The Decision To Feel After A Lifetime Of Disassociation

I woke up from another nightmare this morning. Before the alarm clock. Just close enough for me to not be able to fall back asleep, not that I'd want to, for fear of seeing this night's "bad guy" waiting behind my eyelids. 

I'm exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that comes from spinning your emotional wheels and re-experiencing trauma after trauma until you wake up to shaking hands and a racing heart. The kind where naps aren't even comforting any more because day-mares are now a thing.  But just like every night I lay my head down, I take that gamble because I have no choice. 

The decision to feel after a lifetime of disassociation. I made it myself. I did it for a beautiful reason but it doesn't take from the absolute agony I feel every day. Sometimes I talk about it, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I fall asleep after being on the phone and crying to the point where I scream but make no sound so the person on the other end doesn't know. Sometimes I wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Sometimes my alarm goes off and I do scream...into my pillow, and cry, hands shaking and heart racing. 

Applying eyeliner in the morning with tears in your eyes is impossible and yet I do it more often than not. I have to because my face must be brave when I wake up the 9 year old girl who sleeps across the hall, unaware of what her mom is going through behind her own door. I have to smile and pretend I'm listening when she tells me things about books and friends and school and the charge on her computer. I have to turn my head when a rogue tear escapes, overflow from what's waiting when I come back inside after putting her on the bus. 

I want to crawl out of my skin and cry and scream. I want to be hugged but I don't want to be touched. I want to curl up on my couch under a soft blanket and stay there until I feel safe again. I want my cat to sleep on me like she used to, purring and sharing each other's warmth. I miss her. I miss Nancy. And frankly, I miss who I could have been if none of this ever happened and my brain wasn't riddled with PTSD & triggers. I would love nothing more than to stop this day-to-day horror show funhouse I feel like I'm walking through. 

The decision to feel after a lifetime of disassociation. I made it myself. And I have to stand by it now. So I sit down at the dining room table, I finish my coffee through what I hope is the end of the tears for now, wrap up this bit of writing and get on to work. I'll listen to an audiobook or some music I love as I get through this day. I'll try to refocus, reframe and readjust. And if the tears come again, unlike steeling myself and stifling them as I used to do in the past, I'll let them flow, dry my face and keep going. I will get through this. I won't give up. 

As always, 

Love Light & Blessings

~Sarah Gallardo

Valentines Day 2017

Valentines Day 2017

To be soft.

In a world that is hard.

In a world that will shake you to your core and leave you a shell of a person, in tatters.

For someone who has survived severe trauma this sounds like an impossible task. It feels like exposing every major artery after almost bleeding out, once before. I never fully understood the gravity of this, the sheer ridiculous faith one must have in order to wholeheartedly try at love again, until now.

But before I continue, let me clarify the use of the word "soft". I don't mean "to be weak". For so long that's what I thought it meant. I believed I needed to be hard to keep myself safe. This is a trap. If we all went through life with our shields up, how would we ever really see or get close to one another? By "soft" I mean open, trusting, vulnerable. I mean not to fight for a "safe distance" in a relationship while simultaneously wanting to feel close to someone. It's like a porcupine. Sure, they've got a back side full of needles, but their tummies are so soft and warm. There is no feat of bravery in showing your quills. Courage is rolling over and showing your soft side to the one you love.

And so I have taken the leap and tried at love again. Truth be told, at first I was waiting for disaster, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for yet another disappointment. My life experiences trained me to expect this. After leaving my abusive ex husband, I had had other tries before. They ended in heartbreak, like the slow removal of a bandaid that never had the chance to heal anything at all. In fact, I learned more about what I don't want from a partner than what I do want. What I didn't realize at the time but I do now, is that I wasn't showing up in those relationships 100%. It didn't matter what the other person did or didn't do (not to dismiss their bad behavior), I wasn't being my authentic self. I didn't even know who that was. I had become so attached to my armor that I became it. I was a "take me or leave me" girl, and I set it up so that I'd be unfazed if they left. That is not love for anyone involved.

