Love Yourself Anyway

He's still in my head. In my head, in my head, zombie zombie zombie. I could pretend that he's a zombie, and that I'm Michonne from The Walking Dead. Or, I could take some sagely wisdom from my favorite human and pretend it was only an evil sea witch who stole my voice. 

Or, more likely, I'll just have to face this like a grown-ass adult.

I skimmed an article today about a Dutch girl with PTSD that was so bad that she chose, her doctors thought it best, to be euthanized. That's horrifying to me, but mostly because I can pinpoint moments in my life during which I was almost, almost in that same place. Thankfully I'm not there now, but good God. It's the worst. It's constant. It doesn't go away. He's in my head.

Listen, I know that you are all probably pretty sick of me eventually coming around to how much PTSD sucks in every single post for the past several years. But let this be a testament to its resilience and its choke hold on my fragile existence: this does not go away. Left untreated, or maybe even after years of trying everything, I could die with it.

But all things considered, I'm kind of okay. My psychiatrist kept asking me about revenge; like whether or not I wanted revenge or if revenge was on my mind...it isn't. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly what she was asking me; perhaps it was to establish that I am in fact not homicidal, or rather to help me make a list of things that, in a perfect world, would make me feel better. Either way, I'm not at all concerned with revenge. I think that at the end of the day, there is probably enough poetic justice in the universe for things to smooth themselves out naturally. And even so, because the phrase "statute of limitations" is so real, revenge is especially not on my mind. And furthermore, I'd like to momentarily get a little preachy and note that forgiveness is even more real and more freeing. But, even with all of that soul-searching and self-soothing and spiritual revelation, I'm still flighty. Might as well say it; after all, my doctor has been trying to figure out what I'm running from: I'm trying to get away from him. Permanently. For real, this time.

I'm a giant cliche and I know it. I thought I'd go off to Alaska and figure out my life (insert peace sign emoji here) and in some aspects, I have. I've learned a few things about myself, mostly an awareness that I have been holding this sickly feeling in my tummy that stems from feeling like I've betrayed myself in some awful manner. I am endlessly conflicted about my (in)ability to find a meaningful romantic relationship without feeling like I'm, well, somehow raping myself. I am scared. And my heart is torn in two.

Yours probably is, too, so don't pretend like I'm all alone in this.

I feel like I've missed so many opportunities, but I'm smack-dab in the middle of one. My head and heart are always two steps apart, and I wonder if I've become, actually become, as flighty as I seem. Things are actually coming together in my life, for the record, but I'm still afraid that I haven't grown enough; meanwhile, I've done more in the past year than most people squeeze into a lifetime. I've been killing it with the resources that I have, and I'm thankful for that. Proud, even.

But the fact remains: I can't have it all. I haven't figured out how to be un-damaged. I most likely won't; not today, anyway. And even if I find somebody who loves the survivor in me, loves the gypsy in me, loves all of me...will I be able to choose him over this fortress I've built for myself? Rather, will I be able to partner my queendom with his kingdom and do a full renovation, love it or list it, of our castle? 

Part of me is afraid that I'll be running for the rest of my life, for adventure or from trauma. But another very small, hopeful seedling inside of me expects to be reflecting in ten years time, thirty-five and a different person, gently laughing at this prose. Maybe totally in love with somebody, hopefully totally in love with myself.

Dots All Over, Pt. 2

I've been good, I've kept my head down, my eyes low. I've stuck around. I've only been way out of town for 29 days so far this year, and there have been more than 100 days. 

On the bright side, some wishes are coming true: I was 5, and I wanted to be a garbage man when I grew up.

This is pretty much the same deal.

I hardly recognize myself, going through the motions, spending my free time stalking error airfares and standing, open armed, in the crossfires of airline fare wars, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. I am closed for business and looking to downsize. Pieces of my brain fall apart. 

I'm 25, so biologically I'm dying now. My broken brain has done its developing, and it is now free to finish its disintegration. 

