When the only option is digging deep.

I was naive when I started therapy. I was sure I could be fixed. I believed I was the problem in each of my relationships. I expected too much. And I had some anger issues I had to work on. I was livid with absolutely everyone. I walked into his office and sat down on the couch fully prepared to tell him what a piece of sh*t I know I am, and have him tell me just exactly where I could place the shovel to start the grave I deserved to be lying in.

I jumped into self-improvement with both feet. I read all the books and watched hours of videos. I studied the science-backed methods for becoming a better person. I believed I could solve all of my problems with critical thinking and breathing exercises. The advice given by many was to establish a healthy routine. Ever the overachiever, I curated a self-actualizing ritual. Wake up. Pee. Health drink and time outside. Yoga. Coffee, journaling, and reading (in the bizarro world—scrolling). Walk the child(ren) to the bus stop. Meditate. Start the day. I do this every morning. On weekends, I let the children sleep. I practice being mindful of every decision. I let go of anger at what I can’t control. I allow my feelings and I investigated their sources. I clearly express my needs. I interrupt my patterns. I’m expecting my self-actualization any day now.

I also wanted to shift what my work looked like. I wanted to create something. My initial idea was to write a book that would help people navigate the self-help path I had embarked on by sharing what I had learned. I knew it was grandiose to believe that I’d have any worthwhile advice for anyone, but I wanted to try. At the time I was so confident, I really thought I could help people with my limited life experience. In all my privilege, I spent each night for years dedicated to healing and writing, and at the same time I rolled my eyes at the concept of either being possible. It turned out to be a much longer road than I anticipated.

Through all this dedicated work, I unearthed some trauma. And then some Trauma. I wasn’t expecting that capital T. You know when people say they reeled, I feel like I’ve been reeling since. I wish I hadn’t learned about the science of trauma first. I get sad sometimes to know that my infant brain was literally damaged and that even as an adult, I may not fully recover. I might always see the world this way. When the light’s on, it’s okay, but when the light goes out… I press forward undeterred, because the truth is I have no choice. I wasn’t lucky enough to disappear with Thanos’ snap. So, I flipped to the severe trauma section of the textbook and started studying. Take it slow, they say. I should listen.  

Another drumbeat in the area of personal growth is awareness of who you are. You can’t change what you don’t acknowledge. Be honest about your short-comings and love yourself despite them. Full acceptance with no judgement. I trip on this step. To accept who I am fully, I have to accept a lot. I have to accept something unacceptable. It seems like that should be a paradox and yet here I am, existing. 

What happened to me changed everything and nothing. Sometimes I want to tell random people out in the world. Waiting at the made-to-order counter at Wawa, I want to lean toward the person next to me and say “How’s your morning going? That’s nice. I was traumatized as an infant and as a result, I’ll probably never live a “normal” life cognitively or emotionally” then grab my mocha frapp and head out the door. Although, I want to be specific with the strangers, not arcane like I am here. I want to describe the trees. I’m not sure why I want to tell random people. I think I’d like to see the moment of horror in their face when they hear it. I want their pity to validate my difficulties. I want them to be impressed I had the strength to wake up. I don’t tell people though, just to be clear. I think to myself they could have had it worse, and I keep my mouth shut. I don’t even ask how their morning is. I stand with my carbon paper receipt pinched between my fingers so I can prove I paid my money. No one talks to me.

I live an otherwise normal, and pretty boring life. I pay $5 for gas station coffee drinks like the rest of you. Some days I feel like I am drowning, but most days I go through the motions just fine. Grocery shopping, work emails, carpools. Maybe that’s the paradox. This past that can absolutely level me, at times completely evades me. I make breakfast burritos for my kids, and I don’t think about it at all. What changed me permanently was viewing the universe from the paradoxical perspective. Where both realities are true. I see differently now. I don’t think about writing self-help books anymore.

I’ve started to feel resentful of the messages encouraging me to find peace inside myself to be at peace with the world. I think, I’m f*cking peaceful as f*ck, mother*cker. Tell all these other f*ckers to get peaceful. I’m fine! Then, I stop for a deep, humble breath. Obviously, there is work to do, but it’s exhausting trying to find peace in a violent world. Where I wish I found peace, I find discomfort. People around me are angry. A few days ago, a 60-something neighbor mentioned they were surprised no one had murdered the president during our casual conversation on the sidewalk. I’m assuming they said this because of the recent rise in political violence, but maybe they were referring to his policies? Either way, I was alarmed by the statement. Is that a good surprise or a bad one? And how am I supposed to find peace when political assassination is considered small talk? I don’t think we can pin all of this on me.

Some other neighbors, who I don’t see as often since their dog passed, invited me and Ink into their fenced yard. I accepted because Ink absolutely loves them (dog people are dog people), and she also loves running. While we stood in their backyard at dusk, I asked them about their new career changes and where they had traveled. They commented on Ink’s speed and enjoyed her excitement. She just retired, but she’ll go back to work soon. He has a two-hour commute, and he’s grateful to work on the water. I did not need to answer any questions. We didn’t want to overstay our welcome. Ink wore herself out running around sniffing new grass and we walked home. I am grateful for that conversation. I assured myself they offered the kindness and were probably pleased with the interaction too. I felt inner peace then.

Several years ago, when the internet wasn’t an app, I visited a site recommended by a friend; The Cleaning Fairy, I think it was called. A woman with a passion for household management provided tips and tricks for stay-at-home mothers, such as myself. We could follow her advice to keep our own houses in respectable order. The logo was a plump, middle-aged, white woman wearing wings and white sneakers. The Cleaning Fairy told us to wake up every day and get dressed first thing, down to our shoes. She offered a weekly chore rotation that could be customize for your household, she knew which solution to apply to every mess, but the most memorable piece of advice I read on The Cleaning Fairy’s website was each night before you go to bed, shine your kitchen sink.

I didn’t end up adopting The Cleaning Fairy’s protocols for a tidy home. I subscribe to a sort of clean what needs cleaning method, and f*ck if I’m wearing my shoes inside all day, but her reasoning behind the kitchen sink idea, the logic behind her insistence that if you do nothing else, don’t go to bed without cleaning your sink til it shines was sound. The Cleaning Fairy said that cleaning the kitchen sink each night would set us up for success the next day. Honestly, after all my research, this is the best self-help advice I have come across. If I’m the one who has to deal with the mess when I wake up tomorrow, the least I can do is give myself a place to start. Cleaning the kitchen sink is a love note you leave yourself acknowledging the rock that needs to be pushed up the hill every day. The Cleaning Fairy was urging us to respect our own effort because no one would do it for us.

I have bad habits. I don’t always shine my kitchen sink before bed. Therapy has not perfected me in the way I planned it would. It has changed me in ways I didn’t anticipate. When I started therapy, I felt embarrassed to exist when I woke up each morning. I know that’s how I felt because I wrote it down. I’ve come a long way. I consider myself now. I think about what I might like to wake up to in the morning. Therapy may have me disillusioned with the rest of the universe, but I do things for myself now—the things I can control. I can go for a walk. I can say hello. I can choose a healthy snack. I can close the app. I can read the book. I can create art. I do the things I know are good for me, because instead of happiness, or achievement, or status, I’m working toward peace—another change in perspective provided by therapy. Sometimes I choose to leave the dishes over night because I’m 100% done pushing the rock for the day and the most peaceful option is to ignore them. When I wake up in the morning and see the dirty pile in the sink, I know I won’t hate myself for leaving them there. I will understand that some days are really hard and you do what you can. Some days I can do a lot, and some days I can only exist.