A Writing Assignment from my English1020 Class #2

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                                                           Rewire

 

  I grew up without a dad.  My mom and biological father split when I was too young to remember him. 

  Years of counseling and emotional therapy - all my therapists were fixated on - and determined to - delve deeper into my long list of “Daddy issues”. 

  It wasn’t just my father though.  I have some major “Mommy issues” too.  My mother was jaded.  - Extremely jaded. 

  Even though she eventually remarried, she still wasn’t able to trust anyone again. 

  After she and my stepfather split - for good- somewhere around the time I was in middle school - she began to speak freely to me, offering up “advice” or tidbits of “wisdom” about men and relationships.

  For as long as I can remember, I was told to be ready - to expect - to plan for - being left by every man I choose to be with. 

  She imparted so many little nuggets of wisdom: “Marry someone at least 10 years older than you, so they won’t leave you for a younger woman.”  “Handle the family finances – and be sure to put money aside that your husband doesn’t know about, so you can survive when he leaves you.”

  She basically programmed me from a very young age to believe that no relationship was going to last. 

  Combine all these little life lessons from my mom, with the severe abandonment issues I didn’t realize I was living through from my father leaving us - and all you have left is me: a brainwashed little girl who constantly felt broken, unworthy of love, desperate to prove her mother wrong, forever anxious, and uber-clingy.

  When I finally started exploring the world of dating, I was such a mess.  Insecure.  Jealous.  Angry.  Mean.  - Any negative quality you can think of to describe one of your craziest ex’s - I was that - tenfold. 

  You’ve probably heard the saying, “Your vibe attracts your tribe.” - That statement is so true.  My crazy attracted more crazy.  I found myself in a slew of unhealthy relationships with emotionally unavailable, abusive men.

  As I entered “adulthood” - and I use that term loosely - by no means is anyone really an “adult” between the ages of 18 and 25 - I rushed into relationships, jumping from one, to another, to the next in record time.  Looking back, I realize now that I had severe commitment issues along with my abandonment issues.  I was always trying to be the one leaving before I could be left. 

  My dad passed in 1999. Five months shy of my 21^st birthday. That threw me for a loop I wasn’t prepared for.  I had no idea how to deal with - or even how to feel - any of the emotions I was cycling through. 

  Almost immediately, I turned to drugs and alcohol to numb whatever feelings I was experiencing in the moment.  I threw myself deep into the party scene.  I worked two jobs to support my reckless lifestyle.  I worked 8am-5pm at my “grown up” job as an insurance agent, 6pm-10pm as a server, and then partied every night until the wee hours of the morning, slept for a couple of hours, and woke up to do it all over again.

  I dove head-first into a “date safe” mode of operation - which at the time meant that I’d purposefully date men who I felt were not attractive, or men who had major character flaws.  I reasoned this to mean:  They are not that attractive + I am a pretty girl = They won’t be able to land someone better, so they will not ever be able to hurt me.

  My first real relationship with someone who I thought could never hurt me proved that I was completely off base with my thinking.  It was about a year after my dad’s death.  I quit both my jobs, moved across the country, and gave up every sense of security I had for this man.  I dove in headfirst.  I wanted to make it work - no matter what.  However, despite my best efforts to keep the relationship intact, this man completely gutted me and left me with nothing.  - Empty.  - Completely broken - emotionally and financially. 

  Despite my massive “Date Safe” failure, I continued with this practice through several more relationships over the next several years.  All of which failed miserably and left me more broken than I ever imagined a person could be.  Each relationship chipped away at what little self-worth I had left.

  In 2004, I got pregnant - despite being on birth control.  - You see, when you party as hard as I was partying, you tend to vomit - a lot - thus, rendering your birth control kind of obsolete. - I know, insert facepalm here. - I was 25 - not young enough to be a complete embarrassment to my family and fear being disowned - but old enough for it to not be a complete “Oh, Shit!” moment.  In hindsight, I can honestly say that my daughter - quite literally - saved my life.  - However, at the time, I had absolutely NO business becoming a mom and entering a marriage with a man I barely knew.

