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Days Like This

In anticipation of National Suicide Prevention Week and the fundraising campaign to support it ( @twloha ), I am going to get back to blogging about mental health.  You can click the link to donate or to hear a bit more of my story.  As always, please put your health first.  Today’s post is about a day that is just hard for many reasons and no reason at all.  One of those days, ya just can’t get it together to do much other than shower (which is a win for me).  

It’s days like this when my mind alternates between frantic and blank for hours.  I’ve spent very few of the last 24 hours vertically and I even cancelled therapy, which I NEVER do.   My motivation is low and my anxiety is high.  I haven’t spoken to a single person today other than a quick FaceTime with my sister and niece and nephews.  I don’t usually write about being “in it” when I’m actually “in it” (it being a depressive state, an anxious state, a state of heightened emotions) because I know that most of the time I’m writing from an emotional place and not a logical place.  I have spent the entire day in silence.  No reading, Ted Lasso or Friends, or answered calls.  I just turned music on as I started typing right after taking my anxiety medicine.  I thought maybe the meds would give me the kick in the rear to maybe go get a hoagie at WaWa but maybe that will happen later.

My thoughts and feelings dart from topic to topic like a dog with the zoomies.  I’m frustrated with the professional world but that is not a place I feel comfortable going in my emotional state.  Guilt overcomes me every time that I look over at Linc and see him just laying on the floor by my chair or in bed.  I should be doing more with him like taking him out more (neither of us do well in the heat) and letting him chew sticks in the apartment’s dog park (we haven’t been since the last time we went with Ella).  Loneliness has been trying to knock down the door to my heart and it finally kicked the door in yesterday.  So I did what I usually do when being awake feels too hard: I slept.  I slept from 4pm-8pm, 10:30pm-10:00am, 11am-1pm.  I cry almost every single day, sometimes a few tears, sometimes a stream of them with hiccups and bloodshot eyes.  Crying right now because I checked Hinge for a break and a guy commented on my picture of Lincoln and Ella about how happy they looked and how he wanted to play with them.  I haven’t taken that picture down yet.  I want to remember her before cancer overtook her body, changed the shape of her face, and took her away from me and Lincoln. 

I have not fully grieved Ella’s death.  She was so challenging for me.  She was incredibly affectionate and I am down with close proximity but not all up in my business.  Before I knew she was dying (which I knew in my gut for about 3 weeks as I drove home from work with white knuckles and didn’t remember if I even exhaled the entire 14 minutes home until I heard her tags when she would jump off the couch when she heard the lock open), I began setting timers for 5 minutes where she could invade all of my personal space.  She was teaching me to accept love, to TRUST love.  After years of reflecting on my last relationship with the man I swore my life would be spent with, my trust in this thing called love has been demolished.  I am okay being alone.  I can function and survive and do life.  I’m not okay being lonely.  It’s true that you can not be alone and still feel lonely (I felt that pain for the last 9 months of my relationship- I begged for honesty, I begged for company, I worked on the things I knew were hard to love).  It’s also true that you can be alone and not feel lonely.  I like doing things alone.  I’ve enjoyed the beach with just my one chair more than I have when there was a circle of chairs filled with friends.  I’ve enjoyed watching a movie in a theater by myself.  I like being in a crowd by myself, especially at the airport.  But I also love being surrounded by people around whom I feel emotionally safe.  I’m fully aware that I should not base all romantic love on the first experience that shattered my heart, innocence, and soul.  However, it’s been three years since that relationship ended and any relationships I’ve had since have been impacted by my lack of trust.  I am not sure when I will be able to put those pieces back together, but I do know that they will not look the same and that may be necessary because I am no longer who I was before those parts of me shattered.  

I’m in a season of transition and a season of taking chances.  Neither of those things are comfortable for me.  I play it safe and I’m okay with making a transition but not so keen in the anticipation stage of the transition.

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It’s a long post today folks!

I would like to begin this post with the assurance that I am safe and under the great care of amazing mental health professionals.  I’m surrounded by the love of amazing friends and family.  It is not lost on me that I am incredibly lucky to be employed and therefore have the opportunity to have great healthcare.  Not everyone can afford professional care.  Because of To Write Love On Her Arms, more people can.  Because of To Write Love On Her Arms, I have a permanent community of support.  I know I am about to share very personal information.  I also know that when I’ve done so before, someone has always reached out in appreciation.  I’m not writing for appreciation.  I’m writing with hope that someone feels less alone.  I am writing to combat the stigma that we cannot talk about mental health.  If I have learned anything (and I’ve learned much), I have learned that it is okay to ask for help.  It is ok not to be okay.  I have learned that the bad feelings ALWAYS pass but some storms last longer than others.  This pandemic has been incredibly difficult for many people.  Some people experienced depression and anxiety for the first time and others felt their depression and anxiety amplify to new levels.  I’m writing to say: I am here for you.  I see you.  I believe you.  I’m also here to say thank you.  Thank you to the friends and family members meet me in the sadness and love me because of it not in spite of it.  Thank you for the hard conversations, the song recommendations, the cards, the IG messages, taking me to the doctor, holding me when I cry even though I’m not a hugger, for taking me to the ER junior year of college when I had a debilitating anxiety attack, and most of all for accepting the good days, the ugly cries, the loud and obnoxious laugh, and the understanding that I have a mental illness-I am not an illness.

Here’s the abridged version.

