much we appreciate that. I also have to mention that she loves to cook and wants to share, and I love to eat, and honestly have been bad about eating for a while. I have a low appetite, ever since my endometriosis flare and it has not changed. Something as simple as having meals with Deanna makes this place seem like a home, and more importantly the fact that I don’t feel as lonely.

I have not been feeling like me and recently I think that part of me came back even for a little while. I had the ultimate Haley moment. After finishing school work Deanna wanted to watch a show together. I was looking up one of my quirky favorites on Disney+ “Penguins” and while telling her how “so great” it is I was thinking of the main penguin’s name, and started to type “Steve” into the smart tv. Realizing what I was doing we both were laughing, and while I was deleting and re-tying I caught myself re-typing “steve” yet again. I jumped out of my chair and yelled “AHH- I did it AGAIN!!” She was laughing so hard, laughing with me. It was a reminder of my ability to laugh at my quirks and the silliness in me getting excited about penguins gave me some hope that I will get out of this funk I’ve been in and maybe I am now starting to.

We relate as we both care very much about people, have big sensitive hearts, but have been hurt a lot. She is emotionally intelligent, and we are able to open up to each other. We are the kind of people who want to work through bumps in the road as relationships and connections are important to us. We give many chances, find peace in forgiveness, but maybe don’t always recognize our worth. Some people will not hear us. It does not matter how loving, how truthful, or how profound we speak, and it can be so easy for souls like ours to self-blame when we are misunderstood by others. I can’t explain how much it means to the both of us that we just get each other despite how different we are. It is more than getting or understanding each other. We see each other. I have always felt and resonated with being an old soul and a tired soul- as being a highly sensitive person means I carry a lot, even when it is not mine to carry.

I have felt uncomfortable in living situations before, and as much as having someone there is good for me, I often wish I could afford to live alone. I haven’t felt that here. This is a heartfelt and cheesy post, but I am writing this because when you have experienced not being accepted, or what it feels like to be judged, finding a genuine human being who loves and accepts you for you is a feeling I can’t quite explain. I have been lucky to find a few special soul friends in my life, and I got very lucky that after moving so far, my roommate just turned out to be one of them.

I think that when sadness finds me, and I can’t help feeling alone with it, this blog post is an example of how healing gratitude can be. On my wall I have taped letters that have been sent to me from friends and family back home. I have been staying in touch with those who know me best and love me. Relationships and people are important to me- I wouldn’t be going into social work if they weren’t important to me!

So maybe this is where I should say “thank you”

to those who follow along with my blog, and follow along with my life and support me through each success, adventure, and hurdle that come my way.

After my 18th birthday I got my first tattoo during suicide prevention week. The word inspire on the inside of my left wrist, with a semi-colon in disguise as the second letter i. I wanted to get a tattoo that I could read every day on my skin, to remind me to keep going when it feels like I want everything to stop.

I have Major Depressive Disorder and PTSD- and suicidal thoughts or behaviors are risks of both disorders. In my younger years I did not know how to communicate my depression. I just did not want to see my friends, leave my room, or feel motivation to do anything.

It was not until I was 17 when my mom first heard me communicate that I had no desire to live anymore. I confessed that her happy-go-lucky child was not really happy as much as we thought, and I had really been self-harming and googling things about suicide. I got help almost immediately, but I have been hospitalized twice since I was 17 and it has been a long road. I am 22 years old now and I am still getting help. I finally feel heard in therapy, about the big and the small stuff! But mostly the big stuff..I’m finally getting it out.

I am resilient. And maybe call me cheesy, but that word relates to everyone in a different way. For me it really hits home. It is one of the strengths that has gotten me through some very difficult times. My tattoo reminds me that I have the power to pause, to keep going, and to inspire others by doing so. That it is OK to take a break, it is okay to ask for help, but in having that tattoo I was NOT allowed to cancel it out. In a way, it worked. I haven’t harmed in years. But the thoughts sometimes seem like they won’t go away. I still have my triggers I have to work through.

Suicide is a delicate topic to me, because it reminds me of many times that could have been different, that could have prevented me from being here today. It is painful to remember how dark my mind can be sometimes.

For me, it was an overwhelming sadness or numbness of things which seemed like they were never going to get better. It affected everything in my lifestyle from sleep, social life, eating, drinking, I could not function the same. When my PTSD developed it became flashbacks and nightmares, and struggling with guilt for not being able to stop dissociating in certain situations. It doesn’t mean I had a bad life, or that I was never loved, or that I don’t have nice things or things to be grateful for. It is an illness. It is the effects of trauma, and the chemicals in my brain. The dark seems more powerful and never-ending than the light.

The best way I have known to get through it is by riding the wave, or this rollercoaster we call life. I have times in my healing where I have met great strides and feel unstoppable. Other times, I feel like I am going backwards. It is the experiences that I have in the in-between that keep me going. The people in my life, the things I am involved in, and having things to look forward to!

These are some things that have helped me when I had been experiencing depression/thoughts of suicide.

1. The Crisis Text Line. text “start” to 741-741 Texting anonymously with someone who could provide support and help to deescalate the situation has helped me the few times I had used the service. Now, I will be seeing another side to the Crisis Text Line, as I soon will be starting a practicum with them.

2. Calling a friend. This is hard to do because depression makes you feel like you don’t have anyone, or that you will burden others with your problems. Many times a phone call to someone I care about has helped me get through a tough emotion and remind me that I have a support system to utilize.

