I am going to try to write and process something that is rather difficult for me.
Yesterday, I finally had a chance to do another EMDR session. Once again, I concentrated on my fear of abandonment, and the chronic belief that I am unworthy of love.
The session began with the same triggering moment that always seems to surface–the day, right before 3rd grade–that my grandmother gave my brother and I “back” to my mom. The day she left us…the day that I panicked, and experienced what must have been my very first panic attack.
It is familiar. I have written and written and written about it.
I know that it is a moment. And I have been desperate to dig deeper and try to understand why I am so anxious about losing important relationships. Why I spiral down into a dark hole when I fear I’ve messed up. Why I need reassurance that things are okay. Continue reading
I’ve always been the type of person to avoid confrontation. For me, it is more than just unpleasant–it is emotionally fueled, painful, and anxiety provoking.
It has always been easier…better…to just be the peacemaker. The nurturer.
I was cultivated into this role from an early age. The first person that I tried to avoid confrontation with is a person that I still try to avoid confrontation with: my mother.
I am a many layered entity.
There have been many times throughout this journey to healing where I have thought I have reached my center, only to be surprised to discover more layers of complexities underneath.
Diligently, I have peeled back layer after layer. Gruelingly, grudgingly, and guardedly, at times. Happily, laughingly, and interestedly, at others.
The fact, however, remains: finding the center is hard to do… Continue reading
I have been an irritable, grumpy person lately.
Life has been stressful, for no really great reasons.
My anxiety has felt okay.
It’s just that melancholy creeps in.
Some days? It overtakes me.
I am a Type A person.
I like things to be perfect. In my control. I like everyone to feel happy.
I stress…and worry…and stress some more because the things I like to see are hard on my soul.
Most of the time, you see, they are out of my control. Continue reading
No matter who you are, parenting can be a difficult gig.
As a woman, I know that I frequently worry about the way my parenting looks–am I being judged? Do I look selfish? Do I play with my kids enough? Did I talk on the phone too long? Will my husband be upset if I try to go on a run this morning? And on and on the thoughts go.
And these are thoughts on normal days. Motherhood, in my experience, requires a thick skin. It is easy to let other people’s opinions affect you–it is easy to be pulled into dumb cultural battles (think breast vs. bottle, co-sleeping vs. crib, working vs. staying at home)–there is so much pressure to do everything correctly, and so many different opinions on what the “correct ways” are.
Long ago, I made the decision to do what was best for my family. I also made the decision to tell anyone else to do what is best for them. And you know what? That is empowering. Continue reading
Every year, there is this holiday that rolls around…I dread it.
My social media feeds are clogged with pictures of smiling mothers and daughters, complete with odes all about how self-sacrificing and completely wonderful all mothers are, and how no one can love you the way your mother loves you.
These posts, every year, fill me with confusion.
They make me jealous, and angry, and sad, and wistful. Continue reading
I am my mother’s daughter.
…She reminds me of this. In her way, she is proud of me–I am the daughter she can brag about. The one she can show off. The one that, to the public, or to social media, makes her a better mother.
But, it is not reality. Continue reading
I’ve written over the last month that I am having a really hard time. I’ve been down…dark, and depressed. I’ve been fighting bouts of anxiety and nervousness, and stomach issues that are a result of all of it, but also make all the stress and nervousness worse.
I have been feeling trapped. And stuck. And hopeless. Continue reading