Letter: To the One Who Turns Around

I’m visiting my friend in the Midwest this week, and the first day I was here, both she and her wife had to work. I’ve passed the morning drinking pumpkin chai, listening to quiet music, petting their two pugs, doing yoga, and planning an alone day. I’ll walk to the store to get a few things I, of course, forgot. I’ll explore the city a bit. I’ll write in their adorable home. I’ll eat (obviously). I’ll sit with my thoughts. And I’ll like it.

During this day, I had a moment of solitary appreciation for just how far I’ve come. Not so long ago, being faced with a day alone would have triggered all kinds of mental shit and instead of looking forward to it, I would have been jetting to any accessible public place to be around people, texting anyone I thought might reply to me, and planning out every second. And if I had to stay in, there would have been sitcoms (read: Friends, The Office, or Parks and Rec), in the background so my brain had the illusion of other dysfunctional people to distract it.

Hell, I may have even changed my flight to avoid a day with myself.

And yet, there I was, almost looking forward to the solitude. Obviously, it would have been even better if they could have taken off, but I didn’t desperately need them to and, in retrospect, that’s significant.

About seven years ago, I was amidst an anxiety spiral so intense, being alone with my thoughts was emotional torture. No joke, I literally tagged along to a 20-minute haircut with my husband. I legitimately couldn’t be alone with myself for 20 minutes. Twenty. Minutes. I have a vivid memory of sitting on a cold, white pleather chair in SportClips USA. As I scrolled through Facebook to distract myself, wrapped in a coat and scarf I’m pretty sure were functioning as a ThunderShirt for me, I realized how utterly fucked I was — and how fucked my life was going to be if I couldn’t slow this spiral that had lasted for almost three months and didn’t seem to be stopping of its own accord this time.

This moment of realization all but physically pulled the winter glove off my hand, unlocked my iPhone, and looked up local therapists who took my insurance. I went to my first therapy session two weeks later.

Oh, what a difference seven years of therapy will make.

Don’t get me wrong, my anxiety isn’t “fixed” and I don’t think it will ever be, really. But I like being alone now. I like it.

As a person traversing mental health mountains who works and lives and loves with other people who are attempting to scale their own emotional cliffs, I’ve decided something about members of this involuntary collective: we don’t take enough time to look back and appreciate our progress.

It may be a byproduct of the way our society at large still cannot seem to recognize not only the equal weight, but also the connection, between mental and physical health. Perhaps we don’t pause to look back because we see our progress as a finish line, so looking back just slows us down. Whatever it is, there is a part of you just like there is a part of me who has come so very far, and this part of you deserves recognition.

So, this week’s letter is one of appreciation. I deserve it and so do you. Truly. I promise.

Letter No. 2: To the part of me who looks back and smiles

Hey you,

Can I just start with thank you? Thank you.

For years, the majority of my mental and emotional energy was spent battling itself. And while skirmishes happen from time to time, if I didn’t have you, I’m not sure I would even see how often my mind and heart are at peace with one another. Nothing is perfect…well, actually…I kind of think progress is as perfect as we can hope for. And without you, I may not have ever even thought to write the last sentence at all.

You know, as sad as this is, I think there was a time I didn’t think I would ever smile when I thought about myself. But here I am, smiling.

You didn’t always sit in the front row of my life. In fact, for the better part of it, I think I’ve shoved you in the nosebleeds because I didn’t really want to see you, let alone listen to what you have to say. I was much more comfortable listening to The Part of Me Who is Ashamed and The Part of Me Who is Never Enough. They corroborated what I already believed to be true about myself, which though painful, was the pain that I knew. In some ways, their narrative is easier to swallow because it’s familiar.

If you hadn’t stuck it out, if you had left the audience of my life entirely, I don’t know who or where I would be, but I wouldn’t be who I am. And I like her more than I don’t, which is kind of huge for me as a whole. (You know this, obviously).

I know I forget about you sometimes even now, but I will forever be grateful for your tenacity and grit. You stick around. You turn around. You tap me on the shoulder. And you smile.

Thank you for seeing it all. I couldn’t do it without you.

Yours in gratitude,