About 15 years ago I successfully convinced myself that I was stupid while studying for Chemistry as a sophomore.  I just did not get it.  I went to a private all-girl college prep school.  Academics were intense.  I worked my tail off, fell asleep with my books in my arms, and obsessed over school work.  I was never very good at positive self-talk- I constantly put myself down.  I was too fat, too dumb, didn’t have weekend plans therefore I had no friends.  I was “too sensitive” and I became disgusted with myself.  I would cry and cry and cry because I just did not know how to get past these hurdles-the doubt bullies.  My dad would pick me up from school every day and the tears would come.  At the time we didn’t know I was dealing with a major depressive disorder.  I was told I had nothing to cry about at 16 and asked why I was so miserable.  I believed that I was truly just a miserable and moody teenager-don’t we all go through that phase?  Sometimes at night when I was studying I would bang my head against my bedroom wall questioning why I was so stupid, why I didn’t have any friends, and why I was so ugly.  I look back now and know that was the depression talking.  I never got lower than a B on a report card, I was student council president, and I had many friends.  However, I didn’t know how to get the depression to just shut up already.  

Those formative high school years and the negative mantras shaped my journey into adulthood.  I successfully convinced myself that I was unattractive and undeserving of romantic love or any love for that matter.  I would scratch my arms to feel some physical pain to make sense of the internal pain.  

Amazing people were sprinkled into my life since the time I was in grade school (friends) and since birth (family).  I had no idea how to explain my experiences with depression to my family.  By the time I got to college I had become pretty set in my ways and my detrimental thinking.  I remember calling my mom during what was most likely my first panic attack during college.  She assured me that it was probably my nerves and stress (which were huge contributors) and to “try some tea and listen to Johnny”.  John Mayer’s music was the first that I was able to identify with in terms of anxiety and depression.  It wasn’t his most popular stuff but it was a lifeline for me.  I also found in college a group of friends that became my chosen family.  They didn’t understand my illness either but they were and are the most patient, supportive, and caring people I could have ever hoped to meet and still be close with 14 years later.  

After year after graduating college, I moved to Boston.  My relationship with Boston is a pretty great love story because of the people I met there.  For the first time in my life I met people who struggled with self-worth, self-injury, and relied on medication to keep themselves safe.  During a particularly difficult season of my depression, I began self-harming.  My therapist and I decided it was best for me to begin an IOP (Intensive Outpatient Program).  For 3 hours a night, 3 nights each week, for 6 weeks I attended a program where was enveloped in acceptance.  I have never had plans to take my life however, I have thought that the life I was living just wasn’t worth it.  I thought for sure that the best part of my life was behind me and that I really didn’t have much worth living for.  I was convinced that I was a lost cause.  The effectiveness of the meds always wore off and there were weeks at a time when I questioned if this life was worth fighting for.  I found friends in Boston that I still reach out to to this day when things are feeling very low.  Those people, unfortunately, know what it’s like to question if this is all worth it.  Those people, fortunately, remind me that the fog does lift even if it feels like it’s all I know.  

Now at 32, I still struggle almost daily.  Where I am at 32 is very different than what I envisioned.  I have wanted to be a mom since as long as I can remember (I had 40 baby dolls as a child and they all had names.  They were also my students in my pretend classroom in my basement.). I long for romantic love.  Someone who I can love and be loved by.  But the real love.  That person who can call me out and be my biggest fan.  And vice versa.  Someone with a big heart and an accepting mind.  This is getting gushy.  I regress.  And to be a mom. I long to be a person who is fortunate enough to create her family and love her job and her friends and dogs and stand up for others and speak out against injustice.  I’m not there yet, but I’m getting closer every day.

When I look back on my experiences thus far with anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts, I think about just how lucky I am that I have a sister, brother, parents, cousins, aunts, childhood friends, high school friends, high school teachers, college friends, Italy friends, furry friends, Boston friends and roommates who have loved me through my darkest times.  I am amazed by the support, both of those who haven’t had experience with mental illness before loving me and those to whom I am forever connected because of our similar experiences.  My people are #worthlivingfor.

There is so much #worthlivingfor.  I’m so glad I’m here to experience it.  

I am fundraising with @twloha​ to help provide access to counseling for those who need support.  Please visit https://give.twloha.com/fundraiser/2871863 .

Thank you for reading this. personal message.  It was long and it was sensitive.  I am grateful for the courage to share and thankful for every listening ear and kind heart.  I could write pages more.  But today I encourage you to share what is #worthlivingfor in your life.  Tag me (@lafferrx on Insta).  Spread the love- the world needs it more than ever.

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no one really asked me.

But I’m going to give my completely personal, at times split opinion on whether or not I feel like we are prepared to go back to school in the fall under the CDC guidelines.  I speak only from my own experience and how it affects my hesitance to return in the fall.  I speak as a teacher with 11 years of experience working with students with special needs (10 as a teacher), a daughter of a father with a compromised heart, an individual who struggles with mental illness trying to establish and navigate a new normal while still being safe, and as a person who has a fear of this virus one day and feels invincible the next.  So as you can see, you’re going to get a few different perspectives here because I usually cannot make up my mind and value hearing opinions of others.

Before introducing my perspectives I’d like to make known my respect for the essential workers who have put their lives at risk every day to keep the people of our country able to get the things they need and even some things we just simply want for comfort during this time.  Thank you for sharing your stories, for dancing in between shifts, answering questions, sharing good news, and bravely facing what I’ve heard most interviewed medical personal on the frontlines describe as the toughest experiences they have yet to face.  With all of my sincerity, thank you.