I've disbanded all attempts to calm myself down; I'm in my hometown, I know where my perpetrator is. He might know where I am, might remember who I am, I do not know, I will not attempt to find out. I saw him twice this week, twice, for the first time in years, years, years, years. Yesterday I learned that he works at the place where I get my medicine; medicine that is required, in part, because of him. And now I am backwards. All of my attempts to work, run, claw my way out of here have imploded and brought me back, straight to him. It is true that we are never safe, this is never over.

My visceral reactions are standard and they are not getting better, but at least I'm thankful that they are invisible. The invisibility is two-fold. On one hand, folks on the outside usually won't see me panicking on the inside, for which I'm thankful. On the other hand, my visibility is low, literally, because I dissolve into a dizzy cloud of black dots and things are swirly and hallways expand and contract and solid things start to wave at me like the ocean. I am all flight. I am the pilot of this flight, low visibility, I take off anyway.

I'll see my psychiatrist on Tuesday. I'll likely tell her that the medicine I've been taking is fine yet insufficient; okay for everyday bipolar, but not okay for this. The impulse is too much. My brain is broken; not fundamentally, but irreparably. And I am turning out less, disappointingly less, than the sum of my parts.

Average Speed = 15 mph
Change in Time = 11.5 yrs = 100740 hrs

Distance = Speed * Time = (15 mph)*(100740 hrs) = 1.5 million miles

But inside, I am back to square one. And I feel as sick as I am.

Displacement = 0.

Zero.

Laughing and Listening and Not Being a Dick

Turns out, I can't laugh about Bob Jones University anymore.

They were cute at the Meeting of Astronomers in South Carolina that we all attended at USC that year. I looked at them like I look at...middle school students from a wealthy community. How adorable, in their little suits. How neat their little presentations were, even though it was clear that their advisers neither taught them how to make a presentation, nor taught them about the subject matter or its beautiful intricacies; complexities that mirror the brilliance of the Creator they so admire. 

Since their fundamentalist beliefs prevent them from accepting that the universe is larger than our own galaxy group, they are constrained to studying eclipsing binary star systems. Brilliant research projects, but absolutely no potential from where they sit. No room for growth. No ability to answer even the simplest questions on extrapolating their studies for application. These young men do exactly what they're told, and they're told to talk about light curves and then to glare at us when we make the blasphemous suggestion that the universe is probably close to celebrating its fourteen billionth birthday. 

But while coming dangerously close to being scientifically useless, there is no inherent evil in studying eclipsing binaries and eclipsing binaries alone. Reason says, in fact, that they should be the leading experts on eclipsing binaries, but I don't have any data to either confirm or deny that, and it's neither here nor there. The point is, if your beliefs are hinged on a speculation so obviously false that the mere suggestion that it may be false results in a total shutdown of coherent thought or collaborative energy, that's okay with me. In theory, BJU is filled with (more or less) grown-ass adults, and they are entitled to their grown-ass beliefs without any friction from my end. It's fine that a subset of the well-groomed young Southern Christian population can't conceive of a Universe as large as ours (which, to me, tells me that they can't conceive of a God as large as ours, but I'll shut up) and it has no bearing on my research, or my life. It's fine. I'll respect your presentation, ask relevant questions, act satisfied with your unsatisfactory responses, and giggle like a schoolgirl with my colleagues later over beers. It really is that simple.

Or, it was.

Up until now, I've done a pretty good job of laughing things off. Not really, but we can pretend. I don't devote my energy to convincing people that one theory is probably more likely or more supported than another. If you can't see the evidence yourself, then you can't be convinced. My most heated arguments mostly consist of me passionately explaining my side of things, listening to the other side, and generally, deciding that neither of us is wrong. I pay very little attention to groups that are radically ridiculous, even if I am a member of their targeted community. Traumatic stress is fun in the way that I feel unsafe in normal situations, and completely safe in perilous ones. It's my joy to carry it around with me, my greatest fucking joy.