3. Telling my doctor!! This one should be an obvious one, but sometimes I would forget that when I was feeling more depressed there could be more contributing factors. Sometimes diet, sleep, exercise can make an impact. Other times I did not know my thyroid levels were off. It is also helpful for my doctor to be aware to monitor my symptoms and make any changes to my medications as needed.

4. Leaving my comfort zone. When all I want to do is sleep, I try to make myself do some small tasks whether it is taking a shower and putting on “real” clothes not just loungewear. Going for a walk, going thru with plans I wanted to cancel. Eating a meal when my appetite is low. Drinking more water during the day. The small things can make a big difference! I can be the queen of isolation, but I know this does not help me even though it is most comfortable.

5. Support groups! I am a part of a few support groups over Facebook and though I am not an active poster I do find them helpful when connecting to people going through a similar experience. I am in one group for Endometriosis warriors, and this past year I joined another group for adult PTSD survivors who have experienced either domestic violence or childhood abuse. I have asked questions in the group before or used it as a place to share my experience and it really is helpful to know you are not alone.

6. and most importantly..it is always helpful to remind myself that whatever i’m feeling, even the most intense emotion or feeling is temporary. I won’t feel like this forever. I may have a mix of good days, ok days, and days when I want to hide away. It might take a very long time to get better, and it might not. But when depression convinces you that you will never feel OK again, I have to remind yourself that is not true.

It’s not an easy road. You can get through it though, with help.

Stay safe. xx

I recently met a friend here on island who took the most special photos of me. They captured my joy, my glow, my confidence in a place still very new. I have since heard comments about how happy I look, how I always look happy, but these photos show my absolute genuine happy self. 

It is nice to finally be somewhere that can reflect that sort of joy.

I think though, that it is a misconception about living here in Hawaii. It’s paradise, it’s my happy place, but I did not just walk off the plane and find my demons to have disappeared. My struggles are still there, just a little different here.

I shared before how I was going to continue therapy while here. I am. Twice a week. One recent session I found myself shutting down, I left my body, couldn’t tell you what I was thinking or feeling. Our session came to an end and with the shut of my laptop I broke down in tears. I could not tell you what happened. For years I have been doing this. I have worked so hard to love myself, to love my body, and for years I have fought the feeling that makes it very uncomfortable to be in this body. My next session she complimented me for how I was able to stay present, but what she did not know was that my legs were shaking rapidly under my desk.

The same week I found myself sleeping a lot, eating less, which has been a noticed pattern of mine when I am starting to struggle. I haven’t felt sad, I told her. But numb, maybe. The ocean is not so far away, but it is up to me to get myself there. It is up to me to say “yes” more even when I feel comfortable under my covers.

The notebook I bought for my class is mostly filled with pages of journaling about the past. I know I will be able to move forward from things, but first I am determined to know exactly what those things are. It is a complicated feeling, getting older and questioning every memory you have. Realizing that your life was not always what it seemed. Realizing that there were many, many, missed signs, and reasons why I feel the way I do today. How did it all go unnoticed? And why is it creeping up now? 

The most recent realization is that I had experienced the effects and symptoms of PTSD as early as 13 years old. It made me weep for little me, who really believed for so long there was something wrong with her. That nobody believed her. A memory from after my heart surgery, where my mom called the hospital because I was seeing things that weren’t there, saying things that weren’t making sense. All these years we thought it was a bad reaction to a medication. Or the anesthesia. I am just now learning it was a flashback, vivid memories, of things that actually happened. 

I’m here in Hawaii. I’m finding myself, I have sun kissed skin, and I have made friends who seem like true friends. I have to admit, things have not been easy as I am making new discoveries. I do not see things as falling apart though. I see things as broken pieces of glass or pieces of a puzzle that I am starting to realize did not fit where I first thought they did. I am becoming Nancy Drew in the story of my own life. It is non-stop. The analyzing, the questioning. I am tired, yet I keep sleeping. You ask me how I feel, and I don’t know what to say. About any of this.

Some days I have to remind myself who I am. I start to believe that I can not trust anything or anyone. I also forget that despite what I have been through, I have made it this far for a reason. I can endure much more than I think I can.

I recently wrote in my journal that I feared vulnerability. How is it that something I love and admire is also something I fear?

It’s vulnerable to love, and to allow others to love you. It’s vulnerable to show up, as you are, and not just as you want to be. It’s vulnerable that I write posts like these, knowing others are looking into my not-so-perfect life.

I forget to take a breath.

I need to breathe, to remind myself of my tiny accomplishments.

Tomorrow is the last day of my summer course. The last day of my first graduate course. I will then have a few weeks of freedom before my fall semester begins. The reality of graduate school is hitting me. The amount of readings, the amount of papers due in 1 week for a single class. I’m learning though, that it is doable. I can do this.

Now that I have more friends here on island, I also can remind myself that these friends were once strangers. I had to push myself out of my comfort zone to make friends, and as much as I love meeting new people- there are nerves that come with it too.

I have only been here a month! I am by myself, I’m doing this thing! I’m applying to jobs, and scheduling interviews for my practicum.

Oh and- this pandemic is still very much a thing. I can not pretend the highly sensitive person in me is at all adjusted to any of this by now. Is anyone?

On hard days when my body wants to sleep, when I break down in tears after a therapy call, when it takes me a little longer to get dressed..

I’m very very hard on myself. I see this to be my life, and I ask myself when it is going to get easier and if 22 will look different than 21. Oh hey it’s my birth month!

I can’t expect to have it together all the time. I can’t expect to define myself by my mental health or trauma, but I also can’t expect to pretend it is something I do not fight with every day.

I always end up finding the right people for me. I always end up finding those who love me just the way I am.

I need to do the same- love myself through it all- as I am.