1. Teacher Perspective: Based off of my population of students from last year, which was very similar to my population when I worked in Dorchester my 3rd and 4th years of teaching, I do not feel as though it is safe for students or staff to return to the classroom under the current guidelines.  First, I’d like to say that  I certainly would not like to be a member of the CDC or in any health or political leadership position that includes the decision of re-opening schools and setting the guidelines which must be followed.  I do believe in my heart of hearts, that the CDC established guidelines that they believe will keep our children safest.  I do not however feel as though these guidelines are realistic.  For example, I worked in a classroom with four boys (5 and 6 year olds) with very significant behavioral, social, emotional, and academic needs.  There were also minimum 3 adults in the room at any given time period.  I cannot speak from the experience of a regular education teacher as I am unfamiliar with the all of the routines and procedures in need to make a class of that size work well (it’s been a few years since I’ve been an inclusion teacher).  However, in my classroom, the success of the students often depended on their proximity to a helping adult (ie. cutting hand over hand for students who were in need of assistance to strengthen fine motor skills, handwriting practice, sitting closely to an adult to prevent leaving seats without permission, sitting at the same table during snack time to practice conversational skills, etc).  Comparatively, we are privileged in the student:space ratio.  I will argue that we do need that space, however that is another post.  In that space, I have been urinated on, hit repeatedly, bit, and most frequently had spit flicked at me repeatedly.  As a self-contained teacher, I know how to coach students through replacing those behaviors with more appropriate coping mechanisms.  I do not know how to do so from 3-6feet away.  I also cannot guarantee that my students are not going to threaten any danger to themselves or others in which I or another adult may need to interfere.  The likelihood of transmissions would be very high in my classroom.  I am aware that we are still learning a lot about this virus.  On the news tonight, I heard that cases from adult to children are much more likely from child to child.  This post does not have statistics.  I started keeping a timeline for myself once school was dismissed.  Things have changed so greatly that I have stopped keeping notes.  I do not believe that we are being lied to by doctors.  I believe we are getting the truth as it is known each day.  Just understanding the definition of a virus is important.  Does it change?  How does it trick our cells into permeating their capsules?  

Do I think our children need to continue their education during this pandemic?  Absolutely.  I do, however, believe that we need to take a different approach to teaching-whether we are back in the classroom or on this side of the screen.  Just another reminder: I’m speaking solely from a mostly elementary special education background (with 1 year in 9th grade and 2 years in 6th grade).  Many of the students I teach and will teach most likely are having a very hard time grasping the WHY of virtual education.  Children are naturally inquisitive and this big thing they’re living through certainly is difficult for me to understand so I can understand why a parent recently reached out to me asking for support for her son who woke up crying one morning because he missed kindergarten. More than ever our children need social-emotional learning.  Yes, the social part will be difficult without physical interaction but in the world that our children are growing up in, learning to be socially appropriate online is important as well.  Does it replace basic human social skills? (ie. Greeting an adult.  Introducing himself to a new classmate.  Asking to borrow a toy.  Politely declining an invitation to play.  Knowing appropriate ways to hold a conversation with people of different ages and appearances than him.). Sure doesn’t.  But we are teachers.  It is our job to mold our instruction to meet the needs of our students.  It’s Education 101.  It’s also Special Education 101: differentiate and/or modify content to meet your student/s where they are.  We’re not new to that.  What most teachers are new to is being asked to put our health at risk in the classroom.  Understandably so.  So here’s where Ms. Lafferty shuts her pie 

hole and Rachel chimes in.

Here’s a photo of my nephew and I FaceTiming at dinner just to break up the overwhelming number of words I didn’t know I was holding onto.

2. Personal Perspective: I go back and forth on what I think about being asked to go to work in the classroom during a pandemic.  Currently I am teaching ESY remotely to my 4 boys and delivering in-person instruction to 1 pre-k student.  I wear my mask and I sanitize my hands.  He is expected to keep his mask on but it is incredibly difficult for a 4 year-old to concentrate when a mask is falling off his face.  I don’t feel as though either of us are at-risk as his mom has been very open with me and I with her.  I also take my temperature every morning.  However, if I’m asymptomatic that doesn’t mean anything.  I’m not as worried about myself getting sick.  Perhaps I think I’m a bit invincible if I haven’t gotten the virus already.  I had a conversation with a friend in May and he said, “Rach, how much of your life are you going to put on hold just in case something happens?”.  We differ in just about every political area there is to have an opinion.  But this struck a chord because it made me think a little harder.  As someone who openly struggles with depression and anxiety, I often feel like I have not lived the past 16 years with the quality I would like to live the next 16.  I’ve gone on dates.  I flew across country to see my new niece  that no one in my family was able to see due to the dangers of flying especially for fear of my dad contracting the virus.  But my brother just had his first baby and his parents and siblings weren’t able to be a part of that experience.  That’s just not fair.  My dad has been in the hospital twice just in the month of June and what if he doesn’t get to see his granddaughter?  “Well, Rach we could all die tomorrow.  I could get hit by a car, so stop worrying.”, say the “practical” people in my life.  Well, I’ll never stop worrying, so pick a new battle.  There are a lot of great causes right now that need champions.  Hop on one of those.  

Nothing about this virus is fair.  And I’m not a fan of the silver lining thing.  I get it- there are great things happening and overall, the good that lives in people is outshining the bad.  But quite frankly, some days it might feel like the opposite.  There is no silver lining to losing someone you love-old or young, sick or healthy.  Not in my experience anyway.  Maybe I am just not a fan of masking the raw, often heartbreaking truth, with good as if one  can replace the other rather than they can co-exist.  I could go OFF about that.

Anywho, I feel very torn about going back to the classroom.  Mostly because I feel like I have the least to lose.  And I don’t mean this in a way that signifies that I don’t value my life.  A close friend helped me evaluate that  statement about having the least to lose.  What I mean is that I don’t have a family of my own and I live alone and my parents are capable of taking care of themselves without my aid.  I have masks and gloves and I am relatively healthy so from what we know right now, I am “low-risk” but that could change.  I have friends who are expecting children, friends who need to be available for their parents’ care, friends who are high-risk for various health reasons, and friends who could potentially be bringing home the virus to their own families.   I don’t have any of that so I almost feel like it would be selfish to not go back if teachers are needed.  (This could be a controversial opinion but like I said-this is personal experience talking.). But I don’t want to be lauded a hero if I choose to go back.  If I go back it will be my decision based on the needs of the students, how many students I’m with, and how likely we are to be a risk to the other. 