Now I realize the importance of give and take, compromise, communication, trust, honesty and vulnerability. I have taken the leap. I showed my soft side to the most amazing man I've ever met. This after four years of attending a weekly domestic violence support group, becoming a trained counselor and still going to one on one therapy every week, to this day. So yes, I put in the work to learn about choosing to surround myself with healthier people. I'll always still be learning. But I know this, I have a wonderful friend and partner by my side. He taught me what it feels like to truly be loved. He's my person. He's someone I can learn with, grow with and tell the truth to without being judged. And the most beautiful feeling of all; I can trust him with my soft side knowing he'd never intentionally hurt me. It's not easy. We make mistakes, we fumble, we flounder at times. It takes work. We're not perfect and we both know it. But I think we've grown to love that about each other, and in the process I think we've grown to love that about ourselves.

There is no such thing as fantastic reward without fantastic effort and fantastic faith. To me, the most real, down to earth, splendidly simple kind of love that I have found is the most fantastic reward of all. 

As always, thanks for reading!

Love, Light & Blessings

~Sarah Gallardo

To S.B. 

You Are Enough

There I was, at a dinner like any other. Something we had done so many times before. Sitting in a daze of the phrase, "You are enough".

Maybe it was the way that he held my hands and looked into my eyes when he said it. Maybe it was the fact that I know he never minces words, that he means what he says in serious conversations always. Maybe it was the fact that I so desperately needed to hear it, and more so believe it. Whatever the reason, there it was. Said. Out of his mouth and lingering in the air between us, waiting for me to pluck it from its orbit and soak it into my soul. But no part of me wanted to do that. Walls, barriers, barricades, crocodile motes, pitchforks, fire and brimstone... All the training throughout my life began to kick in. "You have to do more. Be more. Give more. You have to prove yourself." And all the lessons people had taught me about love. “I'll give you this if you give me that. Sacrifice yourself for no return. I will love you if you give me... (Oh my God is this really what I think?)... I will love you if you...”

I had to stop. In that moment I had to put my head in my hands and hold onto it for fear that it might explode, rustling my long straight hair as if to close the curtain around my face so I had something to hide behind. There was really no point. I know the look on my face gave me away. But as hard as I tried to avert his gaze, I couldn't. He held me there and refused to let me go, making me hear it, making me see myself the way he did. There were a few times I could recall being trapped in his eyes before and seeing, really seeing each other. But never like this.

He had asked me how I was feeling. Something we agreed to check in with one another about more often. I talked about how I've been struggling lately. A particular event that happened in my personal life recently, was affecting me so much more than I wanted people to know about. So much more than I wanted to know about. He was there when it happened, a reminder of horrible things from my childhood, and he's been there ever since. No judgment, just understanding. Only, I've been there too. Judging myself the whole time. Holding myself accountable for offenses that had been done to me in a time when I was powerless to stop them. Telling myself I should be stronger. I should be better. I should be over this by now.

I'm not.

And I can't pretend to be anymore. That masquerade does me no good. It wasn't my fault. I didn't do this to me but, I can't forgive myself. Yet…

But here's the good news... I'm not alone. I haven't always chosen the best people to surround myself with but I think I've got it right this time. They love me. They want to protect me. They forgive me when I can't. And my dinner date, the one whose eyes can hold me in a moment and calm me in a panic. The one who has stood up to protect me when I couldn't do it myself. The one who held onto me when I let go of myself. Well, he's enough too. He's more than enough. We both are.

A Letter To The Man Who Molested Me:

Part of me wants to write so I can spill this out of me and leave it. Almost like I can remove it from myself as I type these words. Part of me doesn't want to write at all, but curl up in a ball on my couch in a comfy hoodie, covered in a blanket and watch Pixar movies while eating ice cream all day. As you can see, I chose to write.

A letter to the man who molested me:

Hi. You know me. You've known me for years. I remember you always holding a beer, working on cars in our yard, when I was growing up. I remember that you used to get shaky and need another drink. I remember you being rude and upsetting my mother. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for you to get out of our house one summer day. I herded you out like Amalthea in The Last Unicorn when she forces The Red Bull back into the ocean. All of maybe 9 years of me. I was small but big at the same time. I got in trouble for that.

I remember being upstairs in my bedroom, with a curtain for a door, which was kitty corner to the bathroom. I was 13, home alone and just about to fall asleep. Our front door was always unlocked. My father prided himself on the fact that his friends and family could stop by and feel like our house was theirs too. You did feel that way, didn't you? You came to our house to use the bathroom. You had drank too much. Then again, you always did. The distance from the bar to your house must have been too far, even though our house was the other way. Did you know my dad wasn't home? I know why you didn't just pee on a bush in our yard like you used to do if all the guys were there.

