After spending a weekend talking and laughing with people I’ve known since elementary school, I’ve been pondering how needs change.

Ten years ago I graduated from high school, desperate to leave my hometown behind. I needed to leave the places that reminded me of years of bullying, emotional breakdown, and the immense academic and athletic pressure I felt there. I wanted to go somewhere new and redefine myself completely. I didn’t want to be known as the valedictorian cross country runner anymore. I just wanted to be me.

The thing I didn’t realize at eighteen was that I have always been me. Moving several states away didn’t change the perfectionism that fueled my depression. It didn’t change the fact that eventually, I would have to confront the darker parts of myself and acknowledge that the things that damaged me in high school wouldn’t go away until I dealt with the emotions behind them.

And what I’m just now realizing is that there were people in high school that felt the same way I did. We were all just teenagers struggling to define ourselves and fit in whatever mis-shapen space we could find. And the biggest thing I realized this last weekend was that those dark feelings of high school aren’t actually connected with my peers, and they’re certainly not connected with my friends. In the stupidity of my teenage self, I left it all behind, and I’m only now realizing what I’ve been missing.

A few hours later…

I just spent the last twenty-three minutes sitting in my car with the garage door open not moving, just thinking about loss and grief and loneliness–not comfortable feelings. I’m feeling the loss of my community today, and it hurts so much.

As long as I stay busy, I don’t really have to think about it. I’ve gotten used to being alone here. But then I have moments like last weekend when I am with people I don’t have to hide from. People I can tell anyone to, who’ve known me since elementary school, who accept me entirely despite our differences in opinion–and coming home just sucks. I don’t want to be here, but I can’t really leave. I find myself checking e-mail and facebook every ten minutes, looking for some artificial connection that doesn’t really feed this deep-seated need to be with people.

And I feel trapped.

Damn that default feeling.

A few minutes ago while walking around downtown Seattle, I started having severe anxiety in my stomach, a cloak of panicked sadness billowing in around me and closing in fast. I’ve never been here before, and instead of enjoying the exhilaration of visiting a new place, I found myself feeling incredibly insecure and overwhelmed. I wanted to hunt down my friend at her work and make her hold my hand, never mind how embarrassed we’d both be later.

I’ve learned that whenever I feel this way, there’s usually some completely irrational reason for it, and it’s rarely obvious. Is it because I’m in a new place? No. Normally I like exploring new cities. Am I cold and hungry? Yes, but that’s not making me panic. Is it because I, the ultimate planner, didn’t make any plans? No, that doesn’t seem to be it, either.

After shuffling through my thoughts for a few minutes, I finally figured it out. The emotion I’m feeling is the same one I feel whenever I go back to my hometown. I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress. My culprit? The weather.

This dark overcast sky reminds me of Oregon, which though I love that place intellectually, it is a landmark to some very dark times of my life. And I’m realizing now (with much sadness), that Seattle may not be the best place for me. One of the biggest reasons I’m here is to find out if this is a place I’d want to live. I miss the Pacific Northwest. Miss the trees, the green, the crazy environmentalists who wear Birkenstocks with wool socks. I’ve been gone ten years, but a large part of who I am grew out of this place. And that part of me wants to return.

But walking around this morning, listening to my heart, I realize that this is probably not the place for me. I want it to be–desperately so. Culturally, Seattle’s gay-friendly, liberal environmentalism is right up my alley. I’m loving all the restaurants and farmers markets, would love to live in a walking community that’s close to so many interesting venues. But if I’ve learned one thing in the last year, it’s that my heart–my inner, higher self–knows what’s best for me. And being here away from the sunshine is not it.

Although I’m sad at this realization, I feel a weight off me. I don’t have to force this on myself. I can be at peace, absorbed with fascination at the cushion-like cubes on the Seattle Public Library ceiling (what’s up with those, anyway?) and the diamond-paned view. For now, this will have to fill my need for the Pacific Northwest. And maybe, while I’m here, I’ll just have to buy me some Birkenstocks.

Due to the influx of new people, I’ve decided I should probably write something….hmmmm.

My depression has been a beast lately–or maybe a tubeworm sitting in my brain eating away at the happiness. Yes, that’s more like it. And not only that, I can’t seem to stop eating Harry and David Blueberry Chocolates. People, they are amazing!

So with all the self-inflicted awkwardness of publishing things about my personal life, I’m thinking it’s time for me to write something about how I’ve been feeling lately.

