Last Tuesday, June 2nd, will be a day to remember in my healing journey.

My mind the previous week, was running through negative thoughts, and old memories. I have been feeling like a small child, wanting to be held, yet feeling most comfortable suffering in silence.

I knew the suffering was only going to continue, unless I spoke up about what was going through my head. I’m not ready to share it here, maybe this is not the place to unpack my traumas. I have a journal where I can keep those thoughts. In my therapy appointment that Tuesday, I read a document in my “journal” that disclosed of childhood abuse, and fears I had struggled to share since my mental health was in crisis in 2015.

I wanted to leave my body the entire time I was reading my words. My therapist said one sentence that above the others, would stick with me, and lead me to breakdown at the very end of our call.

“I don’t believe your mind is playing tricks on you.”

I got off the phone and sobbed in my car for almost an hour.

I even had a good talk with my mom when I went back inside. It’s hard opening up about what’s been troubling you- but that day was a much needed release.

I truly think I cried all the tears I could possibly cry that day. With a little more strength, I made a bowl of mac and cheese, and agreed to go that afternoon to finish moving out of my Boston apartment. I was emotionally exhausted for the entire drive, but I listened to music through my headphones, and tried to take in the messages of the lyrics. I carried out the last box of my home these past 2 years, and left my keys on the kitchen counter. An ending, and a beginning.

I was able to do the things, even after that difficult therapy call. I was hopeful I would continue to find strength in moving forward.

Wednesday, though, I woke up disappointed. I felt as though I got hit by a bus. Periodically throughout the day, I was having breakdowns, overwhelmed at the slightest thing. Texting my psychiatrist, she validated my feelings were normal, that I should ride this out but to reach out if it becomes unbearable.

---

I got through this week. Focusing less on my problems, and more-so continuing to educate myself on the issues in our world, Black Lives Matter, telling myself that now is not the time to share my blog, about a white person’s mental health- there are bigger issues at hand to be talked about. My family has been having conversations on these topics, daily, non-stop it seems. It’s good, and I hope more people- especially white families are learning how to communicate these topics. I’ve made donations, I’ve spent hours of my day researching and educating, and also learning more about black mental health. I know, these things don’t mean my “job is done” and it will never be enough, but I’m growing, changing too. Everyone’s mental health journey is unique, and I know mine, and my treatment journey could be entirely different because of the color of my skin.

There is nothing easy about any of this. I am also acknowledging that as an empath, as someone who battles clinical depression and PTSD, I need to make room for things that take care of me while I do the hard and important work. That is a necessity too.

Though I’ve spent time away from my blog, it helps me heal and grow in more ways than one. If I’m not writing about BLM and other social justice issues here, please know I am making efforts to confront those issues in other aspects of my life.

---

I want to share something that happened last night. I’m not perfect, far from it, but if my social media images reflected the moments that happen, like the one last night- it would be a much different story.

I wasn’t in crisis, but to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was or wasn’t. I just knew that no matter how much pain I felt, I was not allowed to do a damn thing about it.

I am going to share something I wrote in the midst of it all. Today is a better day, but these times do creep up on me. A trigger warning- that though I was not suicidal or at risk for harming myself- it sure sounds that way:

“what keeps me from giving up?

is it that things can get better?

is it that i have a tattoo with the sole purpose of not harming myself?

is it that i believe so strongly nobody should end their life? and if i did..that means anyone could.

i don’t know how to tell when im in crisis anymore. bc i know hurting myself isn’t an option.

so all i can really do is just wait these feelings out, suffer through them, and hold on. 

so why bother asking for help. nobody can actually take my pain away.

i would just be burdening them. or taking away from someone who is at greater risk.

and right now could feel like the end of the world.

but if i wait it out i could feel completely fine later. 

but am i ever completely fine?”

Yup, even a new social worker has felt that ^ and I know better..

Yesterday I locked myself in the bathroom. I just needed space, but I scared the shit out of my mom who has seen me in a great deal of pain. “Haley, come out, I want to talk to you.” “Are you going to hurt yourself?”

I said NO. I have a history, so honestly- my mom wasn’t wrong to ask that question. But if you never had someone ask you that- let me tell you, that sentence is a reminder of the burden you put on those you love when you are struggling.

Yesterday I did something you should probably never do if you are hysterical, get in your car and drive. I sat at an empty lot for a good while with a packed bag, not really knowing where I was going to go, but knowing I needed to be somewhere, and alone. My mother even contacted my best friend in a panic, not knowing where I was but maybe I was headed to her. The last thing I want is to worry those I love when I am struggling. It was why I left. In leaving, I faced the fact that those people who love me are still going to be there for me. My plan didn’t last, I drove home.

