Last Thursday was slated to be a day that had me all over the place: work at the courthouse at 7:30, leave for class at 8:30, whenever class ends (supposed to be 11:30 but it can vary) take the hit on my time getting back to the courthouse so I can let the dog I’m watching out of his crate and cross my fingers he isn’t stubborn, back to the office whenever that’s done, find an empty office for therapy at 1, as soon as that ends get dressed for the event, then head to the hotel where I’ll be there until “9” (I left at 10pm) then rush back to Hank (the dog) and hope he’s not too mad at me for gone the entire day.
Sometimes my brain works in my favor and this time was, thankfully, one of those times. I asked my boss if I could take Thursday off to eliminate the biggest factor in all of that since I’d hardly be in the office anyway, all things considered. She approved, so my day then became leaving for class at 8:30, coming back when it ended (early, I was back by 10:30) and hanging out with Hank until therapy at 1, then getting dressed and leaving. Hank was a big fan of this decision, as well. (Hank Tax will be at the end of this post)
When I got to class the day before, my teacher asked if I had gotten the email from the Deaf Center. I had not, but she told me it had more of the details for the next day which she then told me. She asked if I could be there at 2:30 if possible but if not 3 was okay, that I would be helping set up, I would get to eat there, and when I showed up they’d plug me in wherever needed. This is what I was expecting, but it was a relief to hear it confirmed. Still, when Thursday rolled around, I could myself incredibly anxious. Now I’m an anxious person on my best day, but this felt next level—as though my skin was crawling and I had to stifle the urge to somehow rid myself of said skin. I could tell that I felt like crying, but tears wouldn’t come, so I assumed this was from that 6-year-old self making herself known.
I worked on embroidering pillowcase cuffs for Nutcracker while watching Scandal to try and distract myself (let me tell you, this is a wild time to choose to watch Scandal) and for the most part, it seemed to help. Then we started narrowing in on it being the time for therapy, and I like to know what I’m going to bring up ahead of time so we can make the most of our 50 minutes. While doing this, all the anxiety found me again, having been sitting there waiting for me to stop being distracted for long enough to grab me by the hand. In thinking about what I’d discuss, I didn’t even think there was “all that much” to bring up. I was so convinced I even considered cancelling the session, but my therapist is my favorite person in the world and honestly, I wanted the excuse to spend 50 grounding minutes with her like a little kid hanging out with the “big kid” they look up to. There’s 6-year-old Emilee again.
I updated her on various things that aren’t really a big deal but seem to be a continuing thing. These are what I tend to discuss when I jovially refer to therapy as my “shit talking session”; honestly, a nice reprieve from the typical horrors that persist. (It has been suggested by some that know me that I have enough life experience to fill many volumes of best selling novels, but I digress.) Then, to avoid what was at hand, I brought up a different issue I had been avoiding not because I don’t trust her with it but rather because it’s so difficult to talk about. I think that fact was made evident to her by my reactions while getting the words out, but of course she met it with such gentleness and professionalism. Once that was done, I introduced her to 6-year-old Emilee who had been in the room with us the entire time. I told her about what brought her there with us that day and my fears with it all. I told her how I was so anxious, even though when I’m in class or talking to my teacher about going to the event I feel excited and extremely peaceful, which tells me that this isn’t some sort of premonition of impending doom but instead “just” anxiety. I told her, “I know that I want this more than I’m scared of it, which must mean I want it pretty badly because I’m absolutely terrified.”
Realistically, I knew I’d be fine. Realistically, I knew there was absolutely nothing to be scared of. I knew I was safe and that this event wouldn’t cause me any harm. I knew when I got home I wouldn’t have any regrets about going. I knew how much this would benefit me and how happy I would be that I went. And yet, my skin still crawled. And yet, my brain wouldn’t stop spiraling even if it didn’t actually give words to the spiral. And yet, I felt like crying which if you know me you know that doesn’t happen often. And yet, everything in my being wanted to text my teacher and send my apologies.
But somewhere, deep down, I knew I didn’t actually want that. I knew I wanted to go, to learn, to experience. I wanted whatever was on the other side of this proverbial line in the sand. Maybe part of me was afraid to take this step because then if I fail or if the other shoe actually dropped and I wasn’t able to continue it would be way more disappointing than where I’d been up until this point. I think I knew that this was a huge step forward towards a life I’ve been dreaming of for the last two decades that didn’t feel possible even a year ago and that I’m still afraid I’ll somehow lose since that happens so often in my life.
Because my therapist is fucking good at her job, she didn’t tell me any of those things that I knew. Instead, she let that child version of myself make herself known and she acknowledged her and sat with her and gave all the space she needed until I got to the point where I could say, “I want this more than I’m scared of it”, then she gently encouraged me in that.
When we logged off, I immediately cried. Unprompted, unable to ignore, the sobs finally escaped and my tiny self was fully realized. Hank immediately became concerned, rushing over to me with a face that said, “Human??? What is wrong Human??? Here, pet my butt, it’ll help I swear” and in that moment I missed Honey so much, yet was also so grateful that this happened when I was there with Hank and was able to have his comfort—a privilege I haven’t had since Honey died over a year ago. I gave myself a moment, then took a deep breath and got changed and headed towards the event.
I left early enough to park on the side street, which was a relief since I didn’t know what the parking garage or valet situation would be and ya girl doesn’t have money for these sorts of uncertainties. I sat there a moment, then gathered all of my resolve and walked in. Everything still felt squirmy, yet at the same time I knew I could do it and I knew it was the right thing. I walked into the lobby and took in the space. The front desk had a huge line, so I couldn’t ask where the event was. (Not gonna lie, this was a bit of a relief as I hate asking questions. Little me rejoiced.) I saw signs saying there was event space on the third floor, and I saw the ballroom on the first floor had a sign for a different event, so I walked up the stairs to the third floor. There, I found my teacher, who took me in and introduced me to the person I’d be helping first.
