A Heart That is Open

I slowly vibrate with a feeling of anxiety as my eyes involuntarily pop open. I don’t even need to grab my phone to tell me it is in the neighborhood of 4:00 am. Every night without exception, I am forced awake with the feeling of dread that a terrible thing is about to happen. No amount of CBDs or chamomile teas or Buspar are going to convince my overactive mind that everything is going to be okay. It is not. Or so my body believes. I stick my head under the faucet in a kitchen filled with moonlight to get a drink of cool water. The words are stuck inside my throat. I cannot talk about how I am feeling. I am ruminating without my conscious mind. I have no idea how to turn off the snake brain, the brain that is screaming DANGER while I drift off under the fluffy white comforter of my dreams. 

When the shelter in place is over, when I can finally give people hugs again. I want to embrace people I don’t even like. There is no amount of self reflection that can convince me this time in my life is anything but emotionally draining. Yet, I hope I can emerge a slightly better version of myself. The truth is, my life has needed a hard reset for just short of a decade. It started with the death of both my parents in 2009. I can only assume it ends when I finally exit this world. I just don’t want to go gasping for air. 

The “pink cloud” or “attitude of gratitude” or whatever people chose to call recovery slow slipped away when I had a miscarriage eight years into my life without the daily use of drugs. Until that point, I had maintained a fairly charmed existence where I was blissfully ignorant to how painful it can be to feel the full range of feelings that comes with sobriety. Those feelings were amplified when my mother died suddenly from cancer. She was ten days away from visiting me and the kids in my new house. These paired events combined with a healthy dose of postpartum depression made me question why love existed, was God real, and what does it mean to get your life together when the end result is dull emotional agony. I couldn’t completely lose my shit at that time. I had a four month old and an almost two year old that depended on me to hold it together. The final wheel fell off the emotional wagon a few months ago. The compounded years of suppressing my emotions poured out as both panic attacks and waves of depression. 

I am not sure why I became unraveled. In a way, I am glad it happened. This was an opportunity to deeply clean out old wounds- to learn news ways to cope. The parallels between this time and that time are unmistakable. The illusion of control shattered by the disillusionment of life on life’s terms. 

 I am a fear based person. I have come to accept this fact. It began when I’d hide in the closet when my parents would argue. Is daddy going to leave again? Is he drunk? When will my parents stop fighting? Seeing my father go into violent rages when I was 5,6,7 years old created this sense that no place was safe, not even home. I didn’t have “anxiety” then. It was stomach aches, headaches- somatic responses to trauma. I liked to stay home from school, to be “sick” so I could be alone. I liked to wander off into my own thoughts. Having grown up with no one really to confide in, I realize that I’ve been struggling to connect with people on a basic human level. I want to hear what you have to say but when I am wounded, I don’t want you to see me. 

Drugs fit into this mindset like a hand inside a glove. Drugs create an internal fantasy world where there are no boundaries. Whatever the chemical reactions occur as a result of what I put inside of my body will dictate the moods of the day. I am driven by the unquenchable thirst, the insatiable desire to be anyone but my authentic self. Mostly because I have no idea who that person really is. I change to satisfy those around me. I move like the fog. I stick to structures but dissipate when you try to reach out to me. I slowly disappear or I envelope those around me with a cloudy vision of the substance of who I really am. 

My personality was forged in the daily struggle for survival. In the last chapter of my storied existence, I am working towards a measured amount of happiness. I caught myself looking at roses wondering who the fuck I really am. The warm fur of my dog against my bare leg makes me feel supported. A facetime call from my friend brought tears to my eyes. I am loved. I may not feel safe. I may never feel that way. I can, however, feel the love around me. If nothing else, the pandemic is reminding me to enjoy the little things and move through the world with a heart that is open.