The imperfection that is my life- 9pm now home again, sitting on my bedroom floor with my mom. Both of us crying. Talking about how we are going to get me through this.

“You’ve done it before.” she said. “You will do it again.”

21 years old, back in the bedroom at my parent’s house leaning against the bunk bed which I share with my step-sister, my mom holding me while I fall apart.

Messy.

As you can imagine, I slept pretty well after last night.

Today, Sunday, I learn it is my Papa’s birthday. He has been gone for almost 5 years now.

My mom reminds me, to think about what he would want for me today; for all of us.

I got up, I showered, I got my coffee. I thought the pain that was yesterday was going to last forever, but today is a new day.

I finished the finale of 13 Reasons Why season 4 on Netflix, which as the show warns you, and many of you know, is not the best to show to watch if you are already depressed as hell.

Me while watching it:

For those who don’t know the show, it is a high school drama that faces issues like mental illness, suicide, substance abuse, violence, sexual assault, and just about everything else that teens are conditioned to keep quiet about. In a weird way though, it was exactly what I needed to watch today. I won’t spoil anything, but what the last 30 minutes of the series reminded me, is everything I needed to hear. There will be times in our life that will break us, but if we keep going, we will survive. We get so caught up in the motions of our lives, that few of us take a minute to stop, and say “I’m here. I’m alive.”

This week, OK, this month has not been easy. I watched a character in the show go to weekly therapy, and I related it to my own life and the steps I am taking to move forward even when it feels like I am not getting anywhere. I watched characters come together, and take care of each other through shared grief. I watched them graduate from high school and be able to say they did it, they survived. I graduated from both high school and college with great challenges at times, but I did it. Soon I’ll be off to graduate school, and I know I can do that too.

Life tests us, over and over again.

Today though, as I think of my Papa in heaven and his birthday, I am reminded that I am here.

I am alive.

Yes, hurt will come my way.

So will the good.

So will love.

Stress inhabits the body in weird ways.

My first symptom of my anxiety disorder was located in my gut. Everyone told me it was stress, it was nerves, it was anxiety, and I refused to believe it. No, I have an illness, no there is something wrong inside my body. Now, I did have endometriosis and a heart condition, so it makes sense why I was so quick to assume something was not right physically. I was happy, from what I believed I had no reason to have stress or anxiety I was fine.

Yesterday I was typing away on my site about how I have been isolating, how I have been impatient for my next therapy appointment, and not wanting to talk to anyone else. Later that same day, I had pain. It sat in my pelvis, and I cursed my endometriosis for flaring up now when everything else seemed to be falling apart. I curled up in a ball on my bed, watching Tangled and relating to Rapunzel feeling trapped and controlled and desperately wanting to explore the world and feel free of the bars in her childhood.

I skipped dinner, and held my very bloated belly which was gladly distracting me from the thoughts in my head I had been searching for an interruption from. As I listened to Rapunzel sing “When Will My Life Begin” I recognized a tightness in my chest, the racing of my heart, and the beginning stages of a migraine.

It could be my lack of sleep, my bird-like diet, dehydration.. absolutely. But all of these feelings, all together, allowed me to listen closer to what was going on inside my body. My jaw was tense, locked. My shoulders were curled forward, and probably had been for a long time. Escaping into a Disney film let my anxious thoughts hide away for a little while, but I was given the space to be mindful. I was realizing how my mental health was affecting me physically. My mind did not just ache, everything ached. I recall thinking, far too many times, I can’t live like this. How long am I going to feel like this? How many more nights am I going to toss and turn in my bed already wishing for tomorrow to be over?

Around 6pm on a Sunday I texted my therapist asking if we could speak before our next session. My anxiety told me I was bothering her, that she would be upset with me, that she would say no? I don’t know. None of that happened. She replied closer to 8pm, that she could speak briefly the next morning.

Weights left my shoulders, I could breathe a little easier, and I knew I did the right thing asking for what I needed, even if I did feel guilty about it.

I woke up today, Monday morning after a night of tossing and turning, a 20 minute check-in with her was exactly what I needed to have the strength to hang in there a little while longer. Trapped in a wave, I had forgotten my skills, and the tools I had that I could use to make this time even the slightest bit easier.