  I don’t know if you know this or not, but when you have a child, you can’t really be a good parent while being high or wasted all the time, so this forced me to seek out some professional help.  I started with my ob/gyn doctor.  He put me on an anti-depressant.  - Then after a few months of being on the meds, I reluctantly enlisted the help of a therapist. 

  They say when you start getting healthier - mentally and emotionally - you start to notice other people’s dysfunction around you.  After several months of therapy, I started seeing how unhealthy my marriage had become and I chose to leave my marriage of 10 months to focus on becoming a healthier version of myself for my daughter.

  Of course, as with any big decision in life, you often hear those wretched words ringing in your ears, “I told you so.”  Even if the person you fear hearing those words from never actually speaks them directly to you - you still hear them screaming them at you in the back of your mind. 

   First marriage - Failure.  Check.  “I told you so.” - Mom

  In a sense, after my divorce, I was still trying to cling to my “date safe” method.  It wasn’t going well.  I was dating nice, generally good people, but I wasn’t allowing myself to become invested.  I quickly got labeled: a heartbreaker; emotionally unavailable; even a gold digger.

  In my 30^th year, I endured another gut-wrenching breakup that left me completely depleted and desolate.  I thought I was going to get married and live happily ever after.  I was so wrong.  The way the relationship ended blindsided me.  He broke things off by quite literally disappearing.  He stopped all communication with me and just disappeared.  I was not okay for a very long time afterwards.  I was given no closure and just had to basically fight through the hurt without any clear answers as to why it ended.

  Despite going to therapy regularly, I was still drinking a lot - and often - when my daughter was spending half the week with her dad.  I didn’t realize it then, but I had developed some awful patterns that would almost always surface when I had too many adult beverages.

  Drinking - getting drunk - was a cycle - an unhealthy coping mechanism that would bring out every single insecurity in me.  The problem would then escalate to my picking a fight - usually with my significant other - but the problem was that I’d be too drunk to remember my actions or all the mean and hurtful things I said the next morning.  I’d wake up fine.  Happy.  Affectionate.  Only to be met with a cold shoulder - major stink eye - or stank face - from my then boyfriend.

  It was a real problem I never realized I even had, until I went through that awful breakup during my 30^th year. 

  Another substantial relationship down the toilet.  Check. “I told you so.” - Mom

  Even still, after all of that, I didn’t start addressing the issue until later the following year in August 2010.  I decided to cut way back on my drinking, reevaluate some friendships, start writing, and just trying to get my head - and heart - back on track in a healthy way.

  My blogging started gaining some attention in my friend circle, and then it started branching out into the outer rings of friends of friends in my friends' circle.  Eventually, my writings would be the basis of how my relationship with my second husband started.  We bonded quickly over our struggles with alcohol and the balancing act of trying to remain friends with the friends we had during our binge-drinking days - which, coincidentally, turned out to be a lot of the same people.  He had been warned about my past dating faux pas by mutual acquaintances.  I think maybe that factored into him asking me if I wanted to get married so quickly after we started dating.  - Like if I agreed to marry him, I couldn’t run away.  Ultimately, I said yes, and we were married 6 months later. 

  At the time, I hadn’t spoken to my mother for almost a year.  She had - still has - a habit of getting mad at someone and not speaking to them for months - even several years - at a time.  - She’s a real special lady, I tell you.  - She wasn’t informed of - or invited to - the wedding.

  We married in April 2011.  If I remember correctly, things did a total 180 within a month of our wedding date.  - The how, when, what, and where behind all of that is water under the bridge and would just be word-count filler at this point, so I won’t bore you with all the petty details of my failed marriage. 

  The gist was this:  I wasn’t happy - nor was I getting the help - or love - I needed from my husband. 

