The Stories We Build Our Lives Around

            It would be great to escape into someone else’s brain. Shrink, “Honey I Shrunk the Kids” style, and burrow through their ear to hike among their gushy brain matter. Eventually I’d find the Cineplex in their brain, grab some caramel popcorn, and watch their life story unfold. Not the story of what actually happened but the story they tell themselves about what happened.  

            The particular film, of a 30-year-old man I know, has two scenes. One of him and his bride covering each other’s nose in buttercream icing and the second was ten years later when a couple signatures made him feel like a failure. But the movie, and marriage, was so much more than that. It was two people who rooted themselves in a messy, distressing, and beautiful life. Those ten years of creating a safe space to fall apart, change, and rebuild themselves wasn’t proof of failure. It was a testament to how two people created a home with no guarantees but still showed up every day to do their best. That’s a huge success in my mind. 

            I’m watching my own story through the lens of twenty-five years of therapy and there’s a deep pain that I’m never able to fully excavate. It’s like the dead flies that you push into the corner of a windowsill when cleaning. You can’t pick them up no matter how many times you stuff paper towel down there. I’m spending thousands and thousands of dollars on therapy when I just need someone to tell me that these flies are part of the messy and uncomfortable human experience. It reflects how clean the rest of the window is. That I work really hard to make them sparkle, but at some point, I have to call it a day.             

            My most predominant story, the one that insinuated itself into all parts of my life, was the belief that I was broken because of bipolar. I was born defective and could never be fixed. That I would never be fully functional. However, I’ve really been working on this and the next step was to write a letter to my 15-year-old self about why I decided she was broken when diagnosed with bipolar. She deserved an explanation and apology.  

            Dear 15-year-old Brandi,             

             I’ve erased and retyped this letter so many times. I still don’t know if I have the words or wisdom to explain to you why I drowned you in shame and convinced you that you were horribly broken. I’ve been experiencing this grief that has no words or breathe or reason. Just a gut feeling that it was time to let go of this destructive and inaccurate story I’ve built my life around. It’s terrifying because the story made me feel safe but it’s bulldozing through my joy. I got to the point where it didn’t really feel like a choice anymore. I can’t carry around this shame.  

            I’ve engraved you into my mind as a victim. Someone who had life happen to her but that wasn’t the real story. The real story was how I helped create a safe place for at-risk youth to heal their own painful stories, opened a brewery, published a book, fell in love with my best friend, and showed up every day to fight for a kick ass life. That’s a pretty impressive list for someone who was only a victim. You were such an integral part of this story. You had this spark, and grit, that I still carry around with me. I’m a scrappy fighter.  

            So, I guess this turned out more of a letter of gratitude than an apology. Maybe you don’t need my guilt but my love and gratitude. And I do so dearly love you. I guess the bottom line is we’re broken and whole, loved and lonely, and strong and exhausted. It’s messy and there’s no need for shame. I don’t think you could understand this at 15, but you gave me the balls to stay alive long enough to figure this out. I miss you.   

                                                                                                                                 Love 40-year-old Brandi

 

What About Fun?

            

            My husband was playing online trivia and seemed genuinely engaged. So, I asked, “Are you having fun?”

 

            He nodded. “Yeah.” 

 

            And then it hit me. Like all heavy moments that were inevitable but blindsided me anyway. My mind was so ravaged with the shouting monsters that it never occurred to me to even want to have fun for the last year. How sad is that?

 

            This last year’s been pretty awful but the last couple months have been hell. One day I’d feel confident in my creative abilities and would write 5 poems and 2 blogs but the next I’d hide under the covers and watch Serial Killer documentaries. They numbed my mind and distracted me from the growing hole inside.

 

            I’m finally, finally starting to feel better. As my unraveling slows down a heaviness in my chest appears. I’ve lost a year of my life. There've been so many goddamn years that I’ve lost and will continue to lose. 

 

            What do I miss the most?

 

            1)Laughter. Not chuckling from a sit com with predictable tropes, but an explosion of laughter. Pepsi shooting out of my nose laughter. Bent over, not able to catch my breath laugher. Joy that doesn’t expect me to earn it. All my struggles with eating and sleeping and hiding fade into the background. The joy will drain away, and the hidden will be revealed, but the moments of glee give me hope.

 

            2)Hugs. I shy away from hugs when depression bulldozes through the life I’ve just rebuilt. I wish I spent less time falling into depression and more time falling into my husband. 

 

            3)Nature. When I go into the forest or sit by the ocean I’m always amazed by how calm and whole I feel. Nature takes the sting out of knowing this illness will never end. I start to wonder if maybe the real power of my broken pieces is not in how they tear me down but in how they help others build back up. 

 

            

 

             

 

            

40 the New 30? My Body Calls B*llshit

           

 Whenever someone says, “I feel healthier than I did 10 years ago,” I mumble, “Good for you.” I’ve just turned 40 and it’s actually been my favorite birthday, but my body would like to lodge a complaint. 40 is not the new 30.

 

            When I went to the doctor at 30 it was for birth control and burning when I pee. To be clear, it was a bladder infection not a consequence of sexy time scenarios that went rogue. This year my doctor said, “I think we’re going to start doing some routine tests every year. You’re getting to that age when things start to go wrong.” This was met with stunned silence. Had my heart and eating innards chatted with my brain and decided to revolt as well? That’s just unfair b*llshit.

 

            Once upon a time when I looked in the mirror my nipples would be standing at attention. Now, that only happens when it’s cold like a motha. Otherwise, they stare at the floor, drained from holding up too many Dairy Milk Toffee bars. No longer are they saying, “Let’s go meet some boys!” but, “We already got the boys to the yard, now leave us alone.”

 

            I do yoga to trick my brain into thinking my body is relaxed and I’m not constantly unraveling. There’s this 25-year-old yoga guru who goes from mountain pose (standing with arms stretched out at 11 and 1) to kissing her knees in one second. My journey is slower and accompanied by grunts. Halfway down I grab onto my knees and slowly walk my hands down my lower legs to the ground. This way my back doesn’t snap. It’s graceful as f*ck. By the time my hands reach the floor she’s already moved onto the next pose. But I keep going because one day soon, “I’ll feel healthier than I did ten years ago.”