After that call, we agreed it would be helpful to check-in periodically throughout the day. At noon I sent her an update that I was hanging in there. I went for a nature walk with my mom, I took a shower, and I expected to take a bath later in the day to ease my pains. I also asked my friend if she would go for a run with me this week, even if we end up walking most of it. She was glad to hear that I was able to do those things. Next, we planned to check-in again for 5pm.

I woke up this morning in a different light, knowing I was not alone. My day started with my step-sister Maddy sharing her pancake batter, a warm mug of coffee and 2 chocolate chip pancakes which I covered in powdered sugar. The sun was out. My stomach hurt a little less. My mom even surprised me with something I can “bring to Hawaii” - handing me a 4 pack of Moana-themed chapstick. “You can pick the one you want, and the other 3 we will give to the little cousins!” It did make me smile. I had been short with my mom all week, and I realized it wasn’t about Moana-themed chapstick at all, not even about the reminder that very soon I will be leaving this nest and moving to Honolulu for graduate school. I realized, I was able to see good in something so small. Lately, that has not been the case.

Today, I’m doing okay. Soon I will dive back into trauma therapy and likely explore the depths that led me to my struggles this week, and I may start to struggle some more. I may start to heal some more too. It may be absolutely worse, before it gets better. I started my day thinking that I must be doing something terribly wrong, that I don’t know how to help myself. Hours later, typing here I realize I am doing many things right to help myself.

How about that.

I came to the realization last night, that this pandemic, this quarantine, could be absolutely what I need to heal.

One year ago, 2019, I was in a psychiatric hospital. The positive side of being there, was that I had the much needed break from the world that I needed. The isolation, was healing, but the healing was painful. I struggle with major depressive disorder and post traumatic stress syndrome. I struggle with dissociation and flashbacks, and when feelings get too intense I tend to shut down. I isolate, I struggle to communicate. I lose my appetite, and as tired as I am, I cannot sleep. One painful memory was sitting on the floor of my hospital room, no memory of how long I had been sitting there. I just could not stop crying. My tears made no sound, and my body was tense. I could not move if I wanted to. A nurse came in and sat in a chair near me and asked what was going on. “I can see that you are not okay.” My mind was racing miles a minute, flashes of pieces of my childhood, the assault I experienced in college, and a choking feeling sitting in my throat. I don’t remember if I answered her. I don’t remember being able to speak or able to explain to her what I was experiencing. I just remember wanting to be alone, but also, not wanting her to leave. Perhaps I knew if I sat there long enough, someone would come looking for me. Too many people walked past my open door, before she came.

I have been handling this pandemic the best that I can, as everyone else is. Once a week I talk to my psychiatrist on facetime, and one week ago I asked to go back on my nightmare medication. I expressed to her that I have been anxious for our sessions in-between appointments, and she encouraged me to reach out if I felt like I needed an extra one. But me being me, I’m stubborn. I try to handle everything on my own first.

While I have much more freedom during quarantine than I did when I was hospitalized, I am noticing some things to be similar. As I continue to work on myself, on my mental health, I do not currently have work or school or very many things to worry about while I do so. I am in a safe place with room to explore the past, present, and future. But maybe..too much of the past. I have been blaming quarantine, living back home with my family, on restricting my freedom and triggering bumps in my healing process. Truly, because I am continuing therapy, and because I have few distractions, the healing is happening all at once. Things are creeping up on me in the shower, in the car, when I wake up in the morning, and when I go to bed at night. It has been messy. I have been trying. I have been pushing the people I care about away, I just want to be left to myself while I deal with these emotions and process past traumas. It’s a lot. I know there is a way out of this, and I know these feelings won’t last forever. I have been trying so very hard to not feel the way that I am feeling these past few weeks, but maybe now is exactly the time I need to be feeling this way, processing these things.

My step-father came to my room yesterday, sat on my floor as I stayed in my bed turned away from him. “Talk to me.” I didn’t give him much, other than I don’t knows of what I was thinking, feeling, and needing. I am grateful he cares, I am grateful that I have so many people who do give a shit about me. Lately, I feel like I am disappointing them all. PTSD is so very hard to explain to those you care about. Everything can be so good, but one thing can trigger something else and it is very hard to separate the two. Everyone wants me to talk, to open up about what is going on inside my head. Other than to my therapist, it just feels easier trusting that nobody can understand. “You went to school for 4 years studying this stuff.” he said. “What would you say to someone sitting on your couch going through what you are going through, telling you they just want to be alone and shut everyone out?” I would empathize, I would validate those feelings.. but I also was overwhelmed by him asking me that. Fears creeping up that I won’t be able to truly help my clients, because I am them.