But if there's one thing that I really can't handle right now, it's Bob Jones University. Not because of its unscientific scientific process, but because it's currently the cherry on top of the way I've felt this week. Just...like...a bad PTSD week, really. And then BJU comes out with some bullshit and I just can't deal with the fact that people like this still exist, people who believe that they are champions of love but are really poisonous harbingers of actual evil.

A lot of schools, my alma mater included, have been under investigation for the ways by which they (don't) handle sexual assault cases. Progress, y'all. But this one just pretty much makes me want to join in chorus with the rest of the survivors at BJU, throw in the towel, throw my hands up, and set everything on fire because this is hopeless. Instead of taking a more Christ-like approach to life, they seem to be taking a holier-than-though, wrath-of-God approach to handling struggles of, I don't know, the typical student that attends BJU. If you really want to, you can read more about this here, but I'll sum up.

Instead of hiring licensed trauma therapists to take care of the survivors' needs, they seem to be using any literate higher-up who can take the bible and twist its words and its spirit into sessions full of victim-blaming blasphemy. Instead of focusing on protecting students, they're expelling and shaming students who come forward with symptoms of trauma. Instead of focusing on sins against their sanctified bodies, they're focusing on sins committed (?????) by their "impure" bodies. 

And, just like that, and just like BJU as a whole, I'm thrown back a decade (at least) into the past. Because I resonate with this so strongly. The fault must lie with me. God is punishing me for my sins. I deserved this. This was meant to be a wake up call for my life. I must've been too stubborn. If I don't listen, God will use his wrath to make me listen. These are the things that are being told to survivors by the counselors at BJU. And they are being told as gospel truths, grace and healing be damned. 

Thankfully, I've grown into a human with a brain that is slightly less self-deprecating. But at the time, these were some very real thoughts and enormous fears floating around in my adolescent mind. Any rational beating heart can recognize the faults in these ridiculous accusations, but when a survivor already feels violated and already feels disgusting and already feels guilty, these are easy lies to believe. And to have your university refuse to advocate for you, and even worse, to have your university tell you that you are not welcome in an environment that is supposed to foster learning and growth...well, it's a little too much. 

At some point, it would be pretty rad if these things stopped happening. But as per my reflections this past week, they won't. Even if they did, it changes nothing in my past or ours. The brilliant Cheryl Strayed spoke about how the things I resolve in my twenties will have to be resolved again, and again, and again, in my thirties and forties and fifties and until-I'm-dead-ties. It's not a joyful life sentence (that was indeed sarcasm above) but it is not a doomed life. As far as I know, there is not a man, woman, or child alive who has not been impacted by violence in some capacity. Instead of overwhelming me, I'm learning to humanize my trauma. Not normalize it or make it okay or acceptable or deserving, but simply humanize it. It is part of the human experience. It has made me stronger. It has made me better. It has made all of us better, despite the woefully blind "leaders" at BJU and the toxic environment there.

Toxic not just for scientific stagnation, but for crimes against the human spirit. At best, it's additional unacceptable behavior aimed at individuals who have already survived violent instances of unacceptable behavior. In simplest terms: not cool. 

So, BJU, you are not a laughing matter. I get it, and I take you very seriously. But remember: as you short-change your Creator during your scientific presentations, you are also breaking His heart when you disregard, dismiss, and publicly shame His children. That isn't something about which I can laugh over beers with colleagues. Perhaps it's time to realize that the entity you worship has not abandoned these survivors, and despite your blatant terribleness, He hasn't abandoned you, either.

In my experience, God is pretty good at helping people not be dicks, if only we listen. 

Listen, and don't be a dick, BJU. Don't be a dick. 

Relationship Status: Meds

I'd like to say that it's only those who are closest to me, but really it's anyone within earshot of my recent tantrums and rants who knows how I've been adjusting to my meds. 

Passionately. Irrationally. Dizzily. Angrily. 

But right now, I'm also adjusting to being at home, and finally having my very own door to shut. 