  In 2012, for some reason, we thought procreating would be a good idea.  We decided to start trying to get pregnant - which I did fairly quickly.  I miscarried though.  - We waited a bit, and managed to get pregnant again the following year and had my son in December 2013.  - By the way, I was still not speaking to my mom through any of this. 

  I think I nursed my son for 16 months - those 16 months were a complete blur.  I was working out of town a lot, and just trying to be a good mom and produce enough milk for my son.  It’s crazy just how much breastfeeding a human alters your day-to-day life.  - But formula was so expensive and I knew it’d be a struggle to afford it.  After I decided to officially ween my son, I started throwing myself into work again full-force.  I also started doing things that made me happy - for me - not for anyone else – including my husband.

  - Later that same year, I finally asked for a divorce, but stuck with it for another year, and then asked again the following year.  I remember talking myself down, and making the choice to stick it out one more year.  I promised myself that I’d really throw myself into my marriage - and at my husband - this time around to see if that produced any change.  I felt like I had tried - or talked about trying - anything and everything one could imagine in an attempt to rekindle our marriage that year.  Nothing changed though, and I finally decided to move out in November 2016.

  Another failed marriage under my belt.  Check.  “I told you so.” - Mom

  About a year after I left my marriage, I started dating again.  I met a man who was hardworking, and a real grown up - for a change.  He didn’t make fun of my “crazy” like all my previous exes had done.  Instead, he fought for me and said, “Let’s fix it.”  We dated off and on for 2.5 years.  Going to a couple's counselor off and on for the last year and a half.  We struggled to understand each other.  Anytime we’d fight, he’d disappear - which would then trigger all my past insecurities and abandonment issues - then our arguments would snowball and spin completely out of control.  It was a tumultuous and trying few years. 

  As awful as our fights and breakups were, for some reason, we always gravitated back towards one another.  I have a really hard time giving up on people.  - This man especially.  I wanted a partnership.  A companion.  A best friend.  - But throughout the 2 years of being together, I never felt like we had any of that nor did I feel like we were even working towards any of that either. 

  Even though it took me a very long time to get to a point where I felt completely done and over the relationship - almost 3 years - I did eventually get there on my own.  At the end of July, he had retreated and disappeared from my life - and out of my kids’ lives - without a word - AGAIN - and I finally had had enough.  I was done.  I wasn’t angry.  I wasn’t hurt.  I truly believed that we had done everything we both knew to do, and it just wasn’t in the cards to work.  I forgave him.  I forgave myself.  I gave it all to God, and let it all go.

  More years of my life wasted on a failure of a relationship.  Check.  “I told you so.” - Mom

  So now let’s fast forward a few months.

  God’s timing is something crazy sometimes.  I somehow randomly, and so unexpectedly, reconnected with a friend / major crush of mine from 20 years ago.  This man is everything I ever wanted in a life partner.  Kind.  Patient.  Committed.  Secure in his attachment style.  Honest.  Trustworthy.  Secure.  Stable.  He’s a Christian.  He prays with me.  He prays for me.  He does bible studies with me.  He’s making real and substantial plans for our future together.  I still cry every day, but it’s because he speaks directly to my heart - instead of saying or doing things that break it.  I truly do believe God orchestrated our reconnection with precision and purpose. 

  So then here lies my question - circling back to why I started writing this piece:

  All of my life, I’ve been programmed to believe that no relationship would ever be for forever.  I was raised to be self-sufficient - to always be prepared for the ball to drop - to be ready to survive on my own when whatever relationship I was in would inevitably fail.  - And despite my best efforts to prove my mother’s theory on relationships wrong, every relationship I’ve ever been in has ultimately failed.

  So how does one go about rewiring their brain? 

  How do I alter my whole way of thinking in regards to relationships? 

  How do I stop waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop? 

  Years of therapy.  Years of counseling.  Years of self-work. 

  Is it even possible?  - To rewire a brain - to undo the jumbled, tangled mess of crossed wires and misaligned connections I’ve not only been taught but have personally experienced firsthand all of my life? 