I will help my clients. I know I will know what to say. Right now, I can’t, because as any good social worker knows, you have to take care of yourself before you can take care of someone else. I will learn from my own experiences. What helped, what hurt, and I will get to a point where I am stronger than ever, and will be a great social worker.

This, right now, isn’t defining my ability, my worth. It is messy and uncomfortable, but I have to believe it is ok where I am at right now. This is just a stepping stone to something great, a healing that would have been halted unless the world itself were on “pause.”

When I first started blogging, I was writing daily, sometimes 2 posts a day. That was when my blog was anonymous, most of my readers were strangers, and I did not have to worry one bit about what people were thinking. I was not writing to help anyone else but myself. Most of my posts were journal entries about how I was getting through high school while seriously depressed and anxious. I did not know how to talk about those feelings, so I would write about them instead. Somehow along the way, as I was helping myself, I was receiving emails and comments from strangers. Instead of judging, they were supporting me on my journey. Many could relate to what I was going through, and many expressed that they were amazed at how I could express such emotions and experiences in the written word. For me, it was not about that at all. I was just writing, because it felt easier than talking.

When I realized my words were helping other people, I took a shift with how I was using my site. I was no longer anonymous, I deleted my personal Instagram account and I made my new one only dedicated to my blog site. I went from posting twice a day, to spending hours thinking about what to write next, and what people would actually want to read. I spent less time using writing as a journal, and more time trying to be an inspiration for others.

I recently was talking with a family member about the importance of doing things for you first, before the focus becomes about everyone else. He expressed interest in making videos, but that the more he would overthink about what people would want to see. The more time would pass, he would hold himself back from doing what he wanted. I related in a lot of ways. Blogging and writing was something I enjoyed, and when I put too much thought into it I found it harder to make it happen. People asked when I was writing a new post, and I pressured myself to please them. It was no longer helpful or enjoyable for myself.

Now that I graduated from college, and am about to embark on a new journey and a next chapter, I feel it is important that I make some changes with how I am using this site. I deleted many of my old posts, with the intention of starting fresh and writing new ones. I have decided to make this site’s focus about me first; my diary, my journal, and welcome others to read along. It may not always be pretty, I may be opening up a door to some vulnerable and darker sides to me. Writing has helped me to grow, and sharing my story is not at all easy, but in the past I have found it to be worthwhile.

---

Let’s get to it.

I was diagnosed with PTSD before my senior year of college. Looking back, the symptoms go back long before. The nightmares, the insomnia, my mind replaying difficult memories, the panic attacks and episodes of dissociation.

I never acknowledged I was someone who had experienced trauma, I just thought there was something wrong with me. At age 18 I learned for the first time in my life that I was survivor of child abuse and a household of domestic violence. I somehow took all the pain and put it aside, telling myself I should feel guilty for feeling so sad so often, for feeling like I did not belong. After all, I was a happy child from a big family, and things could not be as bad as they seemed. I have had to face the facts that both could be true. My childhood was both loving and wonderful, and though I have been privileged, things have been incredibly difficult too. I’m studying to pursue a profession in mental health care, while still learning how to cope myself.

It is difficult graduating from college, moving away from home, and trying to move forward with my life when every day my mind and body wants to go backwards and over-process things from my past. After two psychiatric hospitalizations and several counselors in 5 years, I am finally working with a psychiatrist on healing from trauma and the roots of where my anxiety and depression began. It’s fricken hard work, but I have never been more ready to do this. The work, has to start with me, before I can properly allow myself to take care of myself as I pursue a career in helping others. In the midst of COVID-19, my therapist’s office has become my bedroom, or my car via video call. I am grateful that I can continue therapy, and that even when I move to Oahu for graduate school I will be able to continue therapy virtually in another time zone. One of the challenges I am facing is that when my weekly session ends, the processing continues. I am having a hard time without a schedule, a hard time “leaving my stuff” in therapy.

One of biggest challenges is staying present. My mind always wants to drift elsewhere. Writing, helps to bring me to this moment.

I have started crafting a schedule for myself that will tell me when to wake up and when to go to bed. It will include getting outside, some type of activity, my weekly therapy session, and time set aside for writing. I have tried this in the past but I have failed to stick with it. I’m giving it a shot again now that I am home 24/7 and am out of school and work.

I have been asked how I am doing and I continue to say “Alright” which in my words translates to not great, but not terrible.

I’m hanging in there, aren’t we all?