October Is Fraught - Fierce Horizons

Hearts in nature remind me that there is always love in the universe and that our angels, guides, and spiritual families are looking out for us as we go through the trials and joys of the human experience.

October is fraught with awareness campaigns that hit me where it hurts the most:

Domestic Violence Awareness Month. Purple ribbons.
Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Pink Ribbons.
Mental Health Awareness Month. Green ribbons.

These are, sadly, a series of experiences that I have lived through. A not-so-easy to divulge roadmap of my interior (mostly hidden) being, part time exterior, and full time struggle with living in this world. I can’t watch, listen to, or consume most media without developing an eye twitch, headache, or upset stomach from the barrage of discourse to be aware.

I am aware.

And I wonder, should I speak up and say, “Hey, that’s me! I’ve been through it. I get it. I understand, I really do.” That compulsion to divulge usually quiets under self-scrutiny … Well, I’m not better yet. I don’t have answers. They’ll ask questions. Or blame me. Or tell me how lucky I am. Or say I look fine and that it can’t be that bad.

I don’t want pity, or judgement, or tips for a quick fix. But I want to connect. And I want to share my story because this is the reality of my life. Not just the bouncy, big-dimpled smile, enthusiastic hiker, friend, movie and mountain loving woman that most friends, colleagues, and family know.

Breast Cancer

Once, in a grocery store, the checkout clerk asked if I wanted to donate to breast cancer research (for an organization that I personally wish no one would ever support) and I stopped to look them right in the eyes, with my bald head peeking through new wisps, and said, “I already did, to the tune of $10,000 a day for each treatment.”

At the time, I still had six months to go until that round of treatments was over. Under my soft shirt were the unseen terrible burns where radiation was making a crackle of tissue from nipple to breastbone. It felt cruel, that pat question that they were required to say. And I felt invisible.

I gave my right breast and lymph nodes and chest cavity, my veins that have collapsed, my heart’s ability to pump blood efficiently, my short-term memory and brain functionality, my joints, and nerves in my feet and hands, my ability to even walk sometimes, loss of sleep at night, a year of missing my daughters as they were raised by friends, and a pervasive “what if” that added to my already ingrained fear of lurking danger in the world. A warm, oozing fear that my ex had instilled with years of unexpected surprises like nails set booby trap-style under my car tires.

Domestic Abuse

That guy… For the better part of seven years, I had people ask me, “Are you OK? Do you need help?” And I had no idea, really — no idea, what they were talking about. Even after the work party where he screamed at me for talking to a male coworker who was part of a group conversation. He said I was a flirtatious slut, grabbed my arm lifting me off my feet, and dragged me out of the party half dangling over his shoulder. Colleagues approached me with quiet concern the following week. “I’m good,” I said, and I believed it.

I knew, even going back to our wedding night, that he went off the rails especially when he was drinking. But in my mind I didn’t think it was *that bad,* and I’d been groomed to believe that whatever anger or violence or silent treatment came my way was my fault. Sometimes I lived with the illusion that I had it under control if I could just keep his drinking to two beers, or do what he wanted in bed (when he wasn’t out with call-girls or girlfriends), or I could make more money and give him a bigger house and a yard, or take the kids away so he could rest.

Control and compliance, perfection and adaptability. These I had learned from a very young age in our military family with order and rules that mixed with the chaos and unpredictability of alcoholic parents. One minute they’re strict and barking orders for chores, next they’re fun and laughing, and then they’re driving your friend home and skidding off the pavement of a dark Virginia countryside road, beer in hand, insisting that they’re fine. I learned well to keep secrets and show only success.

None of these clubs were ones I wanted to join, but this is the reality of what I live with… I was in an abusive relationship with a man who threatened, stalked, and terrorized me for years. I was diagnosed with breast cancer in the midst of the multi-year divorce proceedings, and had a near-death experience during chemotherapy treatments. I chose to come back to the broken body and life, and went into hiding and relocated thousands of miles from home to find refuge and a safe place to recover. Then a couple years later, I was sandwiched in a multi-car accident and sidelined with a traumatic brain injury, losing my job and ability to navigate the world.

Mental Health

And that’s what gets us to the mental health aspect. I am frozen here… writing and rewriting what I am terrified to share, lest someone misunderstand, misconstrue, or misrepresent what I can’t explain in one post, but hope to get to over time. Bear with me. A few friends know and they’ve shouldered this knowledge along with a team of therapists — pretty much every day I struggle to exist.

I love. I laugh. I am social and enjoy my life. I am grateful for my daughters, my family and friends, and even strangers I meet and connect with in the most random and exciting ways. I believe life is awesome and I am in awe of the beauty in this world.

And. And… I am overwhelmed by the world. I participate when I can and take care of myself when I can’t. For the first time, I am also truly learning the meaning of self-love, of the need to be good to myself, patient, and forgiving. Unlearning the life of performing, achieving, and being a runner in someone else’s race. My body, mind, and soul are still processing the last 40 years of life experiences. The last ten years meshed into a cumulative effect that crushed me to a full stop. I lived a lie for so long, the lie that I was OK when I was not, the lie that I could handle anything that came my way, the lie that if I just did more I could be better. But I finally broke. Not once, or even twice, but three times.