This last year has been hard–really hard. I’ve disappointed my family, friends, and people I don’t even know. I’ve moved, and have yet to feel part of a new community. I’ve had to deal with the fact that I’m going to die at some unspecified place and time, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. And most impactfully, I’ve lost my God.

I know most religious people probably believe this was a choice. I would argue it was not. As someone on the Exmormon reddit forum described it, it was like finding out how a complicated magic trick is performed. Once you understand the trick, all the wonder of the magic is gone. And even if you want to, you can’t go back to not knowing. Your reality has forever been altered. And in that alteration, I lost my best friend.

And I can’t go back.

I don’t really expect anyone to understand, but I thought it needed to be said. Or rather, I needed to say it. I’m hurting, and other people like me are hurting. As human beings, I hope we can find a way to understand each other.

To all those linking in, welcome.

Let’s close with some lyrics of R.E.M.

Everybody hurts
Sometimes everybody cries
So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on

I’m going through a paper cleanse of my house. You know, the stuff that I’ve stashing away for over a decade and have now hauled to seven different locations. That stuff. That overwhelming stash of memories. I’m on the great purge. The Spanish Inquisition of my past. And my friends, I just hit a wall.

Raced through high school freshman year. Eradicated sophomore year. And now I’ve hit the big wham. Junior year. I was sitting on the ground with my head on top of the box wondering where my whirling energy disappeared to, and suddenly realized:

It’s in the box. I lost it in the weight of memories of my last two years of high school.

I just reread one of my all-time favorite books, The Hero and the Crown, by Robin McKinley, and it reminds me of the scene when the heroine Aerin opens up the treasure vault to find the head of the great dragon Maur, the monster that almost killed her. As soon as the door opens “a blast of grief…of unconsummated love, of love lost or twisted or grown to hate, of noble deeds that proved useless..all this struck them” and they fell to their knees. A little dramatic, but that’s what just happened to me as soon as I pulled out that little box detailing those last two years.

Whoosh! Bad feelings filled the room and made it difficult to breathe. Pretty insane, really.

Memories are powerful things. If we let them, they can consume us and take over our future. But they don’t have to. We can learn from them and heal ourselves.

Right now I’m thinking a lot of this stuff needs to be burned–purified and cleansed out of my life. I recycled most of the earlier stuff, but if I really want to let go, I need to burn it.

Honey, we’re going camping.

I was in therapy this morning, weeping over a story I’d just read to Janna about my feelings lately, when she made me stop. “Let’s stop looking at specifics here. Instead of talking about what happened, let’s focus on what it represents, on the abstract.”

For someone who hasn’t been to therapy, this might seem odd. Why wouldn’t we focus on the event I was describing? But I instantly knew what she was talking about. For me, the story represented something I couldn’t have. Of feeling trapped by circumstance. Of wanting so much that I couldn’t enjoy what I already had.

“I feel trapped,” I said.

“And are there any other times in your life that you’ve felt this way?” she asked.

Instantly my brain went back to when I was a suicidal teenager, trapped in a body that had forgotten to be happy. A body I wanted to be free from.

To when I was first pregnant, and I realized that I could never go back. That my life would never be my own again. To the fear that I might lose myself completely with this child inside me.

To when I was fourteen and first learned of polygamy. That if I wanted to get to heaven, I’d have to accept that my husband would marry lots of women besides me, even if I didn’t want him to.

Trapped. Trapped.Trapped. The examples kept coming, and I understood my life in a whole new way.

Some people are victims. I’m a tethered little girl. When I’m depressed, I feel chained by circumstance, by choice. My brain flickers around alternatives. If only I didn’t have kids, I could feel fulfilled. If only I hadn’t made those choices, I could be happy now.

It’s my default mode. Maren, you’re not happy because you’re trapped.

It was a lightbulb moment for me, sitting there on the couch this morning as my life flashed through vivid memories of feeling. It’s something I’ll be exploring in the next few weeks. What triggers that feeling? When did I first feel that way? Why do I feel that way in the first place?

We all have lenses that distort reality, themes that keep cropping up that limit our potential, our happiness. Mine is that of a prisoner. If you’re feeling like me, I’d encourage you to step back and look at things in the abstract. What is it that holds you back? What do you think about when you’re depressed?

Prisoners, set yourselves free.

I’m having one of those days where I don’t want to be anywhere. Don’t want to live here in Utah (been here almost ten years now). Okay, how about Seattle? Too crowded, too much money. How about somewhere cheaper? Raleigh. No, too far away. I keep wanting to go somewhere else, but really I just want to be happy right here, right now, inside myself. I want to feel settled and know that things are going to be okay.