  I surely don’t have any definitive answers.  All I do know is that I’m trying.  It’s a constant battle, a daily struggle to quiet my worrisome mind and anxious heart. 

  I think it’s a struggle for most people to believe in things you can’t see - or have never witnessed in your own life, right?  - Isn’t that the basis of faith though?  - To believe without question.  - To trust.  - To love without limits regardless of what heartbreak the future may or may not have in store. 

  There’s a quote I love by Alfred Lord Tennyson, “tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” - I pray over these words every morning and then I ask myself; “Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all though?” and my answer is always, “Yes.”  - So, with every new morning, I make a conscience effort to believe - and to have faith - in God, - in myself, - and most of all, in love. 

A Writing Assignment from my English1020 Class

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                                                            Worry

 

   I grew up in a tumultuous home.  My mother was a single mom, raising three kids on her own, trying to do the best she could.  I have vivid memories of her sitting at the dining room table, crying over her checkbook.  I didn’t understand what that meant then, all I knew was that she was hurting - so I’d run to her, put my head down in her lap, and ask if she was okay.   She’d always reassure me that she was okay - shielding me from any understanding over her financial struggles.

  I don’t think of myself as having grown up always being an anxious child.  I don’t remember ever having to worry about shelter, clothing, or where my next meal would come from - we were poor, but very fortunate in that sense. 

  We moved a few times from the time I was in Kindergarten till I was in 2^nd grade.  - From Arizona, to California, then finally settling in Florida.  I will venture out and guess that’s when the worry and anxiousness started.  My mom and stepdad had separated.  I started 2^nd grade at a new school, in a new state. 

  I recall struggling a lot in school that year.  - Never wanting to do homework, or classwork.  - Having to keep a daily reporting notebook that went home to my mom every day with either a smiley face or sad face depending on my behavior that day.  I don’t remember ever having that much trouble in school after that year though. 

  My mom had a ridiculously bad temper, and an extremely abusive, hurtful tongue.  Her words hit much harder than her fists did.  She and my brother fought so much.  He was 4 years older than me, very stubborn, and very strong willed.  He was just like my mom in so many ways - which is probably much of why they fought so often.

  Middle school was a turning point for me.  My stepdad and my mom had tried to work things out several times over those 3 years but finally separated for good after my 6^th grade year.  I had experienced a lot of personal trauma during middle school that I wasn’t dealing with - nor was I allowed to speak about.   

  By high school, my brother had landed himself in prison.  I was barely speaking to my mom, and she was blaming me for everything that was going wrong in our lives on a daily rotation.

  I was told every day that I was a failure, the biggest disappointment of her life - and if I failed anymore, she threatened that she would kill me.  After hearing that every day of my life over a couple of years' time - I eventually started to believe I was as big a mess up as she proclaimed me to be and thought that I might just be better off dead. 

  I’m pretty confident that’s when my worry and anxiety manifested itself into actual signs any healthy individual could pinpoint and seek help for.  With the close of my freshman year approaching, I attempted suicide.  I was institutionalized for several months.  - I received a lot of therapy and counseling but I remember spending the whole time worrying about how my mom was going to treat me after I was released and free to go home. 

  From then on, I think I managed to survive the rest of high school purely by flying under the radar. - Speaking only when asked specific things.  - Respectful, but short answers.  I never offered up any other conversation.  I quietly refused to share any personal thoughts or feelings with her.  I didn’t trust her to receive them without judgement.

 Still to this day, I believe my inability to communicate effectively when I’m emotional - or in a fight with someone - spurs directly from never being able to say what I was feeling to my mother when I was hurting.  As an adult in my early forties, I still have difficulty articulating what I want to say when the conversations are emotionally charged topics.  I get tongue-tied and completely frustrated to the point of crying because I can’t find the words that I want to say.

 

  Looking back on my time at home with my mother, I can see now how my anxieties were manifesting themselves.  I struggled with constipation all throughout middle and high school.  It wasn’t till I moved out that I realized people were supposed to poop at least every other day - if not every day.