I’m starting to ramble and my legs hurt from sitting cross-legged so long.  So here’s another picture of a cute kid or dog or maybe both.  Let’s see what I find.

Cute find, Rach.  Linc and Ella and their cousin, Cassie.

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emotion, the wheel.

lonely. 

It’s not the best feeling I’ve got on my emotion identification wheel that I found online to help me better understand more precisely what I’m feeling.  It falls under the “Sad” category and umbrellas the “Isolated” and “Abandoned” feelings.  Isolated.  #nailedit

https://imgur.com/tCWChf6

So I did what I sometimes do when I’m starting to feel sad in a social setting.  I use my dogs as scapegoats (today, the 4th of July was believable since Ella started reacting stressfully to the poppers earlier today).  Or I blame my anxiety which is well-known among my group of close friends and say it’s time to go. 

Today, coming home was a quick “Bye, Everybody.”, and hopped into my car.  I usually listen to music but I felt the tickle.  You know, the one in your eyes when your nose starts to drip.  That one.  The, “Here they come.” itch.  Damn tears.

So, I abandoned the music and asked Siri to play “If You Feel Too Much” by Jamie Tworkowski, the founder of the organization @twloha​ .  Something about hearing him speak his words, the words he bravely put out into the universe that somehow found me and millions of others makes me feel less isolated and more valued.  It was only about a 15 minute commute home once I made the decision to switch from music to Jamie and I let the tears fall as I heard the words his friends shared and how they see and value his presence in their lives and in this world.  

I recently had the privilege of having a friend gift me two different experiences that gave me the opportunity to see how she viewed me.  She gave me a gift, a canvas pouch with a quote by Maya Angelou that states, “My wish for you is that you continue to be who and how you are, to astonish a mean world with your acts of kindness.  Continue to allow humor to lighten the burden of your tender heart.”  I was touched by this gift.  It isn’t a quote I had seen before but it is certainly one I would see and wish that someone would think of me and not just me thinking I could never be that good.  She also responded to an Instagram post I put on my story about a bride who had pulled over to help a victim of an auto accident- a nurse still in her wedding dress and all.  She said it seemed like something I would do.  I’ve only known Jenn for less than a year and she has already become someone I value professionally and personally and even more so when the two intersect.  She’s real, she’s got spunk, and she’s got my back and I know it and I trust it.  She’s a feeler (as am I) and a hugger (that of which I am not).  I keep finding myself surprised that I continue to find good people after college (my closest friends from JMU are basically like the Olympics gymnastics team- I’m obsessed with them).  Then I met my Boston family.  The mostly Craig’s Lists and friends-of-friends with whom I grew into adulthood.  Then, I get friends like Jenn, Alyssa, Lindsay, Sophie, and Joe.  

And then there’s Jamie.  We’ve met a few times and we have a few mutual friends.  I’m just not sure he knows the impact he has had on my life but I sure hope he takes my word for it.  I’m not cut out for the dream job that is available at his organization right now because my professional experience is in inner-city teaching as a special education teacher, yet my emotional experience is in writing.  

As a kid, I never quite felt like I “fit” in my family.  I’m wicked emotional. My mom has to turn off “Lassie” before the end of the show because I would cry every time she waved hew paw “Goodbye” at the end of the show. That is a fact. As an adult, I know that I don’t “fit” in my family.  And it’s starting to be okay.  I learned in 2009, while studying abroad in Florence, that I didn’t just think that I was a good writer but that my family had no idea that I could write (despite having kept a journal since I was 12- circa 2000).  I wanted so badly for my family to know me, for anyone to truly know me.  (Friends and family responses to my first email home while being abroad in Spring 2009.  These words reminded me that I needed to share them if I wanted family and friends to know this about me. These words are old, but I’m inspired by them to dig deep and get back to the place where I can use my experiences to help others):

“You are such a beautiful writer, it's hard to not get lost in your descriptions of Italy, your travels, and your at times, difficult, emotions you are going through over there!  “

“I'm slightly embarrassed to say this but I teared up when I read your e-mail. It was absolutely beautiful!”

“What a great e-mail......You have convinced me you should become a writer.”

“You are absolutely amazing and I enjoyed reading your e-mail so much.  I really think you should look into a career in writing because I was able to picture everything you wrote and you wrote it in such an elegant way. “

“I miss you Rachel.  I am sooo proud of you.  I am so excited for you.  I am in amazement of you.  You have taught me so much... and you continue to, with each email.  THANK YOU! “ 

“I never knew you were such a good writer.  Have you considered a career in writing?”

“wow rach, what a writer you are.  you are quite the intelligent, sophisticated young lady, i was so impressed!!”

I needed to go into those gmail archives more than I knew when I first searched the topic.  Thankful that I wrote all those years ago and it still gives me fuel to continue a decade later.

While listening to the foreword of Jamie’s book tonight, I learned that my writing began a long time ago, just as he realized upon reflection that his had as well.  The time has come to jump back in.  Just like his new company “Needs an Ocean,” I need my words.  I need them in my heart and in my head.  I need them in pen on paper and strung together by keys on a screen.  And I do indeed need the ocean.  It’s where I wrote at night when we spent the summers at the Jersey shore.  It’s where I’d cry my eyes out, not knowing then, but sure now that I was learning that I was facing depression while watching the reflection of the moon dance on the ocean.  We all need our thing.  Right now, I need sleep.

Sleep well, friends.

ps.  I certainly didn’t proof read this.  Not a strength of mine.  Patience for editing my own work  is a not a virtue I possess.  