Because nothing feels all right now.

Nothing is certain anymore.

My therapist says that’s what’s fun about life–it’s just one big adventure. But for me–not for me. I want control. I want to know that I will like wherever we move. I want to be sure we’ll be financially secure. I want want want want

Want.

I want to feel that deep peace, to know that I am enough. And to feel okay with not knowing anything.

I want confidence.

To like myself.

But when everything changes, our old world dies with it. We can never go back to our childhood home without realizing that nothing is the same, that we can never really go home again.

All we can do, all anyone can do is embrace the present. Embrace that in every moment we are whole, perfect, and complete. That nothing we do can change the perfection in ourselves, in each moment.

Life is a journey with ourselves. No matter where I go, until I feel comfortable inside, I will never be happy, never be satisfied. I will keep looking for something to make it better, when everything I need is right here inside.

Inside me.

This mind.

This Happy.

It’s been a bad couple of weeks for me. The excitement of moving to a new place has quickly been replaced by crying spells and dark periods of apathy. And the greatest thing about it is–and always is–that I can’t seem to do the things that would help me feel better.

1. Go for a run. Yeah right. I can barely keep myself fed.

2. Write. Considering my last post was five weeks ago, you see how well I’m doing on that.

3. Make new friends. Seriously? My vocal chords don’t even move for my family, let alone complete strangers.

And yet those are the things that will make me feel better right now.

I call this the vicious cycle of depression. It goes something like this:

If I run, my body will release endorphins that make me feel good. –> Just thinking about running makes me depressed, since I’m supposed to be training for the Boston Marathon and I haven’t run in weeks –>I know I’ll feel better if I just wake up and do it –>Depression sleep feels like no sleep at all, and I wake up exhausted.  I’m too tired to run, which means I’ll spend another day feeling like crap.

Repeat for 22 days.

= A recipe for disaster…

But I’m out now. I’ve broken free of the cycle. I stopped focusing on the overwhelming need to find new friends and instead focused on the first step, which was to get on meetup.com and look for mommy groups. That was a few days ago. Something about that tiny move forward made me feel motivated with the rest. I’ve finished my weekly writing goals in just three days and I ran five miles this morning. I even went to my first meetup yesterday. I suddenly feel like there’s hope for me to be happy here. But man, it’s hell getting here. It sucks more than I can say.

For those of you stuck in the cycle, I’m sorry. I know how it feels, and my heart goes out to you.

I’ve developed a recent fetish with Katy Perry. Okay, maybe it’s not a recent fetish, since for the past three years I’ve found myself unconsciously dancing every time one of her songs comes onto the radio, but since her songs can often be “naughty,” I’ve never openly acknowledged said fetish until now. I’ve always enjoyed her song Firework and two nights ago in a fit of boredom I looked up the music video on Youtube.

Now I’m one of those people who can’t hear any lyrics beyond the chorus until about the 25th time I’ve heard the song (and that might just be that my car is getting old and loud, but hey), so I usually miss a lot of what’s going on. I always assumed that Firework was a tribute to yet another Katy lover.

Boy was I wrong.

As I watched the video I started to cry. And cry some more at its beautiful portrayal of individuals accepting themselves despite society telling them they don’t fit in. Firework is a song of empowerment, of self acceptance and confidence, and based on my violent weeping, I must be struggling with this right now.

It’s easy to feel bad about ourselves when we don’t fit in. When we don’t look anything like Katy Perry or those other glamorous people that decorate our grocery store checkout aisles. When we are not the social norm. But when we accept ourselves, people will notice our confidence, and confidence is sexy.  They’ll notice the person who walks with shoulders back and head up. The person who looks people in the eye and smiles. They’ll be so caught up in the confidence that any other features will fade into the background.

I suppose it would be good here to list some ideas for arriving at self-acceptance, but since it’s still something I’m figuring out for myself I’ll have to get back to you. For now, watch the video, hold your head up, and smile.

My brilliant readers–any ideas?

On Tuesday I stepped into a therapist’s lobby for the first time in six years. Nerves…the awkward waiting, wondering why NO ONE else is there–did I pick the wrong one? Hoping no one I know walks in. Staring at the trite magazines across from me. Wondering why it’s taking so long for her to come out. Wondering if my $1.33/minute has already started since it’s past my appointment time. Needing to go to the bathroom but afraid it’s just pre-therapy nerves and she’ll come out when I’m in there and start charging me money. Oh yes, it’s all coming back to me. Why was I excited about coming here again? Wait, I’m paying to sit in a room and cry with someone I’ve just met?

