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Some Reasons Why White Evangelicals Are So Prone to Believing Conspiracy Theories(by an escapee)

I know people routinely scratch their heads at why white evangelicals (and fundamentalists, and others) fall so hard right into the hands of conspiracy theorists. I’ve heard many of these conversations, frustrations and laments. I share those feelings and experiences, as I have many family and friends who have been swept away by any number of conspiracies. It’s exhausting, and so disheartening.

One day, I got to thinking about WHY. Why them, specifically? It made sense pretty quickly. Here are some of my observations/connections:

In no particular order ….

1.) They are conditioned to believe in invisible evil forces that others are unaware of

2.) They are conditioned to believe they have a higher awareness/inside truth that others don’t see or know or have access to

3.) They are conditioned to OTHER – meaning, they are conditioned to see certain (and usually vague) groups/people as an enemy with a nefarious agenda. The all-powerful “THEY!” (“THEY are coming for your children!” “THEY are trying to destroy the family!” “THEY are trying to take your freedom!”)(See also “the gay agenda” “the liberal agenda” “the gays” “the liberals” “the woke liberal mob” “the godless left” “the mainstream media” etc)

4.) They are conditioned to believe they will be or are being persecuted

5.) They are taught anti-intellectualism and anti-science ideology, which makes using facts and empirical data (i.e. evidence) to debunk their misinformation/conspiracy an exercise in futility. Facts don’t matter to those who magically know more and better than everyone else.

6.) They are not only generally not taught critical thinking skills, but they are actually discouraged from critical thinking. They are discouraged from questioning, from pulling at threads – especially when those threads lead to facts and empirical data, etc. that disprove their “higher” truths. (And by “higher” truths, I mean the things they believe that deny and contradict facts – things like a vaccine to help end a public health emergency is actually a plot of the government – and, bigger picture, the devil himself – to take away their freedom …… while they themselves are actually working fretfully to severely limit or take away entirely the freedoms of people who believe differently than they do….)

7.) They believe they get THE truth directly from God, and since God’s thoughts are “higher” than ours, his ways higher than our ways, (Isaiah 55:8-9) it basically gives them a sense of authority on all things because whose arms are long enough to box with God?

8.) They are conditioned to distrust other bodies/people in of authority and leadership, including but not limited to the government, academia, physicians/healthcare (science in general), other religions (even other denominations within Christianity), educators, etc. They are conditioned to be suspicious of anyone outside of their specific belief system, their insular circles, and their chosen leaders and teachers.

9.) They are conditioned to trust without question leaders who “God has ordained,” regardless of (mere mortal) qualifications. Example: MANY pastors in white evangelical spaces have no college and/or seminary background. They are not qualified the way we require other types of leaders/practitioners to be qualified – but, for them, if someone is a “gifted” or “powerful” or “anointed” (code for ‘made me feel feelings’) speaker, it doesn’t matter that they are not qualified to lead an organization, run a business, or teach with educational authority about/from a book of ancient texts, ancient mythology, ancient literature, etc. It only matters that they “move” people (stir their emotions). This one right here is enough to make them prey to conspiracy theorists, as conspiracy theorists are often very charismatic.

So, when you have an idea that, in order to gain traction and to thrive, needs people who lack critical thinking skills, who dismiss facts and empirical data, who are convinced of secret evils at work in a grand scale way, who believe they know more than the next person, who believe that their feelings (fear, paranoia) are actually intuition and Knowing, who believe that credentials and facts do not matter as much as persuasive speaking that gives you a FEELING does, who are conditioned to be afraid and suspicious, etc ….. white evangelicals make the perfect breeders and spreaders for conspiracies.

For people who claim to follow teachings centered around truth, ultimate knowledge, not living in fear, praying for your enemies, loving your neighbors and centering their needs, a god who (according to them) “is in control,” and SO MUCH MORE, it’s all so tragically ironic.

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Maybe I’m Back

This is exactly what I do – be it with blogging or social media; I start, I get triggered by “exposure,” I retreat. Sometimes a short while, sometimes to the point of deleting the account.

And that’s okay, but I have no replacement outlet in the meantime.

Something’s got to give.