And here we have my first challenge that I didn’t expect. I’m terrible with names on a good day, usually relying on other people repeating the name in order to actually remember it. I take it in when I’m first told, and then it’s as though it enters some black hole in my brain, never to be seen again. Now I knew working with dDeaf people that I wouldn’t have what I was used to in being able to overhear names repeated, but there was an added step I didn’t think of before. When you meet someone, they finger spell their name to you and then if they have a sign name, they show you. So now I’ve met many dDeaf people, and if I do remember their sign name, I have completely forgotten what they finger spelled to me. So while I may be able to identify them to others with their sign name, if it were written down, I’d be hard pressed to identify it. I need to get better at this.
Another volunteer arrived, Alex, whose name and sign name I remember somehow. gotta count the wins where I can, I guess. She and I helped finish decorating the tables and putting out the name plates for each according to the seating chart. When we finished that, we joined others in helping set up the silent auction table. This was a great undertaking as there were many silent auction items—so many that we had to request two additional tables! It was a wonderful problem to have, and all of us worked to get everything set up efficiently. During this I met lots of people from the dDeaf community, as well as other volunteers. Everyone was so nice and welcoming which made me feel at ease.
Once we had everything ready to go for the night, the main five of us volunteers that I had gotten to know all hung out a bit. The keynote speaker, actor Daniel Durant, arrived and we all stood around giggling from nerves and excitement at getting to meet someone we all admire. I got to know each of the girls a little better, one of them being one of the interns in my Intro to Interpreting class, Makayla. She actually sits right next to me in class, but we’ve never met largely because I was too nervous to do anything other than what I knew I was there to do. It was nice to talk with her and the others. Our teacher came by and introduced us to her sister who was there and we went around and told her about our progress with ASL and interpreting. It was then I learned that I was the only volunteer who wasn’t either dDeaf, an interpreter, or an intern. My flabbers were ghasted. Somehow, my brain—who I’ve named Brian when he’s being a dick—didn’t betray me and list out all the ways I don’t measure up to the others, instead it let me just be in the moment and learn as much as I could from every experience.
Throughout the night I was asked 3 different times if I was an interpreter. I’d say, “no but I know ASL”, and each of the times they asked me to assist them. The first was a man who asked me to tell the Omni worker he wanted black tea with milk and sugar, hot, when his meal came out. I communicated the back and forth (what kind of black tea do they have? I’ll bring you the tea now but the hot water when your meal comes. That’s great, thank you) and everyone went on their way. One of the other volunteers, Taylor, was standing next to me when this happened. After it was over I looked at her with eyes wide like I’d just had a celebrity sighting. She said, “you handled that really well!” and I gave her the sign I’d just learned last week to show that my confidence has expended with that interaction. Then I said, “I think I’m on a high.” Seriously. It felt like all the dopamine and serotonin I don’t have on a good day found their way from whatever caves they hide and rushed my system all at once.
One of my classmates whom I really like, Marisela, attended the even with her aunt who is Deaf. I was so excited to see her. She told me she was attending with her aunt and I told her Linda (our teacher) asked me to volunteer. She said, “Linda really likes you” and told me how she’d asked her to volunteer a few years ago and it was a lot of fun. Marisela has been so kind and encouraging to me in class, I was extra glad she was there. I also saw a set of dance parents I like from the studio. Their daughter was one of the four girls cast as Clara this year in The Nutcracker and I’d wondered if they’d be there once I saw their business had donated to the silent auction. There was also a man I’d seen earlier who definitely looked like he was related. I was glad I was right, and it was great to get to talk to them for a bit.
The five of us volunteers handled the silent auction table and during such I got to meet a few dDeaf people who were asking various questions. One such person was the kindest person I think I’ve ever met. She was so excited and we joked about her staking out that particular item to make sure she had the final bid. There was one of the workers from the Deaf Center who was in a bidding war with her and once they realized it was quite a hilarious and joyous moment. In the end, the worker relented and my new friend won as she’d hoped. She was so happy she hugged me really tightly. At the end of the night I brought her her winnings and we celebrated again. As we parted at the end of the night she hugged me again, said it was so great meeting me and said, “thank you so much for learning sign! And for being here!” and that made me want to cry tears of joy. I told her I absolutely love it and loved getting to meet her as well. (This is where Brian really betrayed me by not letting me retain her name, even though she finger spelled it AND I had seen it on the silent auction form. I can’t even remember her sign name. I’m so mad about it as she was so kind to me the entire night and I really enjoyed her company! I do know it started with an L and I’m hoping that over time I’ll be able to ask someone or even herself.)
I also got to reconnect with Deb, a women I’d met 3 years ago when she reached out to the Ballet to see if a couple dancers would come to their Nutcracker themed Signing with Santa event. We had such a great time and I’d been thinking about her so I was glad to see her again there. I told her I’d wanted to invite them to our School Show with discounted tickets and also see if she needed dancers again for this years Signing with Santa if it fit the theme. She was so glad I’d ask and we’re going to discuss it this week.
At the end of the night, Taylor and Makayla asked me if I got a picture with Daniel Durant. I didn’t know we were allowed to and they said they had all just done so and he was super nice, so I asked the two volunteers from our local high school if they had and brought them with me. We were all so excited and he was so nice.
I left the event at the end of the night feeling all the things I knew I would feel, yet I had none of the guilt or belittling I usually have towards myself for having been so anxious beforehand knowing everything would work out. It was a great lesson, helped by my therapist, in giving ourselves grace for all the survival mechanisms we learned in childhood and giving space to work through them at our own pace.
Yesterday was the first class I’ve had since the event and when I got there, Linda told me that she saw me throughout the night and I did great and worked so hard. I thanked her and told her I’d had so much fun and loved being there.
I’m so grateful to have been given this opportunity and for all the people and factors that went in to me being able to find the courage to take the opportunity and make the best of it, leading to such a wonderful and fulfilling experience. It’s such a privilege to be able to be among this community. I’ll never not be grateful.