[laffinandlovin-blog]

broken heart?

I wonder about the phrase broken heart and if it’s overused.  If I were to speak candidly I’d say my heart breaks all the time.  But if I think more critically about that feeling in my chest when my “heart breaks” it more like my heart constricts.  I feel it tightening and then I finally feel it relax when the emotion has made its way through my heart.  So I think it’s time to change my language to more accurately reflect my feeling.  If it were true that my heart broke every time I had that feeling of tightness in my chest, then I would have no love left to give.  And that is certainly not the case.  I’ve got much love to give.  And so much more to learn about loving myself.

Nothing fancy about this list but maybe you can relate to the things that make your heart constrict.  Here’s mine:

-saying goodbye to my niece and nephews

-losing the truest friend I have every had, Roxy

-seeing animals passed on the road (gets me every time)

-walking through target and not being able to buy everything

-when my student asks me what her middle name is because she doesn’t know

-seeing students struggle every day to keep pace with their typically developing peers

-babies and dogs on Instagram

-seeing close friends and distant friends with families of their own; in full disclosure my heart constricts with jealousy and uncertainty because I long to have a family of my own

-looking at my bank account and the feeling that I will never get ahead

-seeing dad sick

-my first true heartbreak-realizing that the love of my life was just that, the love of my life but not my love for life (I wish him nothing but love, inner peace, and happiness)

-getting mentally prepared to go to the gym (which also constricts my intestines due to anxiety)

-looking in the mirror and not seeing the body I want but struggling to make strides towards that goal

-seeing mom cry when dad is sick

-breaking down barriers and confessing to my family just how ill I am and how my battle with mental health is a daily struggle  

-working up the courage to leave the bed and seize the day

-missing friends near and far and being unable to afford to visit them at this time

-feeling love from family and friends when I need it most

-hitting the roommate jackpot…again

-girls’ night with Mikey and Brian

-visiting with friends who have treated me like family since I first arrived in Boston (Forsht Family-I’m looking at you)

-Instagram posts

-TWLOHA, Jamie Tworkowski and their mission, their words, his book and his courage #twloha

-love.

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wonder.

i wonder.  a lot.  i wonder if other people worry as much as i do.  i wonder if life is as good as it’s going to get.  i wonder if the pain of heartbreak will ever be soothed. i wonder if i’m making the “right” choices.  i wonder if i’m going to be okay.  i wonder if i’ll have a family that i see when i dream.

i hope. often.  i hope for a better tomorrow for me, for you, for strangers and friends.  i hope this isn’t as good as it’s going to get.  i hope love, whether new or familiar, will heal what is broken. i hope i am making the best choices i know how with what i currently have.  i hope i’m going to be okay.

i worry.  incessantly. i worry about yesterday, today, and tomorrow.  i worry about 10 minutes from now and 10 years from now.  i worry about friends, family, strangers, and myself.  i worry that i will never know happiness without aid.  i worry that this is as good as it’s going to get.  i worry that i will never have the family i see when i dream. i worry about my niece and nephews.  i worry about my dogs and their happiness.  i worry about money, health, and what other people think.  i worry that i won’t ever look the way i want to look.  i worry that i’ll never care enough to put in the work to look the way i want to look. i worry so much that i know it’s not worth it’s weight but i cannot stop it.  

my worry’s name is anxiety.  it consumes my thoughts, clenches my jaw and aches my brain.  it impacts my relationships and it twists the truths that i hear, that i say, and that i believe.  i am not my worry.

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It’s not about having your life ‘put together’ before it can be shared. Nor is it about distilling your story into a brief synopsis, because you should be unabridged, covered in footnotes and cross-referenced by your greatest fans. You do not need to be complete or polished in order to be known.

Chad Moses, “Here. Now. In Good Company.” (via twloha)

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The Healing

pieces of Garret Jacobs’ “The Healing” that have brought me some healing.

You’ve never known hard until you’ve had to fix a broken heart...

spend a lot of long drives, a lot of long nights, trying to forget,

think your whole world’s gone until another one walks in

it’s when you start the healing, 

it’s when you start believing in love again...

When those old scars start to fade

when you can smile and it ain’t fake

when those sad songs come on and they don’t make you break

it’s when you start the healing.

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Email to my Chosen Family

Chosen Family,

I hope this email finds you well.  It’s a bit of a serious one but all turns out well in the end and involves me kinda of dating a Colombian man who was a lieutenant in the Colombian Army...I can’t make this stuff up.  

Some of you know that things got rocky in my relationship back in February.  It wasn’t the normal bickering or shouting, it was actually the exact opposite: distance and silence.  We tried to work through it but in my heart I knew that the relationship would not last despite how much effort I put in if he wasn’t able to do the same.  Things were difficult for him personally and he still isn’t quite able to verbalize anything other than he hates himself and he’s not worth my time and that he deserves to live a life alone and would prefer that.  He cut everyone out of his life, even his best friend for whom he was supposed to be the best man in his wedding in October, and his family.  His parents showed up in April and he refused to see them after they left our house.  His friends (one being my cousin) came up in June to basically intervene and try to find out what’s going on.  Out of respect for his privacy, I didn’t reach out to anyone.  He’s harboring some deep emotions that have come to the surface after years of suppressing them.  He is still not doing well at all and my concern for him is very serious.