I hear you universe! I am still here, trying. Just this week I posted a new profile photo on Facebook. The comments included, “You look amazing, happy, and beautiful” and got more than a hundred likes. I want to say yes, I’m sometimes those things AND I am also these other things — depressed, overwhelmed, not functional. That image was from a few minutes of good in a day where overall I was completely not OK; where every movement and sound of being in a big public place was jarring and had me jumping inside my skin, where my visual and auditory systems were on overload, where I had moments of fear and anger and confusion. I wanted to go to a dark, quiet place and cry. Of course I share the smile and the happy quip.

PTSD

Every day, most of my energy goes into the coping mechanisms I have for handling PTSD. The best medicine is being in nature and movement. I need quiet places with few people, breathing in fresh air and absorbing the sounds of the wind and birds. Some days I can’t do anything but walk, so I find a trail and walk until I feel better. I bring my camera and take pictures of details in the world around me. I notice the beauty. I take deep breaths. I feel the muscles in my body respond to my brain focusing on movement.

I’ve figured out that two miles into a hike or walk is the changing point. The depression and anxiety and fear lift out of my cells. I begin to feel capable as my head clears and I’m able to organize my thoughts. At that point, I have pushed through the fog in my system and feel reintegrated into my body.

The downside after getting to the good place is that I’m also usually too fatigued to do much else, even struggling to figure out how to make a meal. A normal thirty minute meal prep can take me two hours. It can be a slog to get through a day and start again.

I feel tremendous shame in not being capable, performing or functional as I once was. Those years of achievement included living my lie of survival, but success and faking it paid. I could work and pay my bills and enjoy simple luxuries like taking the girls shopping for new clothes or going out to eat. You have no idea the financial devastation of any of these experiences unless you, too, have been through it. I shouldn’t have to explain this, but I will because I know the judgmental comments and questions that have and will come.

Financial Breakdown

I had some of the best health insurance and still spent more than $100k out of pocket during cancer treatments. (Stats show 66.5 percent of all bankruptcies are tied to medical issues and many people never get back to their former income levels, even if they can work full time. )

My court cases and legal fees in the domestic abuse situation over five years, including our escape and relocation for safety, cost more than six figures, not including lost wages. (This Forbes article shows a $3.6 trillion cost of domestic violence in the U.S.)

Then came the car accident. After losing my job (while out on medical leave FMLA from the brain injury and a broken leg), I went through my savings and most of what remained of my retirement, borrowed money, and let charges roll onto credit cards.

I kept thinking, I’m OK, I’ll be better and back to normal soon. But it didn’t get better. I completely failed at a job and was fired for nonperformance at a local nonprofit. I tried to launch a new business with brilliant colleagues and weeks before going live, I had to quit because the stress of trying to read and understand simple communications pushed me further into a freezing depression. I took another break to take care of myself and got well enough to realize how much further I have to go.

We have been on social services assistance for more than a year. A couple dear friends hired me for part-time work this summer — a few hours a week in an art gallery and another job leading weekend hikes. I loved it! But I’d be in bed nearly an entire day to recover after my time at each of these jobs. The luxuries in my life (including my photo trips) are covered by the amazing, generous people I’m with for those events. Therapists and some medical providers have donated their services so I can continue on a healing path. My daughters, who are teens, work and go to school and cover their expenses and contribute to the household. We have a friend renting space in our home.

My daughters and I are absolutely loved and grateful to have this home, a beautiful community, and kindness enveloping us. Here’s the thing all this backstory gets to… over the years, people would say, “Let me know how I can help.” And I’d be vague and respond, “anything will help.” I admired those who could state their ask and without shame put it out there. I showed up to help them when I could because they made it easy for me — a ride, a gift card, a meal. Yay for community, right!

Your Support

In this month of domestic violence, breast cancer, and mental health awareness campaigns, I share with you part of my story with the hope that you’d like to read more. Don’t pity me or try to fix me. I am one of millions who are doing our best to survive and thrive under challenging circumstances.

I do want your support! Your help, your assistance, your investment in me and this mission of doing the work that I can do and am passionate about — photography and writing. I have twenty years experience as a professional writer and journalist, I have shown and sold my art for nearly ten years, and I have written a book.

This is what I love — storytelling, sharing, connecting with a community of readers. This is the work I am capable of doing with my current abilities. And now I’m ready to share my experiences: love stories, survivor stories, and healing stories.

Here’s how you can help:

Subscribe and read the posts as I continue writing more of this story, publishing it here on FierceHorizons.com and on Instagram @Fierce_Horizons.
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Share this story and help me meet readers. I get dozens of calls a year from people who are trying to escape abuse or who have a new cancer diagnosis. The things we talk about, I’ll write about here.

If it pleases you to support the arts, please do. If it pleases you to support a fellow human who is working her hardest to exist and thrive and contribute to the good and healing of this world, please do. If not me, give to another friend or local nonprofit in your community that actually gives resources to survivors and helps them with day-to-day needs.

You’ve asked me to let you know how you can help. Right now this project — writing the survival, hope, and love stories — needs financial support. I’ll delve into the near-death-experience and returning to my broken body to honor a commitment I made when facing the end of my life. The “shop” and “support” links on this site are what will help me build this creative business most by sustaining the work and sharing it with others. Thank you for offering. Thank you for being.

With love and gratitude, T