From Kindergarten through Eighth Grade I attended a private Christian school in a small town near where I live. We mostly used a self-taught curriculum and classes were separated by groups of grades since our school was so small. These groups occasionally fluctuated from year to year. The summer after Eighth Grade, before my Freshman year, my parents pulled us out of enrollment there. I was away at Bible Camp and they forgot to tell me until I asked sometime late July or early August when we were going to get our uniforms. I digress. My Freshman year I was homeschooled using this same curriculum. I can only assume it was thought that since this was self-taught, the transition to homeschooling would be smooth and easy and we would be able to accomplish our work without much effort on the part of adults. What actually happened is I didn’t do any subject I wasn’t interested in or couldn’t understand. I remember realizing that if I kept up with this, I would basically never have more than an Eighth Grade education, though I would have a High School diploma—mom was filling out the transcript anyway and submitting it, no problem. My friends had gone to public school and I made a list of reasons (I don’t think it was quite an actual PowerPoint, but definitely same concept) about why they should let me go to public school. This might seem like a simple agreement for some, but having come from a private Christian school where I was intentionally enrolled and a negative stigma against public schools rampant from the opinions of the mouths of many of the adults that surrounded me (never mind that half our church had kids in public school) it definitely took some persuading. I’m not sure how I got the courage to do this, I don’t remember, and I don’t know how I got my parents to agree, but they did, especially considering I couldn’t drive quite yet and we lived out in the country and my mom wasn’t a big fan of taking me places.
Sophomore year is when they bring the students in one at a time to meet with the Counselor to see what you might see yourself studying after graduation in either a college, university, or trade school. I remember sitting in that office riddled with anxiety, having no clue what my life would look like this year or how to navigate it, let alone what it would look like once I was graduated. She asked me, “well, what are you good at?” and the panic only increased; I’m not good at anything. I’ve had an unconventional schooling experience by comparison up until this point, and the limited options we had through Eighth Grade were things I definitely wasn’t good at. I thought about the fact that I volunteered at my church and I seemed to be good at that, so I said, “I don’t know, helping people?” and she said, “what about being a teacher? or a therapist?” to which I wasn’t sure. The latter especially was a hard no to me as I had the thought, “if I can’t even handle my own issues, how could I help anyone else through theirs?”
My Junior year, as I looked over the options of classes I noticed American Sign Language was available as a foreign language to Juniors and Seniors. Having learned a few songs in ASL at my private school and remembering I was good at it and how much I enjoyed it, I asked if I could take that instead of Spanish. Finally, something I was good at. I took ASL 1-4 in the two years, was voted “Who’s Who of American Sign Language” (which, there was four of us Senior year), and really took to this language and culture in a way that’s hard to explain. My teacher encouraged me to look into going to school at our local community college for an ASL Interpreting degree.
When I graduated, I went to the Bible College attached to the Bible Camp I’d gone to almost every summer since I was 4-years-old, a dream of mine since I can remember. I wanted to go to the college, work at the camp, and be full time staff, living out the rest of my days working for this place that was such a big part of my life and one of the only safe and consistent places for me. This was a two year, non accredited school. I was top 10 my first year, Salutatorian my second year, and against all odds was on summer staff both summers. (The first made possible by a friend of mine on staff who requested me for his department after the first pick turned it down. He got struck by lightening before summer began and I ended up running the department myself with only the knowledge of what I had from interning at the summer camps. 18 hour days, and I was the only staff member to not get sick that entire summer. Also, he survived, but with immense mental deficits as the lightening entered the right side of his head and out his left foot. Wild times.) After my second summer, I applied to be full time staff but was rejected. At the time, this was the biggest loss I could imagine. Everything I’d ever hoped or planned for was now impossible and I was faced with going back home to a place I didn’t enjoy with no back up plan, feeling like a complete failure, especially when compared to my contemporaries.
I got a job and looked into what it would take to go to the local community college for that ASL Interpreting degree. As a rather anxious human pre diagnosis, this was quite the feat for me to make the calls and meet with the adults that could answer my questions, let alone actually asking those questions. Still, I did it, and they seemed very happy to have me, but then financial aid fell through due to issues with my parents information (long story) and I couldn’t afford to go. I later learned my sister and I both had college funds, but she got them both since no one thought I’d go to “real college” when I got home and we were in the middle of the Great Recession.
For ten years beginning in 2008, I flitted around from job to job, taking what I could get until something better came along. I wasn’t anywhere longer than about 6 months for the largest chunk of that, my longest stint being 2.5 years before I had to quit because by that point my health had tanked so badly I couldn’t tolerate an 8-5 without passing out. By this time, I had been taking ballet classes for a few years and was teaching the younger dancer classes and as I had to strip down my life to the bones and rebuild it back up in hopes my health wouldn’t get increasingly worse or remain that way, I was able to keep the dance classes—even though teaching looked like my sitting on a stool verbally giving instructions to the class and my assistants I requested basically doing all the actual teaching. I’m eternally grateful.
In this time, I’m pricing wheelchairs but hesitating before ordering one, partially because I couldn’t afford them and also partially because I was told by one doctor if I started using one I’d likely never get out of it. My muscles would atrophy and bones become weaker and it would lend to a complicated life shift. This also coincided to what I call the “Great Revolution” of sorts in my personal life where I realized everything I’d been doing was not working and if I kept going this way I’d end up on the debilitating end of my conditions and basically be a ward of my sister my entire life. This could not happen. So I began by challenging every thought that entered my head with two questions: “Why do I think this?” and “Who told me to?” Over the years I was able to pinpoint what was actually something I believed or believed in, what was serving me, what was harming me, and I began to re-pour my life’s foundation and slowly be able to build my life back. I went from being unable to walk a grocery store without passing out to holding a (albeit extremely simple and low stress) part time job at the courthouse in the same department as my sister with a boss who was the opposite of the bosses I’d had before. Here, I was able to further unlearn some of the conditioning I’d acquired and show myself that people in authority can be safe and what I’d experienced before wasn’t how it is everywhere. This did end up being too much to allow me to continue also teaching the ballet classes I loved so much and in March 2020 I told my ballet bosses that this would be my last year teaching. And then we broke for Spring Break and the world shut down, causing that season to end there.