  I struggled with patches of red raised bumps on my tummy.  My family physician called them “stress bumps”.  I had no idea things like that - a product of stress - could physically show up on your body. 

  My sleep schedule was erratic.  I barely slept for weeks at a time.  - Then all I’d want to do for several weeks was sleep. 

 

  Shortly after I had my daughter, I began a long journey of self-work.  I dove head-first into therapy.  I had always known I struggled with depression, but the thought of suffering with anxiety never registered on my radar until later in my adult life. 

  I remember worrying over driving, accidents, dying myself, or my kid dying in a car accident.  - Vivid pictures in my head of those things happening.  - Of my daughter being abducted.  - Held hostage in someone’s house.  - Being forced into doing things no child should be doing.  - Again, vivid, disturbing images in my head. 

  Worry - anxiety specifically - this was how it was all manifesting itself in my life as an adult.  I decided to speak to my doctor about it.  I was prescribed an anti-depressant with an anti-anxiety medication combined.  It’s helped but I still struggle with incessant worry.

  I now have 2 kids.  - And I’ll be the first to admit, that I have worried over the same things with my son that I worried over with my daughter.  - Accidents, death, abduction, sex trafficking.  - The whole gambit of twisted and gory details no parent wants to see of their kids.

  In addition to all those crazy things, I worry like crazy over the normal stuff too.  -  Bills, money, finances, Covid, how Covid is going to affect the world - my job - my career - my kids - our town - our legacy.  I worry every day about my son’s nutrition - his disability - my shortcomings as a mom to a son with special needs.  The only visual I can give someone of what my worrisome thoughts look like in my head is this:  Picture the biggest plate of spaghetti you can imagine - Extra saucy and piled high.  - That is my brain full of unhelpful worrisome thoughts - all day long. 

 

  It’s a struggle to say the very least.  A few things that help me are as follows:

  I meditate a lot.  I have several meditation apps on my phone that help me redirect my anxiousness when I need to, so I don’t spiral myself into a full-blown panic attack. 

  I pray a lot too.  I do bible studies geared toward anxiousness and worry every week.  One of my recent bible studies had this to say, “Worry is our inability or unwillingness to trust God.”  Ooof.  That felt like a sucker punch in my gut when I read that.  It affected me so deeply that I had to share it with my friends on Facebook AND write it down on a sticky note to have on my vanity mirror as a daily reminder.

  I grew up in church.  I was extremely active in my church youth group.  I’m still very close to my youth director.  I consider her my other mom.  I remember having conversations with her in high school about worry.  She basically said the same thing back then about worry being your lack of trust in God.

  A little sidebar discussion for any readers: 

  I know I’m not the only person who struggles with trusting God.  I was taught - or told - that I should think of God as a Dad.  - As my Heavenly Father - My Dad in Heaven - Daddy God, If you will. 

  - I was also told in the same breath that it’d be hard to trust “Daddy God” because I didn’t have the greatest examples of what a dad or father should be here on Earth.  - But I was never given the skills, knowledge, or instruction on how to close that gap either.

  If you don’t have the experience of trusting your Earthly father, then how do you trust in a God you’ve never seen?  This is something I still struggle with daily.  If you have any pointers on this, please find me on socials and let’s discuss.   

 

I believe in God. 

I believe in the power of meditation and prayer. 

I believe in medicine.

- All of which have helped me live with the incessant worry and debilitating anxiety I have lived with for most of my life. 

 There isn’t any one cure all.  Different things will work for some and not work for others. 

Healing and becoming a healthier version of yourself is a lifelong journey. 

What I’ve learned is that it’s okay to misstep, backtrack, start over, or even try something completely new. 

It’s okay to fall flat on your face - I’ve done this so many times - but if you just get up and keep moving forward - it's all considered progress.  If you learned something from it, then it counts as a win, and it all should be applauded.  One foot in front of the other, Friends. 

Written on 12/7/2020