In addition to this, I was having one of the worst seasons of depression that I have ever experienced in my life.  I was struggling financially and had gotten into some credit card debt, I gained a significant amount of weight and was the heaviest I have ever been (even when I had those big old tiggle bitties).  I was changing meds and the meds were causing weight gain and not bringing any change to my overall mood and functioning.  I was struggling at work, crying at lunch while sitting on the floor behind my desk, and I engaged in self-harm at home.  Someone at work went to the principal and I was encouraged (if I didn’t choose willingly, I would have be forced to) go on FMLA until I got a note from my psychiatrist.  I was out of work for two days.  My self-worth was so low and I questioned several times if I would be better off not living.  I never had a plan or a date but I had scary ideas in my head.  I decided that I either needed to be admitted to a psych hospital or be a part of an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP).  I chose IOP and for six weeks, I spent three nights a week after work for three hours working on how to heal.  I’m grateful for the program and the people I met who can still provide support for me at the ding of a text.  Things got better for a bit but I relapsed again shortly after.

Emily can attest that I basically just let my life go.  I didn’t do do laundry, I left clothes on the floor and let clutter build up everywhere.  She said she went to Tom after I didn’t answer calls due to hours of sleeping (probably with NyQuil), when she showed up at my door, forcing me to go to therapy even though I didn’t want to, that she knew then that things were really bad.  Me, not making my bed?  I cut most people out and didn’t reach out to many people.  Thank you for pushing me, Em, and I am so sorry for the pain I caused.  You were and are critical in my recovery.  You all are.  And I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner.  I just didn’t think I wanted to live this life I had been dealt and I retreated from the people who loved me most, including my crazy family.

In June, I asked my parents to fly me home for the weekend because I was inconsolable pretty much any time I was not in front of children.  I came clean about everything.  About the pressure I felt growing up and even now as an adult.  I told them how I felt like a failure compared to them and how low I was.  I confessed how different I felt and how it hurt to have my sensitivity be considered a weakness and being compared to Bill and Tricia had only hurt me more.  Everything, years of the pressure to be “perfect” to them and the fear of disappointing them was all out in the open.  It was terrifying and freeing.  That’s when the real healing began.

I decided that my boyfriend and I needed to break up.  We officially ended things in June although they were over well before.  However we still lived together in our one bedroom until September 1st when I moved out and into an apartment right around the corner from the one you all saw when you came up for Doug and KK’s wedding.  And those guys are still there and taking good care of me.  I finally got on the right mix of meds and my Psych promised that one day it would just feel like a cloud had lifted.  And she was right.  Sometime in July things just became clearer.  I didn’t want to not live and I wanted to get better.  So I took some steps.

I joined Weight Watchers (I’m down 20.4 pounds since beginning of July).  I made finding an apartment a priority and finally got out of a toxic living situation.  My friends helped me move last weekend and I decided to join Hinge and as Brian (my old roommate says) “Do college all over again, but for the first time.”  Since I was such a prude until 27 and kinda still am.  I went on a date and it was fun and nice but nothing came of it.  Then I went on a date with a Colombian man who is 33 and mighty attractive.  He’s legal (as if I would even ask that), but that was one of the first things he told me haha.   I’m finally living a life where I feel relieved and free and at peace with my decisions.  We’re going out again today for sushi and yes he has an accent. I’ll save the gushy sweet details for the girls.  It could just be a short fling but it’s helping me figure out what I truly want in a partner.  

Overall, things are better now than they have been in 9 months.  Today I’m going to get the rest of my things from my old apartment and he decided that he shouldn’t be there because it will be too difficult for him and I respect his decision as I feel it may be difficult for me as well.

All this being said, tomorrow is National Suicide Awareness Day and begins World Suicide Awareness Week.  As most of you know the author of the organization To Write Love on Her Arms founded the organization to help raise awareness for mental illness and those struggling with depression, addiction, and suicide.  Our color is orange.  If you have any orange that you could add to your work attire tomorrow, it would mean the world to me.  His book contributed to my acceptance that I am not alone in this struggle and it has made a huge difference in my life.

I love you all so incredibly much and am so glad I chose to stay to see the happiest events unfolding in your lives and I promise to continue to fight to stay.  I am sorry I didn’t reach out, I truly had no hold on my emotions or thoughts for months at a time and spent several days fighting panic attacks and literally living minute to minute.

Thank you for being one of the most constant and fierce forces in my life.  I love you so dearly.

xo.

Rach.

PS. I didn’t proofread this so excuse the errors.  I don’t like rereading things I wrote, especially this emotionally charged mother effer.

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My Sweet Girl

It doesn’t really feel like there was a beginning for us.  We were always just Rach and Roxy.  I’ve waited a bit to write about our final months together thinking that maybe the lump in my throat the size of a lemon would eventually shrink.  But alas, the lump is still in my throat.

If you know me, you know Roxy.  Even if you’ve never met her.  I always thought of us as two bodies sharing the same soul.  When my Great Depression began around the age of 15  I was completely lost but positive that what I was experiencing was just what moody teenagers go through.  High school academics were incredibly tough, I was becoming aware of just how obvious my sensitivities to just about everything were: from body weight to the save the polar bears commercials.  I didn't know just then that I was embarking on a 14 year journey of struggles with depression and anxiety.  I also didn't know that just before Christmas in 2004 I would be wrapped in a cocoon in the form of a fluffy, goofy, wears her heart on her sleeve gal named Roxy.

I have a great life.  I have amazing family,  food in my fridge, friends that can only be compared to angels, and the love of my life who sees all of me and somehow loves me anyway.  I hit the jackpot in this life.  I am also a member of the 18% club (18% of adults 18 and older are diagnosed with anxiety disorder, half of those are also diagnosed with depression).  There is so much I’m still learning about my illnesses and how I can help myself and others and reduce the pain.

When I started to see therapists and figure out what was going on, nothing changed with Roxy.  If anything, she was there more.  She was who met me on the floor when I’d have a breakdown.  She is the one who would nudge me under my arm when I tried to stifle my sobs after a failed test.  