Flash Forward to today as this back story is long and I haven’t even begun to write about the actual point of this post: I work in local government in that same part time job I got at the end of 2018. I’ve worked here knowing that if you’re full time, they offer a tuition reimbursement program to employees who pursue degrees. I’d assumed the whole time that this was just another thing I’d never be able to take advantage of because I’d screwed myself over with all my health conditions (triggered by stress) and wouldn’t be able to handle a full time job and school.
Lo and behold on January 6 in the year of our Lord 2025, something clicked, and I realized I could actually handle taking on classes. The irony is that I’m actually working two full time jobs as the performance studio arm of the teaching studio I worked for hired me on a few years back to work for them as well. My health has slowly been improving over all this time, with baby steps here and there in the right direction, the most recent breakthrough being realizing I can eat walnuts which helps reduce the inflammation in my brain stem that’s causing most of my issues, but all of those details are for another post.
Again, I did the terrifying thing, I asked the questions, I somehow figured out how to apply for school, register, found the locations of all the classes, etc which may not seem like a big deal for most but for me is substantial. I have four classes this summer, two in each Summer I and Summer II, with my first in person class being General Psychology—the real point of this blog post. (If you’ve made it through all this pre-info, bless you.)
I’m pretty sure I was so nervous I was shaking that first day of classes. The teacher I’d chosen was one recommended by a dance mom friend who used to work at the college and said she was outstanding, so I felt a little bit of hope that if all else failed, I’d at least have a good teacher. I did as much preparing as I could to allow myself to at least feign confidence until I was familiar enough with the campus and the practices and everything that goes along with getting a college education. The first day, I couldn’t find the elevator and forgot to scour the maps for it before. I took the stairs, which is one of the limitations I haven’t been able to shake myself of (along with reading physical books), and the rest of the day my brain was a bit of dead weight, thought being too difficult to hold on to for long enough to be substantial. I took rigorous notes as I knew that the most important information for how to be successful in this class would be given that day and I knew my brain wasn’t to be relied upon to hold onto it that day.
The last time I’d been in a conventional learning environment was almost 20 years ago, when notes were taken with paper and pencil, tests were taken on scantrons (which felt so futuristic), and research was done exclusively in libraries. Most students didn’t have cell phones and those who did likely couldn’t access a web browser from them. I’ve heard certain terms from teacher friends that I knew to be related to how school is done now, but I had no personal experience with it. Using the platform Canvas was entirely new to me and I was concerned I’d be expected to be proficient on the ins and outs of it from the start. I was also in a class with students who attend one of the Collegiate schools, making them mostly Juniors and Seniors in high school, some of them having mothers who graduated while I was in high school.
These “kids” took me right in as a peer, and my teacher, Dr. A, assumed nothing going in to this semester. She was very clear on expectations, walked us through how to access our textbook through Canvas and the further connection of McGraw-Hill, walked us through how to do the Chapter Mastery requirements for the class, and even showed us how to access Tech Support, emphasizing how wonderful they are to work with. I cannot express the relief I felt this first day, fuzzy brained and all.
The class was spread out over 6 weeks. Given that usually a semester is 16 weeks, we were squeezing in quite a bit of information into our time, having a Chapter Mastery due about every other day or so, an exam every other week, and occasional work on the weekends due to holidays throwing off our groove. I found a way to read through the text book without passing out, taking cues from the fact I can quilt (which is more paced) but not crochet (which can be powered through) and taking notes as I read to help break up whatever it is that causes my brain to shut down after a few pages.
Two days before our first exam Dr. A presented us with a survey the department passes out to all of the classes with various questions. She said it wouldn’t count against us, but any of the questions we got right would be extra credit. I felt zero hope on this and told myself I’d be proud if I get just one answer right and just sort of did my best with it. We got our results back the day before our exam and I was confused at first. Did she say this was just a completion grade? But then the girl who sits next to me, Lilly, told me she got seven correct, and I realized that the “5” on each side of my page was telling me how many I got correct on each side and somehow I’d managed to get them all right. I was shocked, and instantly felt that this is where I’ve peaked—this is going to be an omen of sorts because if I did so well on this that means I’m going to bomb my first exam, right?
Apparently my assumptions are misguided. I managed to score an 88 on the exam, but with the curve it was a 93. I was pretty surprised and felt that surely this was the peak, but also was shocked because I didn’t try all that hard. Wasn’t I bad at tests? Wasn’t I not that great of a student?
I got excited during these next few classes because we learned about the importance of sleep, which Dr. A stressed to us, explaining how it’s better to study over a series of days and get good sleep at night so our brain can process through everything we’ve taken in rather than a couple days of all night cramming. She also talked about the effect stress can have on the body and these two topics are huge contenders in what I learned led to the bulk of my health issues I’ve been trying to combat largely on my own. Stress was a huge trigger for the worst of it, and I must prioritize rest or else I’m not nearly as effective as I can be. It’s not often this comes up organically. I was thrilled.
The second exam covered four chapters that were pretty intense, full of information over a wide array of complex topics with little time to grasp them. I felt Dr. A did a great job of explaining them to us in lecture and had practice modules on Canvas available for us as well and I was feeling fairly confident in them in the lead up to the exam. The day before, she gave us a handout to help us apply three of the more complex concepts. We got through the first page and I felt I had a decent grasp on it. We got to the second page, and we get into our small groups to go over what we thought the answers were to a series of worded questions about the next topic. I felt pretty good about it until we went over it all and on the fifth question it was nothing close to what I thought it was.