Yes. Yes. It’s all true. Welcome to therapy.

Despite my rolling stomach, once I got in to see my new psychologist, it was an amazing experience. Yes, amazing. Of course, I started crying within two minutes of sitting down, but it felt like a safe place to do that. I finally felt like I could say what’s been on my mind to someone who doesn’t have to live with me every day, who doesn’t know anyone I’m talking about, and who’s been trained to help me deal with the pain of grief and the process of rediscovering who I am. I felt understood and accepted. I could feel myself slowly moving through the tumultuous waters back to land. I’m not grounded yet, but I can see it–that undiscovered country where I’m the author of my life.

What do I want when I get there?

Don’t know yet. Don’t know much at this point. But that’s okay. I’m okay. I’m facing grief head-on in a way that I know will lead to peace.

Therapy hasn’t always been this great. In the past I’ve gone out of pure desperation. I didn’t want to be there and I thought the whole idea was ridiculous.  I was a stoic, the tough girl who didn’t really need to talk to anyone about my problems. It took two years of therapy before I finally cried,  even though at the time crying was part of my daily existence.

I have to say, I like where I’m at now much better. I view therapy as a tool that will speed up the healing process, not a last ditch effort to hang onto the cliff.

Therapy lounge, I’ll see you again in two more weeks. Until then, I seriously need to get some sleep [she types as she's boarding an all-night flight to the East Coast...sigh].

So I’ve decided to go back to therapy [insert loud applause and a big whoo-hoo! here], and being who I am, you all get to come along with me.

Right now I’m in the dating stage. I’m checking out www.psychologytoday.com and reading through the bios, writing down the names and contact information of the counselors who seem to be my type. If his/her two-paragraph bio really impresses me, I’ll send out an e-mail right then. Here’s some things to think about when it comes to narrowing down a counselor.

1. Are you looking for individual or group therapy?

When I first started therapy I was seventeen and so freaked out that someone might find out I was messed up. Group therapy at that time would have been absolutely mortifying for me, but now I think a support group would be very helpful–it’d give me multiple people to contact when I’m having a hard time and I’d be able to listen to other people’s experiences with the same issue. If I could find a support group that addressed my current needs, I think this is the option I would take.

2. Do you want a male or female psychologist?

Some people want someone of their gender, some people the opposite, and some people just don’t care–it’s entirely up to you. My first counselor was female, which as an insecure teenager was something I required, but my all-time favorite therapist was male. Your preference may change as you go.

3. Do you want to see a specialist?

There are counselors who specialize in just about everything. Yesterday when I was looking I found therapists who focused on only a few specific complexes. For example, he/she only saw people with drug addictions, gay/lesbian issues, or eating disorders. I even found one who catered specifically to writers. If your concern is very specific you might consider going to someone with who deals exclusively with that issue.

4. Are there things you simply cannot tolerate in a counselor?

The first time I walked into the BYU counseling center they put me with a middle-aged, white haired man who immediately reminded me of my high school freshman track coach (aka very bad feelings). I asked for someone different. Even though this sounds shallow, pictures matter. If the counselor you’re looking at reminds you of someone who brings up very negative feelings, I doubt you’ll feel open enough to talk to him/her about your deepest worries and fears.

5. What are things you value that you’d like to see in your therapist?

Maybe you ‘d like to see someone of your own religion or someone who’s personally experienced whatever issue you’re dealing with. Maybe you want someone who really likes cats. Choosing a counselor is a lot like choosing a best friend. You’re going to be sharing some pretty intense crap with them so you want someone who understands your background and can then help you look at things from a different perspective and see the things you’re missing.

Finally, you have to choose.

While looking yesterday I noticed that most psychologists now offer a free fifteen minute phone consultation. This will give you a chance to discuss pragmatics (i.e. how much of your firstborn child this is going to cost), what specific issues you have, what you’re hoping to accomplish in therapy, and any other questions you might have for your future confidant. Hopefully after this discussion you will have a pretty good idea of whether or not this person is right for you.

Honestly, when I think about it, I don’t think I could have actually thought through all this when I was severely depressed, especially not the first time I needed to see a therapist. Just calling someone on the phone was pretty much impossible during those times, let alone making a difficult decision. If you’re in this position I recommend siphoning off some of this responsibility on the person closest to you–a spouse, parent, friend, sibling, or significant other. Tell them you want to see a therapist but need help finding one.

My first phone consultation is today. I’ll let you know how it goes.