When Friendship Saves Us (Part 2) : Our Take On Modern Love

Believe me when I tell you that nothing sounds more terrifying to me than a posh British girl who has just transitioned out of her successful career as a modern art curator to focus more fully on our societal responsibility to address mental well-being. (For reference: I am insane, and 50% of the “art” in my house is from TJ Maxx.) 

But a few months after our second babies were born, it was time for our firstborn children to start Kindergarten, and by some stroke of luck, or destiny (or the fact that there was actually only one school in our town) our children ended up being placed in class together.

I sometimes wonder what these days would have been like if I’d understood at that time who she was…who’d she’d be to me. If I’d have felt less lost? Less alone? If we both would have? But maybe that’s the beauty of friendship? There is simply no rush to force its unfolding, no timetable that stipulates where things ought to be; a freedom that allowed us to bumble through the initial unfolding in spit-up ridden fits and starts, baby slings flapping unceremoniously in the breeze as we realized: being together through all of this was just better than being apart. 

There was a time when I thought of friendship as an immature pursuit, that all of these minor relationships were simply buying time until the real relationships began. Surely I’d outgrow the need to spill forth all of the pieces of my life in the hopes that my poor, unsuspecting friends would put them back together. Surely slumber parties and impromptu ice cream binges would lose their appeal? Surely I’d feel increasingly more inclined to hide who I was in the hopes that I’d remain protected, collected, secure. And maybe that’s true. Maybe we do start holding ourselves together more as we age. We smile and respond “I’m great!”, and we shift our conversations to inconsequential topics and we occasionally pop in to therapy when things get bad…but by and large, more often than not, we choose to suffer alone. As our problems gain significance and gravity and weight, we are no longer confident that our friends can bear their burden, no longer confident that they’ll be able to see us through the wreckage of our flaws. Maybe that’s why, when we find someone who does see us (really sees us) and loves us still…maybe that’s why we hold so tight?

Claire was the first person I opened up to fully (partially because she made me feel safe, and partially because I was breaking down before her very eyes and there was no longer a polite way to brush off her concerns).

• “Yes I babysat your daughter today!” (You’re welcome!)
  Yes, I also stayed at the park the whole time because I thought a murderer was hidden in my attic.

• “Yes, we rode our bikes to school pick-up today!” (What a fun and active mom!)
  Yes, I also believe a bomb has been planted in my car and will explode at any moment in some sort of Speed-esque fashion (but minus the uniformly-sweaty-and-bronzed Keanu Reeves.)

• “Yes, my eyes are very puffy because I’m tired!” (#momLife amirite?)
  Yes my eyes are also puffy because I’ve been crying constantly/hysterically/desperately wondering how to escape the confines of my body.

Due, in part, to a series of traumatic events and in part to a less-than-ideal genetic composition, I’d found myself locked in the jaws of anxiety and paranoia, once again — a constant gnawing that quickly escalated to a violent, thrashing attack. And when everyone else saw the smiles and the bikes and the requisite puffy-eyes…Claire saw the bite marks. When everyone else was happy to accept the ‘I’m fine!’s, happy to accept the facade I’d so expertly constructed (and who could blame them?) Claire was the type of friend who was brave enough to look beyond the poorly-bandaged wounds to the disaster that lay beyond. And when she saw me there (the real and broken me) the ‘me’ who had no jokes or quips or excuse left; when anyone would have been justified in their rapid fleeing ... She stayed.

Paranoia | Like, The Worst Soup Ever

The worst thing about living with paranoia is my inability to trust my own instincts and intuition.

The second worst thing about living with paranoia is that my neighbors are probably going to kill me.

For many years, I simply thought I’d found myself on the unfortunate receiving end of a steady stream of lunatics—some sort of strange manifestation after so many years of obsessively fearing people. If the teachings of The Secret were to be believed, my thoughts were *actively* creating my destiny, a prospect so terrifying I’d opted to stop thinking all together. (Alcohol problem: commence!) But, of course, the damage was already done. My chakras were fucked. Something about metaphysical reactivity (?) or past life regression (?) or crystal disharmony (?) had gone horribly awry. I’d created my destiny, and now I had to see it through. (Great.)