This sent me straight back to fourth-grade-me, trying to learn fractions and not understanding how they were getting the answer. Back then my teacher was out and I was too afraid to ask the High School math teacher for help and I developed a complex with math I still haven’t found my way through. This time, I held in the panic I was feeling and stayed after class to ask Dr. A how she got that from this question, completely blanking about the third page entirely as I was trying my hardest not to go into full blown panic. Dr. A told me, “this is a poorly worded question and I won’t word them like that on your test” and I asked “so is the answer A or C?” and she replied, “It depends.” At this point, tears are just falling out of my eyes. I felt like an idiot and said, “this feels like a word problem in math class and I’m really bad at math.” She said, “I teach statistics and help people with their math trauma all the time, it’s okay” then she asked if I had a moment and we sat down at one of the desks. She told me there’s 50 questions on the test and it covers four chapters, then asked me how many questions that gives me for each section. I said, “When I say I’m bad at math, I mean it. I missed a bunch of questions in ASL not because I didn’t know the number signs but because they wanted me to give an answer to a simple multiplication problem and I couldn’t manage it.” She said, “It’s a little over 12” to which I replied, “I believe you.” Then she went on to explain how even if I completely bombed this section, which she didn’t think I would, that I would be okay. I was thinking how I didn’t feel confident in any of the sections and my brain wanted to spiral about how I could bomb all of them, but I shut it down. She didn’t need to see that side of me, especially when she was helping me.
I’m going to paraphrase the next bit because I was coming down from the panic, trying to keep the spiral side of me silent, and also taken aback by her next words that I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it was something to this effect; “Emilee, you’re one of my brightest students. You really should consider a degree in psychology”.
Wut.
I left shortly there after, having calmed down but crying a little bit in my car. Letting myself feel is still something new and I’m learning how to allow myself to do it, especially at this point, so I gave myself the drive to process through it until I had the time to go more in depth later. The last couple days had also been filled with many of those little annoyances that are enough to derail an already tense day, and as I tried to reassure myself that I would have time to go over the information that evening and do the practice modules that would likely help clarify things, more things kept derailing including someone stopping by the studio and taking up 45 minutes of my time I didn’t have to spare with a question that could have been a one sentence text, and then being unable to access the module. The panic came right back up. In the end, I told myself that if I didn’t have those available to me, I could still read the concept in my book and try to work through it with the information I did have. I was going to be okay. I gave myself until 7:30, then I had to go home, make myself eat, and calm down enough to sleep well, the latter two of these three tasks being things I struggle with on a good day.
The next day, I joined in with the study group that formed from the “kids” that sit near me in class. We went over the details of the ear and eye, each ending up being the extra credit on either of the two versions of the test. I was grateful for their help as that’s what got me the extra credit points I managed to scrape up. I took the exam, feeling more confident than I expected. The way I described it was if I was wrong, I was confidently wrong. When I turned in my exam, Dr. A asked me how I was feeling, and I told her I was feeling alright. I thought that was very kind of her to check in. I wasn’t expecting it, being used to largely having to handle things myself, consideration like that being something I don’t come by often. It meant a lot. We got these exam results quicker, and the next day I found that I received a 94, no curve, with all but one of my incorrect answers being in the first section—about the eye. Of course I didn’t go over that section, focusing on the more complex ones and assuming I knew enough to get by. I couldn’t help but laugh.
The chapters we covered before the third exam were absolutely packed with information; different specific psychologists and their different specific methods on different specific things, the different psychological conditions that were covered, different types of therapy, different stages of development—so much information. We were all feeling a bit of the pressure, the study group meeting again and often, though I was only able to join for about half an hour on the day of the exam. This time, it all felt more “clinical” for lack of a better term. Not so much needing to know exact definition, but definitely needing to remember which psychologist had which theory and what happened with each experiment, etc. Again, I felt if I was wrong I was confidently wrong, so I just took it for what it was, took my time, and did my best. She had them graded by that afternoon (Wonder Woman, I swear) and the group chat blew up again. I’d gotten a 95, no curve, no extra credit. A 95 all on my own with an entirely multiple choice test. At this point, I’m thinking back on my history with schooling. I knew I was a smart kid in elementary school, but about 6th grade all of that went out the window. I got my first B, cried in the back of my friends mom’s suburban, failed my first test the next year, more the following, then by the time I’m in public school I’m just doing what I can to stay afloat. What I’m starting to see in this class is that, over all that time, I was doing my best to survive to where school was so far secondary I couldn’t do any better than I was. The changes that greatly affected me began in 6th grade, and got progressively more intense for years way past my school days. My church closed, my family moved out to the country and away from proximity to anyone, they pulled me out of school, my best friend moved to another state before technology had us connected like today, my great grandma died, my grandpa died, my other grandpa died, my friend died, then another friend, and another, and another x30 before I stopped counting after five years, the abuse began, then more change, then more and other abuse, more friends dying, my own near death experiences and health challenges, then my health fully tanked…all these things just stacking one on top of the other with all the other nuances of life mixed in amongst the rest of it. Did I mention the hurricane that wiped out a nearby town, trashing my parent’s house with it? It’s no wonder my grades began to slip, that I struggled to take tests or learn new things, that I wasn’t all that good at writing essays.
My goal going into this at the beginning was maybe a B or better, but once I got an A on that first exam, I thought, “maybe I can manage an A.” Then when I got a 94 on the second exam (which ended up actually becoming a 96) I thought, “maybe I can manage a ‘Highland A'”. At my private Christian school, the grading rubric was different. An ‘A’ was a 94-100, ‘B’ was a 88-93, ‘C’ was an 80-87, and anything below an 80 was failing. To end this class with a 94 or above felt far fetched, but would feel almost full circle; back to that little girl I was in elementary who was confident, smart, safe. But could I manage that? 16 weeks worth of a college class in 6 weeks?
You see, this class isn’t the only thing happening at this time. Of course it’s not. Life be life-in’ and it doesn’t stop for anyone. During this, I’m still working two jobs, dog sitting between three different families, I finished two quilts, and then there’s the general life happenings and my health sometimes likes to remind me that it’s still not the happiest with me. I’ve had the immense privilege to be in therapy for the last year and a half with an absolutely incredible psychologist. There have been some pretty intense sessions we’ve had lately and one of the defining themes was hitting a sort of point of finality. I couldn’t see a way around or past it, but I knew there had to be something I was missing. It was quite overwhelming at times and extremely emotionally taxing, at one point causing me to ask my therapist point blank, “is this even something that’s supposed to happen?” and she replied with, “well, it depends. It depends on what you want.”
You mean, I get a choice?