Her big fury body was always there for an embrace.  I’ve soaked her fur with my tears and she never complained-granted she couldn’t really complain but there’s something about someone meeting you in your silence.  Roxy did that every single time I couldn’t find words, she met me in my silence-in my pain.  

That dog was and is the absolute love of my life.  The hardest part of leaving home when I was in college was leaving my best friend.  I missed the meeting in the silences.  She was home waiting when I got home from the hospital after Dad’s close call with his heart.  She was the only one there to catch me when I collapsed when the weight of dad’s heart condition hit me in reality.  She was there when I became an aunt to my Little Jimmy.  She was in the car when I rushed home for Lindsay Mae’s birth making it just in time for her first bath.  She was there when I had my first kiss, she felt my first heartbreak, she got to love my niece and nephew and the man I will spend the rest of my life with.  She knew what was important in life.  

Studying abroad, I Skyped with her every night.  We fought too.  Trust me-put two non-touchy feely girls in the same room when one is desperate for the rare brush of affection and the other one isn’t-it’s pretty stubborn.  

She was a free spirit with a rigid routine.  She wanted it her way or no way. But boy did that girl know how to love.  Every single person she met, loved her.  There was just something about her.  She was a gentle giant.  I could write about her life for pages but I want to tell you about her final days.

It was worse than I’d imagined it be, and I knew it would be one, if not the worst day of my life.  Fortunately she picked out Ella for us in late January so we don’t have to go through this without the love of a dog.  She started having nose bleeds in November but the doctor wasn’t too concerned.  She was her normal self and still eating, drinking, and full of energy.  Her nose bleeds came and went with the weather but ultimately brought us back to the vet where she was unofficially diagnosed with a nasal tumor.  I sat on the floor, most likely in dog pee and blood and finished all the tissues in the room as the vet started to list the three options we had and I stopped him after two.  He didn’t identify her as a dog who was suffering but I knew at 12 I needed to keep a closer eye on her.

Her breathing got heavier and on Sunday, March 5, 2017 before Harry went to work, I knew that it was time.  She was falling asleep standing up because when she laid her sweet head down, she could only breathe unobstructed for a few seconds.   She was delirious and weak and for the first time I noticed just how bony her body had become.  A dear friend from high school took care of all of the hard stuff for us, called in the meds, made the appointment, even pushed it back an hour so Roxy could see some of her favorite people.

People came over, pups came over, and she was smiling just like she always did in the presence of the people she loved.  When the time came to head out of the apartment we said see you later to our friends.  The vet was amazing and assured me that I was making the best decision for her.  Until then I never saw it the way she put it: I gave her a great life, the last gift I could give her was the gift of relief.  I asked my dear vet friend how on earth she did this and she said “I’m lucky.  I��m the only person who is able to relieve pets from pain and suffering at the end of their lives.”.  

My tear ducts were absolutely dry at the end of the two days but I got to do what Roxy has done for me the entire 12 years that our lives overlapped:  I got to wrap my love around her and simply just be with her.  I got to cry on the floor with her just like she had done with me so many times.  I got to tell her how much I love her and that she was going to be okay just as she whispered the same words from her soul to mine over and over.  I got to hold her furry mane in my arms as her head got heavier and rested in my arms.  I got the best gift of all-I got to be with her until her very last heartbeat.  

Harry was with us the entire time.  He held Roxy so she could get a few minutes of sleep while she was standing up.  He helped my down the stairs, in and out of the car and back up the stairs to the apartment where there was one less set of footprints prancing down the hallway.  He stayed home with me the next day, he made sure I ate and showered and got fresh air.  My big brother kept me safe from across the country, holding me as closely as he could while I sobbed at the reality of losing Roxy.  He brought that gift into my life, and I think he might be the only one who truly knows, having known both me and Roxy our entire lives together, just how broken my heart is.  

I worried for years about losing her and I dreaded the day she would be my angel dog.  I cry several times a week and I don’t think that will change soon. That day I think Roxy taught me the most difficult lesson I would have to face concerning her death.  Her leaving was her way of setting me free, breaking me out of the cocoon she had me wrapped in, and forcing me to take all the love she gave me not hold it back-it’s time to fly, and who better to guide me than the dog with the biggest heart (and wings) out there.

I love you, sweet girl.  Thank you for teaching me what’s important.  Thank you for choosing Ella for us.  She has your smile and your spirit.  Everyone she meets loves her- you two share that remarkable quality.

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If you could tell anyone in the world just one piece of advice, what would it be?  (Costa Rica, 2015-more to come)

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just a few of the wonders that are Costa Rica

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it’s a great feeling when your mind and heart stretch to give you that boost to be brave and follow the path you want to be on- regardless of the risks.

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Current self improvement goal.

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There’s only so much you can do.

“You can’t save the world, Rach.”  My mom has been telling me this since I was a little girl.  I’ve never thought to myself, “I’m going to change the world.”, I just always knew that I wanted to help it in any way that I can.  Donald Miller said it better than I ever could, “We are called to hold our hands against the wounds of a broken world, to stop the bleeding.”

Then I became a teacher and I realized just how difficult it is to instill change.  It’s really up to where I am as a person and a child is in his journey to maturity if either of us will be a catalyst of change for the other.  I often feel incredibly helpless as an educator.  There are so many issues facing my students due to the larger education system.  It also doesn’t help that they, by complete chance, were born into poverty.  Really, the world and family that we are born into is mostly chance.  I happened to be born into a middle-class, inner-city family full of love that was pioneered by parents dedicated to putting their children through to college.  I could have just as easily happened to be born into a family full of love that lives in a third world country, fighting poverty and disease and being denied basic human rights.  Chance is a tricky thing.  I was reminded today that I have the chance to help a part of my world: my student.