I remember hearing the door open and close downstairs. At first I thought it was my dad, having come home. It wasn't. I remember seeing your profile through the curtain in my doorway and pretending to be asleep. I thought that if I play dead, like a possum, you might just go away. You didn't. I could smell alcohol...so strong, like you had bathed in it. Stale and sweaty. My spit spattered face wetter with the tears that were sliding down my cheeks, escaping from the corners of my closed eyes. I remember wishing that I no longer existed. Feeling that I was disgusting and that I couldn't ever tell anybody or they'd think I was disgusting too. I felt like a leper. Broken, wasted, used and discarded.

I have never been the same.

I was blamed for my depression. I was told that my panic attacks were me being dramatic and to walk it off. I was blamed for the behavioral results of the pain I went through. And I blamed myself too. Hard. Hated myself, in fact. I cut myself, burned myself...I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything. My wounds could not be touched because they were so deep. They threw pills at me like I was a guinea pig. I lost years of my life to "finding my right combination of medications". My fault. My depression. My fault. My fault...

I worked at getting better. Through severe abuse, through rape, through suicide attempts that I wished were successful but weren't. My struggle to live, to heal, was like trying to run through quicksand, with a couch strapped to my back, and no desire to do it.

I am still here.

And you know what? I'm better than anyone ever thought I could be. Including myself. I help people. I show others what it is to be strong by doing it every single day. I take responsibility for my life no matter how hard it is. Because at the end of the day this life is mine, and how far I go in it is up to me.

You, my ex husband, my dysfunctional childhood...are the couch I tried to carry for so long. My fault...my burden. No. I've cut the straps and let it all fall off. It does me no good, so I let it go. I let you go. And I don't need you to admit it, or anyone else to believe me in order to feel validated. I know the truth. And I know it's not my fault. It never was.

What you took from me is gone. I'll never get it back. But that's ok. Look how far I've come without it! And look how all these years later you are in the exact same place. I don't hate you. You don't deserve that from me. You are sick and you always will be. But me? I am strong. I am stronger than you. You don't matter.

Don't Walk...

Yesterday, as I was driving into Middletown on Rt. 9 S, I saw a gaggle of geese in the process of waddling their way across three lanes of highway. They were trying to cross from the right, over to the median on the left. I can only assume that they were going to traverse the lanes going north, to get to the lake on the other side.

As does happen on highways, people were driving 65 to 70 miles an hour. We had to round the bend in the road, so nobody could see the geese until they were very close. I remember being in Drivers Ed class and being told that if it's possible you could cause an accident by avoiding an animal in the road that you should continue moving forward, hence running over the animal. That rule never set well with me. I understood why they would teach us that but I wasn't happy about it. And to be honest, I haven't followed that rule, always risking an accident over blatantly killing something with my car. (There's a story about a turtle, but I won't get into it now)

On this particular evening I happened to be driving in the left lane. The geese hadn't gotten close enough to where I was driving yet. I remember fighting the urge to pull my car over and guide them across the highway like a vigilante, donning my invisible traffic director's vest and getting them across safely. I thought twice, however, as I'm sure I would be risking certain death. I continued moving forward with a horrified look on my face as I saw the cars breeze past. At that point I became very angry with the drivers who seemed not to care about the well-being of these beautiful creatures. As I motored on down the highway, however, my perspective shifted. It occurred to me that geese can fly. I then became annoyed with the geese. "Hello! Guys. You have wings. Kinda ballsy to just saunter across the highway like that, don'tcha think?"

I know that geese are very loyal birds who travel in a tight-knit circle. It's possible that one of them was wounded or that there were babies. I began to create a back story as to why they had chosen to walk and not fly. Their leader's wife, the matriarch, had taken ill. The gaggle put her in the middle of the circle and escorted her across the highway, knowing exactly what they were risking. It was an act of sacrifice, love and bravery.

Whether that is true or not, isn't quite the point. I'm not sure if anyone involved in that situation was happy about their choices and the outcome. But I did come up with a moral to this story, so here it is…

If you can, if it is within your capacity, if you are equipped, ready, willing and able. If you are presented with the choice, please don't think twice.

FLY!

As always, thanks for reading! 

Love, Light & Blessings

~Sarah Gallardo