Of course I know I have a choice in my life, but this really struck me. This concept was about my place in the world, if I’m even anyone’s priority (I’m not), and how the hell is someone supposed to handle being no one’s priority on the days when life feels like way too much and I’m overwhelmed? Who am I supposed to turn to? I have my friends for when it gets to that extreme that if you understand I’m so sorry that’s something you have to understand, and I’m grateful for those friends that answer me in my darkest, but what about these in between times? The moments when I know things will be okay, that it won’t always be like this, that there’s nothing anyone can actually do about it, yet I’m in this heightened state of rage and everything feels like too much? Is this—letting someone be there for me in these moments—even supposed to happen? Am I supposed to put this burden onto my people who are already burdened with so much else from their people (family, kids, etc) when I know that this will pass and I’ll be fine by the morning? My therapist tells me it depends on what I want.
And that’s when it all clicks.
In my general psychology class, I’m learning the overview of psychology, touching on many different topics within the field, getting the science behind what I’m learning. In this, I’m reflecting back on my own experiences as they become relevant, evaluating what I know with what I’m learning, applying that thinking pattern I adopted almost 8 years ago: “Why do I think this? Who told me to?”
In class, I get a kick out of dropping tidbits of my life seemingly out of nowhere to see my table mate’s reactions. You don’t really expect it out of me, which is half the fun, and being this is a psychology class it was often relevant. More than once, the girl next to me would say, “girl, are you okay?” which would make us both laugh and I’d say some sort of quip like, “my therapist earns her keep!” which would then open up the floor for exciting questions from someone their age such as, “do you find therapy to be worth it?” and I can tell them that, with the right therapist, it’s more than worth it. You may not find the perfect fit first try, and that’s okay, but keep trying because finding the right therapist is like magic and it’s such a huge privilege to even have the opportunity to attempt to see one. What I didn’t expect was for their reactions to show me how abnormal my experiences have been. To me, it’s all I’ve known, and I’ve been told, “it’s not that big of a deal” or “quit being dramatic” so much that it’s so ingrained I couldn’t even reach the thought to be able to hold it up to my two questions of clarity. But now it’s excavated from the depths of my being, held into the beam of my headlamp, fully exposed. Why do I think that these extreme experiences I’ve had are normal, casual, not that big of a deal? Who told me to?
They aren’t. They are big deals. They are traumas that I have faced and thankfully survived. The things I have been through in response to them aren’t moral failings but rather symptoms of my body, mind, spirit reacting to them, trying to keep me going in spite of it all. Sure, people “have it worse”, but this has been bad, too. It’s a lot, and I don’t have to downplay it. It’s up to me if I’m going to “play the victim” to it, and I think it’s pretty clear with the work I’ve done over the last almost 8 years, and the progress made in therapy over the last year and a half that I don’t want to play the victim. I want to learn, I want to understand, I want to grieve and begin to heal.
I’ve made great progress with that in recent days, but there’s something about the wonderful trifecta of an established, supportive, safe therapy practice, a psychology class taught by an incredible human where I’m learning the science behind psychology that I can apply to my experiences, and the support of these high schoolers with their wide eyes to the world, under developed prefrontal cortexes, and welcoming presence that has brought me to this place of clarity.
When it clicked, the “it” is the fact that for so much of my life I have been told, be it through word or action, that I can’t trust myself. That I am not a safe place for myself. I’ve been told to question my intuition, to not question authority even when they go against my experiences of what I know to be true, that coping mechanisms I turned to to keep myself from the extremes of mental distress meant I was “possessed by a demon” or not safe to be alone or if I disclosed it then people wouldn’t trust me with themselves or their kids or they’d look at me with those eyes full of pity and fake concern (If it doesn’t concern my therapist, then it shouldn’t concern you either), to just deal with all the ways my body was telling me something isn’t right and when doctors told me it wasn’t anything, welp, that’s all there is. For 36.5 years of my life I have been made to believe that I can’t trust myself, that I am not a safe place for myself. That I had to find my affirmation through other people telling me I was safe, confirming that my choices were okay, and to know that I wasn’t alone.
But I’m not alone. I never am, except that all of us sort of always are. As Glennon Doyle said it, I’m the only person who will be with me my entire life. (Or did Amanda Doyle say that? Regardless, check out their We Can Do Hard Things podcast. So good.) When it comes down to it, I’m all I have, and as long as I make myself my priority, I don’t actually need anything else. This doesn’t make me a lone wolf like I was made to believe it did. This isn’t me being a recluse or antisocial in a society that is very much one in which you need other people to survive. I still need my people. I still need to text my friend the drama of the day, or see another friend when our schedules allow, or face time my niece to hear about her summer intensive. I still need to show up when my friends, who have their people who are their priorities, need me, and I know they’ll show up when I need them in spite of it all. But when it comes down to it, I am my own priority, and that is all that matters. I am all I need.
I truly thought the possibility of me being able to get an ASL Interpreting degree had passed. That it just wasn’t in the cards and life had dealt me too difficult of a hand to make it happen. But what is meant for you will find you, and now I have hope, true hope, for the first time in a long time. I have a five year plan for the first time ever and even in such, I know it leaves room for fluctuation or new opportunities. I’m “pregaming freedom”, as I told my therapist on Monday, and it’s a euphoric way of going through life that I didn’t know was actually possible.
This is why we do the work. This is why we push through. This is why we try. It’s hard as hell and exhausting as fuck, but if you can open your mind to the possibility that life might not be what you’ve been told it’s been your whole life and that better is out there and begin to take steps in the direction of where that little candle of hope inside is telling you to go, it’ll open up to you.
All in good time, it’ll find you.
I used to think, if I had a top 5 of favorite memories of my life, what would they be? And I would struggle to come up with them. Not because I haven’t had good moments in my life, but it felt like somethings was missing or not quite right or laced with difficulty in one way or another. It’s hard to explain. But now, this week, I have a certain, without a doubt favorite memory of my entire life thanks to my psychology class. The combination of getting (almost) the entire class to sign a certain book for Dr. A, not giving into the anxiety trying to tell me not to go through with giving it to her because what if it’s not ethical or it gets her in trouble or she doesn’t find the humor in it that I do? The sound of her exploding in laughter, tears in her eyes from the pure joy of it all, and her reading it to the class the next day before our last exam, everyone around me enjoying it just as much, knowing how much this class has meant to them and how much they all also appreciate Dr. A.