I attended a meeting today for one of my sweet students.  He has been the subject of some awful bullying at school and he has a lot going on at home.  Today his teachers, his mom, and his intensive care coordinators sat down and talked about how we can best care for and support him.    I learned some disturbing things about his personal life.  I learned that he is paranoid with the fear of losing members of his family due to a traumatic experience.  I learned that he reverts to toddler like behavior at home and his health is in jeopardy.  He faces challenges I cannot even fathom.  He sees things that no one else sees.  His mom struggles to afford clothes that can fit him because he struggles from obesity.  I listened to his mom tell me that she holds him as he cries about not wanting to go to school each morning.  I assured her that I have held him when he’s gotten off that same bus he dreaded getting onto.  I watched his mother breakdown as she confessed she sleeps barely three hours a night because she stays up worrying about him and his sick father.  I listened to her say she’s trying but she doesn’t know what else she can do.  The team and I assured her that she is supported and that her son is loved and protected at school.

 I can’t change the laws today.  I can’t cure bullying today.  I can’t even understand bullying.  Even in my 6th year as an educator, although I know that bullying is born from a broken place within a child, I struggle to understand how one purposefully projects his pain intentionally onto another.  I can’t cure his obesity and I cannot take away his mother’s worries and fears.  I get so bogged down in what I cannot change for my students and their families that I sometimes forget what I can do.  And his mom helped me remember that today.

I can help him feel comfortable.  “He’s dancing in front of you?!  I can’t believe it!  That means he’s comfortable!”  I can help him feel safe.  “His teachers rode the bus home with him, I couldn’t believe it.”  I can help him find a uniform that fits.  “He wears men’s sizes and it’s difficult to afford.”  

I left that meeting with a heart so heavy.  I used to be immobilized by that feeling.  Today, I was motivated by it.  I question my decision to do the work I do often, even though I know the answer is that it is what I am meant to do.  Today, I got an answer.  No, I cannot save the world, but I can help my students, my world.  And I was empowered.  Empowered by the will of a strong mother who carries her family’s weight on her shoulders yet doesn’t let them see her crack.  Empowered by the passion of members of his team who are moved by each other, his mother, and his own self to help make things better for him.  I was humbled by her tears, her trust in us to show us that side of her that she has no other place to do so.  

I take my job to heart.  I take it home with me and it weighs me down often.  But how fortunate am I, that I am in a position to truly serve others?  Yes, it may be true that I cannot change the world and that I can only do so much.  But I am learning that sometimes just doing anything means so much.

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I feel too much.

I am moved often.  Moved by inspiration.  Moved by pain.  Moved by love.  Moved by wonder.  Moved by the courage of others.  I’m also paralyzed often.  Paralyzed by depression.  Paralyzed by fear.  Paralyzed by anxiety.  Paralyzed by the aches that the world faces.  I am so very human and finally, I am learning to not be ashamed of that.  

I read a lot.  I am touched by songs, movies, articles, books, and quotes.  I also have a racing mind.  I become obsessed with a phrase or book or song and it sticks with me for a week or so and I swear it has changed my life. I’m an inspiration junkie.  The next time I find something that moves me, the former is put on the mental and physical bookshelf until my heart remembers it again.   

A few months ago, I read a book written by the founder of a non-profit organization called To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA), Jamie Tworkowski.  I knew of the organization and checked the website every so often.  The story that Jamie told almost a decade ago changed a lot of things for a lot of people. I admire and respect that courageous story that he, David, and Renee shared together, then shared with the world.  

What I didn’t know was that Jamie also had a story.  In my mind, his story was TWLOHA.  I didn’t even consider the extension of it.  I am reminded often that everyone has a story that has shaped who they are and I am always surprised that I somehow forget that from time to time (especially in traffic).

I read Jamie’s book If You Feel Too Much back in May or June and the world of conflict that lives inside my heart and mind experienced pure peace for the first time in my 13 year history with depression and anxiety.  I have days of clarity and moments that give way to new understandings.  I have an incredible family that has loved me through something that isn’t very easy to understand.  I have friends that I question if they are actually human because they are so patient, honest, pure, and loyal.

I have so much incredible love in my life, sometimes I can feel it and often times it feels like a 9ft brick wall is around my brain and heart.  With all the love in my life, I have somehow never been able to feel the sense of acceptance that enveloped me while reading If You Feel Too Much. I have great friends who listen and empathize and admit that they love me and understand I’m having a hard time, “But Rach, I don’t know how these things get into your head.” is a common exchange we have.  

For the first time, I read words, I felt words, that I truly believed.  Words that brought a sense of acceptance that I have never granted myself.  I have the  book, I have it on audio so that I can find that peace when I need it most.  When the darkness sets in, the friend I found in those words is only a few clicks away.  I got to meet Jamie and hear him speak.  I got to thank him with a letter which hopefully reflected at least 1/100 of how much his courage to share his story has impacted my own.  

I’m in awe of the courage he displays in being so honest about so many aspects of his life.  As I sit at the picnic bench in my yard in Boston with Mumford and Sons serenading me, I remember all of the nights I felt so alone because I was “too sensitive” and I needed to change but I didn’t know how to be anyone else.  I think of me at 17 and how sad the nighttime could be because I felt so different from everyone else.  I could have never imagined that at 27 I could feel this kind of freedom and company in my sensitivity.  

I’m still wrestling with how to express through words just what this book has done for me.  But until then, I’ll express it through how I live.  And I’ll do what my family and friends suggest when I call them in a bit of a funk (”Rach, where’s your book?  Go read your book or listen to it for a little.”), which isn’t quite as often these days.  This book has become the first friend I turn to.  In doing so, it has given me the ability to give more of myself to the friends that have given so much to me over the past 13 years.  Thank you, Jamie and TWLOHA.  I am forever grateful.

#towriteloveonherarms  #TWLOHA