Living in my car in Davis, it was a rare occasion to find myself in a space where I was not on public display. If I needed a moment alone, I had to do some serious planning in advance. And moments alone usually can't be planned in advance; especially those that are needed the most. My car was my own space, but there were too many windows. More than likely, several people had the privilege of witnessing one or more of my biweekly tearful meltdowns. Starbucks was always buzzing, and I was an obvious regular to fellow customers and baristas alike. I could escape into a bathroom stall at the park, but it wouldn't be long before somebody came in. I was alone in the shower room at the gym, but California is in the middle of a drought and I couldn't run the water forever. I was excruciatingly lonely a lot of the time, but I was never alone. I could go an entire day without speaking to more than two people, but I was surrounded. All the time. And I remember, specifically, wishing that I had my very own door...just so that I could shut it.

Digression: I think I've gotten comfortable with being a "good writer," so much so that I don't even think about what I'm writing anymore. Right now, for instance, I've hit my second wind after my afternoon slump; I have creative energy but not a clue what to do with it, the results of which are this substandard writing, and the fact that none of this prose makes any goddamn sense. No flow. No outline. No roadmap. No sense.

So basically, it's a metaphor for my life as we are, as I am. I was recently asked if I'm sick of relaying the same exact stories (fun an adventurous as they are) to so many different people after traveling for six solid months. And yeah, I am. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of talking. I'm tired. And for whatever reason, I fluctuate heavily between wanting to spend time with everyone my heart has missed so much, and shutting myself inside of my own precious space because a) I haven't had my own precious space in ages, and b) everyone is on my damn nerves. 

Irrationally, of course. But on my nerves, nevertheless.

Be advised: the following statements have nothing to do with my emotional personal growth, my heart, how much I love everyone I spent time with last year, or how much I enjoyed what I did.

Everything is a mess. I had no idea that I was so terrible at making decisions; rather, I had no idea I was so terrible at discerning whether or not a person is lying to my face, whether or not I'm boarding a sinking ship, whether or not I can afford to do what I love to do. But the truth of the matter is, none of the things that I've done for a paycheck in 2015 were the least bit sustainable. In fact, I seem to be magnetically attracted to unsustainable, barely surviving establishments with zero funding and millennial enthusiasm, from tiny nonprofits to branches of the US Government. It makes sense; that's how I live my life. Zero funding. Millennial enthusiasm. 

In my own defense, I started from absolutely nothing and I worked very hard to earn my keep, and my six months of adventurous travel. And really, my priority at that time was to have something to fill my schedule so that I didn't kill myself. In that sense, mission accomplished. But now, in a bitter attempt to avoid being taken advantage of, I can't resign to working on anyone's terms but my own. Not until I go back to school, anyway.

I just got a call from Dakota, and boy, what great timing! She's dealing with the bureaucratic nonsense that (unfortunately) is the NPS, and it's a cycle that I just can't afford to ride anymore. It's not because my supervisory rangers don't want to take care of me. It's not because I won't advocate for myself. It is because my supervisory rangers can't take care of me, and because I'm in no position to advocate for myself. And for the past few years, I made enormous sacrifices to provide the best damn astronomy program I could come up with, and decided that it had been worth it. But when the financial burden becomes too large and there simply isn't enough money to survive above the poverty line, that's what clouds my thoughts instead of the ways by which I could improve upon the program. That's what I'm thinking about, that's what I'm stressing about, and I have no patience for visitors when my supposed "brilliant mind" is trying to figure out how to ask for more money, where I'm going from there, what I can possibly do to keep my heart and my wandering feet in public lands without going into financial red.

With two degrees in physics, I'm a trained problem solver. But I can't solve this problem.

So, save for a few trips here and there so that I don't lose my mind, I'm staying put for a while.

It wasn't the plan. A career-halting nervous breakdown was not going to happen, and continuing to be in recovery a year later was not in the cards. But now, I have a shot at a reset. 

And now, I have my own door to shut.