This class has been six weeks of magic in a way I never could have anticipated. I am a better person today, July 3, than I was on May 27th when I first stepped foot into that class (after Dr. A found a group of us down the hall because we had somehow been given the wrong room number). I hold this experience in my heart and know I will be reflecting back on it as a touchstone the rest of my life.
People say this kind of shit, that some experience meant a lot to them and they’ll never forget it, and most of the time they’re just saying the words that they feel are supposed to be said when something signifiant ends, but in my case I mean them.
And in case you’re wondering if I managed that “Highland A” for my final grade?
I got a 101.9%.
Hell. Yes.
(photo of an empty college classroom with four rows of tables each with two rolling chairs at them. Three rows have four tables, the fourth row has three. A blank whiteboard is at the front of the class.)
I’ve been in therapy for a little over a year now and today’s session included me admitting that I realize I have abandonment issues. So original.
If you knew me in real life, that’s not something you would expect to be my reality, and if you knew me in real life you might be tempted to mansplain my own experiences to me. If you did either of these things you’d be shit and I’d either not have spoken to you in enough years that you don’t *actually* know me anymore and/or are family and I can’t write you off. (I can, technically, but it’s not something I know I can do without having regrets. Damn my bleeding heart.)
One of the places I’ve known abandonment is through previous therapists who somehow heard what I told them and thought, actually you’re doing just fine. What she told me was, “You have really good instincts. I don’t think you need me anymore.” When I heard that I just said, “okay, thank you” because I’m not one for challenging authority. I’m more of the working-really-hard-to-make-sure-you-like-me-and-don’t-dread-when-you-see-my-name-come-up-on-your-calender type. What I was thinking was, “you just diagnosed me with OCD during a global pandemic two sessions ago and also, is there any hope if you’re saying I have good instincts and no longer need therapy after three months while I’m also still trying to convince myself life is worth living?”
Ironically, what got me to give therapy another try was a guy. It’s ironic because if you knew me, truly or not, you’d know I’ve never had a boyfriend. *gasp* So when there was this perfectly lovely guy who was interested in me and vetted by a dear friend, I didn’t feel I really had any reason not to date him except that my scalp felt tingly? I don’t know how else to explain it. Anyway, I found my current therapist based off vibes and its seemed to work out. I’m still low key afraid she’ll decide I’m fine and we’re finished, even though the last time I expressed this she said, “Well, you are fine, and we’re not finished.” Bless her.
There’s been less than a handful of sessions that have caused her to make a comment in the realm of, “I’ve never seen you like this before” which I take to mean she’s worried about me in that moment and can tell I am in the thick of the darkness. Today’s choice of words was, “I don’t often see you like this”, because we have been here before, but it is indeed a rare state of being. I tend to err on the side of optimism, yet if you know me you know I’m a walking oxymoron and my life is full of juxtapositions.
Today, I started the session convinced this would be the time I signed off and felt no better than when we began. I knew there would be nothing she would be able to do for me—there’s nothing anyone can do for me and that’s pretty much the whole reason I’m in this mess—and I was certain I would feel nothing but defeated. I’d been working for an entire week to try and find any sort of optimism, a sliver of hope to hold onto and time and time again my hands came up empty.
At one point, I equated my experience to toilet paper, because if you’re not laughing you’re crying, right? And she saw right through my facade and made the most incredible comment that I swear will be the title of my memoir if I were ever interesting enough to actually write a memoir people would read. At the end as we recapped, and I joked that she won’t be able to look at toilet paper without thinking of me now and she’s welcome and also I’m sorry, she said, “That [the potential memoir name] is definitely the weirdest thing I’ve ever said in a session.”
Reader, this felt like a badge of honor.
I don’t know if she had any clue what she was getting herself into when she took me on as a client 16 months ago, she certainly had no way of knowing it would go to the depths it has in that time frame though she’s so good at her job I wouldn’t be surprised if she expected more than meets the eye to a degree most may not. I’ve made every therapist I’ve worked with cry, and it took her a while to join that club (a testament to her wonderful boundaries and also her way of knowing what is appropriate when) but one of my favorite moments was making her laugh out loud in such an unexpected way that she immediately covered her mouth. My other favorite is knowing the weirdest thing she’s ever said in a session was in my session. Heck yes. Welcome to my weird little brain, make yourself comfortable, it’s bound to get weirder.
Truly, every time we meet I’m amazed at how good she is at her job. She seems to know exactly what to say or not say or do or whatever at the perfect time. There are little specific moments that are ones I reflect back on to remind myself of reality when my brain gets all doubt-y about things. I don’t know that I have ever felt so seen or heard or known by any one person before, and even as a self proclaimed “open book”, that’s a rare feat indeed. It’s not often I feel safe enough to truly be seen, but she manages to create that space and hold it for me, no matter how much I try to sabotage my progress.
What’s the point of this post? Not much, really, other than to say that a good therapist is worth more than anything else I can conjure. I don’t know what I did to deserve finding such a wonderful one, but I’m forever grateful.
I hope if you find yourself in need of help, you’re brave enough to seek it out. And that if the first time isn’t a good fit, that you’re bold enough to try again. And I hope that you find in someone the safety it takes to truly be able to show up authentically and work through the darker parts of yourself. We all have dark and light inside of us. It’s up to us to take responsibility to learn how to manage them in productive ways for ourselves. Some of us have more privilege in the resources to cultivate this management and balance between the two, as well as the grey area in between, and we won’t all have it figured out and perfect no matter what we do. But we can start where we are, with what we have, and we can begin to see life open up for us.
I truly believe what’s meant for me will find me, and the same for you, if we’re brave enough to live authentically. It’s difficult and ugly and painful sometimes, but it’s also beautiful and peaceful and safe. Both can be true.