On the nights when I’d peered out my windows 1000 times and noted all of the strange men tracking me, I’d usually remove the grates on my heating system to be sure I’d disabled the cameras. (A violent punch into the vent and a wild wave of my hand should do the trick!) Sometimes, of course, the cameras would be too small so I’d have cover the openings with duct tape. Other times, the men would be circling my house so rapidly that I could scarcely keep an eye on them. Occasionally they’d be plotting with people I knew or driving cars I swear I’d seen earlier in the week. How long had they been following me, and when were they going to make their move?

The interesting phenomenon here was that I had become so adept at justifying these theories, that even the people closest to me didn’t question them. I can almost assure you that it came as a shock to my friends and family when I, of all people, began to wonder if maybe all of these things weren’t happening to me. After all, there seemed to be so much build up…but no real action. 

At my worst, I was certain that the build up was simply an attempt to drive me mad, to knock me off my guard, to render me incapable of fighting back. At my best, I agreed that these impending-death scenarios were improbable, but still, despite my best attempts to shake them, believed them to be true.

So, my mission was clear. It was my job to remain vigilant. To fight. To flee. To curl in a small ball behind the couch and play dead. 

You’re likely thinking that I must have been under some sort of psychological care throughout this time, acutely aware that I was suffering from a combination of Anxiety, Depression, PTSD and Paranoia. To that, I’d respond with a sort of maniacal laughter that would haunt you for a lifetime. Therapy was for crazy people, angry people, people who didn’t have white picket fences and 2.5 kids and nice husbands and 401ks. Not me, bro. I’m cool. (*sunglasses emoji*)

Sometimes I think back to the mash-up of issues I was facing as a perfectly concocted soup. (But less like a regular, hearty soup, set to warm your soul on a cold night…and more like one of those soups they’d serve cold in a school cafeteria: thick and mysterious and generally unpalatable.)

It is so easy to get trapped in this feeling that mental illness defines us, or has broken us, but I’ve gone to therapy now (*pats self on the back VERY HARD*) and read lots and lots of inspirational quotes on instagram (*abruptly stops patting self on back*) and I realize now, that these are not the things that define us. Even the way we stumble through is not what defines us.

We’re allowed to break down and fuck up and do it all wrong. We don’t always have to overcome our setbacks gloriously with the sun bursting through dark clouds. Sometimes we just wake up and try a little harder not to suck, try to not peak out the windows looking for well-disguised murderers, try not to ruin our probably-expensive heating and air system with 16 layers of duct-tape…we wake up and take one little baby step towards healing/recovery/self-care and that’s ok.

I truly have to believe that what defines us is who we are in between these broken times. What defines us, if we even need defining, is the person we are when we have perspective, and coffee in-hand, and all the stars are aligned and we feel like we can shower and converse and meet opposition with something other than hysterical crying. I’d like to believe that who I am is the person I’m able to be when at my best. Anything else is just too much damn pressure.

Now, that I’ve largely overcome my paranoia (again, *emphatically* PAINFULLY patting myself on the back) now that I’m here making soup analogies and talking about sunlight bursting through clouds, I can hardly believe what my life once looked like. And while it’s easy to joke about now…in those moments, it felt absolutely insurmountable. Here I was, trapped in this self-imposed prison, unable to escape, probably destined to die there. I could not leave the house, could not forge new relationships, could not trust, could not love, could not function normally in the world. I was lost, and didn’t know where to turn. 

If you’d have told me then that there were answers, that there were services, solutions, resources, support, people struggling in the same way, I’m not sure I would have believed you. In those moments, I needed that place, and I didn’t know where to start.

For me, If Lost, Start Here is a small step in the right direction. With so much of the world operating under the assumption of wellness, If Lost Start Here is a resource for people who are just unapologetically struggling, or at least those of us who accept that self-care is hard, and self-realization even harder, and self-compassion maybe the most difficult of all.

So many of the solutions offered for “wellness” or “recovery" can feel unattainable to people who are struggling. (How am I supposed to book a "Heavenly Weekend Getaway” when I can’t even go to the grocery store without having a panic attack?) 

If Lost Start Here is less about “Resetting Your Wellness At This Jaw-Dropping Bali Retreat” and more about “700 Places Where You Can Openly Sob Without Judgement”. And for me (huddled in my bed, with my duct tape, thinking about soup) that feels just about right.