(I learned that from my therapist)
If I ever do end up physically publishing anything, a lifelong dream of mine, you can bet your buttons she’ll have a dedication at the front of the book. Its the least I can do.
For a moment, I had entertained the idea of moving over to Substack from WordPress. It seemed the thing everyone else was doing, so maybe I should see what all the fuss is about, right? And then someone I follow pointed out how Substack allows Nazi’s to post on their platform, so I’ve decided that’s not for me, and I’m going to bring back here what I had taken there.
There are a few posts I made that I will post in order, then post new ones from there. I debated deleting my old posts and “starting fresh”, but I don’t really think that’s necessary. I’ve lived a lot of life since my last post on this blog almost 2 years ago, but a simple post can help catch everyone up, and then we can move forward.
The end of 2023/beginning of 2024 really felt like (another) turning point. There was so much I was feeling and couldn’t quite explain. I’d survived my first season working for the Ballet, which was intense to say the least, and I was finding new layers of myself I hadn’t known before and trying to sort out where everything belongs in the grand scheme of things.
In January 2024, I started therapy. My insurance through work covers therapy, but you have to choose from their list of approved people for them to cover it. I was apprehensive, to say the least, given the town I live in. I’m born and raised here. I don’t know everyone, but everyone seems to know someone I know and word gets around fast. What’s more, the people who knew be in my “great before” seem to have missed the memo of who I am now, whether that be intentional omission, not paying attention, or the people in my life now having more discretion, I’m not sure, but I don’t mind it. It can just get a little awkward when people expect a certain version of me to be met with someone who is staunchly Not That. Not one to rock the boat, I don’t make a big song and pony show about it all, so it can be easy to miss if you’re not looking for more than what I can add to your life (versus actually knowing me as a person) and if you’re not safe I’m not about to go into any sort of detail of “How are you? How’s life?” more than I’d give to anyone else. Ironic for someone with a blog, but still. If you’re reading this, you’re either open minded or genuinely curious, and the nature of your curiosity is none of my business. No one’s forcing you to read this. You can click away and carry on with your life at any time. All this to say, I didn’t want a therapist that would either know the players in my story, nor would bring a certain religious opinion in to the session.
What I have found is the most perfect therapist for me. I didn’t really know going into it, based on some past experiences, that therapy was supposed to feel this safe. I knew it was supposed to be where you could say the things and receive the help or whatever. I have had one counselor before, ironically attached to a religious organization, who was the first to really make me feel like I wasn’t some hopeless lost cause that couldn’t amount to anything more than I was. She was wonderful, and I’m grateful for the work we did. Still, it wasn’t what I have found therapy to be this time. The person that I had seen (unintentionally) during Covid lockdown meant well, but wasn’t good for me. She brought in a lot of her own stuff and me, being an empathetic person who wants to make sure everyone is taken care of, ended up holding space for her as much as she for me. It wasn’t any big unloading on her part, but I can feel everything she was carrying, and that made it difficult for me to feel safe to give her my burden as well, even if it was her job. After three months she told me, “you have really good instincts, I don’t think there’s anything else I can do for you.” and what I wanted to reply with was, “okay, but I still want to die more often than I think a person should” but what I said was, “Okay, thank you.”
My therapist now is the boundary poster child, while still managing to be relatable. She is the safest person I’ve ever been around and is so damn good at her job I make sure to tell her as often as I can because I’m sure not everyone feels that way. People are people, after all. She’ll reassure me if and when I need it, but also won’t hesitate to call me out on my bullshit when necessary. I’ve seen exactly one tear fall from her eye, and that was the session after Honey died. Her expression of emotion and the radiating empathy showed me that I’m actually allowed to feel this loss. That dogs matter, sometimes more than people, and this wasn’t any small matter to be facing. After seeing that one tear, I went into, “oh gosh, are you okay?” mode and she promptly shut that down with, “This isn’t about me” and we carried on. I did ask the next session if she was okay, or if that was for me because I didn’t want to be presumptuous. She thanked me for asking, and said it was for me, and I told her how that made me realize all the things I’d realized about being allowed to feel because if my loss was enough to make my therapist cry, surely I was allowed to as well. Another layer peeled back on myself, revealing more things I didn’t know were there the whole time.
Recently, I’ve found myself keeping to myself more, which would have felt counterintuitive or even illegal to the me who was last writing here. Instead, I’m learning it’s not only allowed but encouraged. It’s a good thing to me to feel safe enough to keep to myself and know my world isn’t going to fall apart with my sadness. Emotions happen, and they’re allowed to, I’m going to be okay. I don’t have to tell other people about it to be safe. I’m safe with myself. I’m not a danger.
I, of course, am also not an island, and this doesn’t mean I don’t need people, on the contrary. We are such social beings we’re hardwired to need others. I still vent to friends or whatever, keeping them in the loop of the things that matter. It just means I don’t have to look to them to carry everything. I have my own two shoulders, and they’re strong, and some of this is stuff only I can carry. This is all done, thankfully, under the guise of my therapist and I am grateful every day for the privilege of knowing and working with her. How did I get so lucky to find her, first try even? All I did was look on our list of approved providers, paid attention to how each name made me feel, looked up websites, and called (after hours so I wouldn’t get an actual person, that’s too much). She actually lives about 4 hours from me, though she has an office here locally, but all the clients local to me are virtual. The best of both worlds–not here, but from here enough to know the places I’m talking about but not enough to know everyone I’m talking about. And even if she did know everyone I’m talking about she’s so good with boundaries that she won’t let on one bit. I’m learning this is how it’s supposed to be; who knew?
Now that it’s been a year and a half, I feel like I’m finally in a place where I can start writing again. I mean, I’ve never stopped. I journal and slap together stanzas I call “poetry” and what have you, but now I feel I’m in a place where I can write here again, in a more public setting and in a way that’s authentic without worrying about saying too much, or whatever. I don’t need this to be what holds the space for me; I’ve learned how to hold space for myself.
The next few posts will be from my Substack. I’ll put the publish date on them, so you can keep up with the timeline or whatever.
Thanks for coming along for the ride, I’m glad you’re here.
1988- 