CW/TW: eating disorder :

Many years ago (almost 20?) I had a full-blown eating disorder. I did the excruciating work of recovering, and I’ve been relatively okay since.

Until now.

I’m (planning on) going to the store soon for certain trigger foods. HOW DID I END UP HERE?!

It probably ultimately boils down to a rather desperate Hail Mary shot for some sense of control. The events of the last year and a half (+) have not helped, nor has the still-ongoing pandemic (made worse for me by people being horrible…). I’ve tried cutting way back on my consumption of news (which I only ever read to begin with) and social media. I have a great therapist. (The best, for me – and no you can’t have their number.) I have a good enough support system, I’m sheltered and fed and have the World’s Best furry companion.

And …..

I desperately need to feel a sense of agency, and control.

(I’m also at my heaviest weight, but we both know this isn’t about weight. Not really.)

It’s easy to target my body right now. That is easier and more familiar than dealing with what’s bothering me more/most. Also, I just spent a week with a very disordered eater/chronic dieter when I was already vulnerable. Also, I recently had a medical issue that triggered food scarcity (and other) issues.

I was ripe for this today.

I have a journal from the eating disorder days. It’s extremely messed up, to put it mildly. My thinking, then. Like, I really need to burn it one of these days. I still have it because what was written in it has been helpful to me at points since – either as evidence of something that was very wrong in my life, or (and) as a reminder of how far gone I was in my thinking. The food diaries, until today, just served as a yellow light, warning me that I never wanted to “diet” again. EVER.

Today, something flipped on its head and turned the food diary portion into a sort of bible (and grocery list). This is where I’m at. Well aware that I’m in need of the illusion of control this badly. Well aware that I am flirting with an extremely slippery slope – and, for right now, simply not caring. Well aware that all this will ultimately lead to is yet another steep mountain for me to climb, AND that I will still have to deal with what I’m trying to outrun.

I know this.

And, I am planning to go to the store anyway. I’m doing all the justifying. All the “It’s just ___ ” and “I need to get some of this extra weight off anyway” and “I can stop” and …… yeah. All of it. If you know, you know.

I think I decided to try writing (yet again) because maybe, just maybe, it will provide enough of a diversion and enough of an outlet and enough relief and perspective that I can will myself back from the ledge and walk home another way.

Right now, what I want far outweighs what I know I need to do. And that is the dance …..

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Worn

I was on the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline chat late last night. It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last. I used to think that such lines were used by people who are literally at *that* crucial moment. What I’ve come to understand is that there are moments before That moment that are, in my estimation, equally crucial. Anne Lamott would call it the moment you “pick up that 200 lb. telephone.” It’s the moment you realize you’re on the extremely slippery slope that leads to That moment. That’s where I was last night ….. one of those moments I knew I was on the slope. Still no plan, but the intensity of my feelings had gained steam. I tried my therapist to no avail, I didn’t want to wake a family member or friend, so … I texted anonymously with a stranger whose job is meeting people in any of Those moments, holding space without judgment or fixes.

This morning I was trying to manipulate fat on various body parts to try to picture that part without that fat. It’s a pattern for me to target my body when my feelings get large. Why feel unbearable pain, or grief, or shame or fear when I can obsess about my weight instead? When my feelings feel too large to tolerate, so does my body. My skin feels like it’s bursting, even though the pain is in my soul.

Yesterday morning, I was at the right place at the right time to be able to help someone in a small way. It felt good to be useful – I’ve forgotten what that’s like. I thought it would shift my funk more. It did not. In the afternoon, I had and jumped on another opportunity, even though I really did not want to move from my spot on this well-weathered couch. But the person needed help, and I had the time – and knew I needed to get out of my head, even if it just meant getting out of the house in the rain and running an errand I didn’t necessarily want to run.

A second time, it felt good to remember the feeling of serving someone else. And, it didn’t shift anything for me. By the time I got home, I was actually exhausted. Neither of the two scenarios took a ton of time, or physical energy. But for me, the energy involved in simply engaging in the conversations needed to accomplish what needed done, and to get dressed, and to leave the house, and to engage in any way publicly – even just through my window and long enough for the kind and energetic employee at the store to put the purchased items in my trunk ……. and even just to drive …….. I am not exaggerating when I say I needed a nap after that, and I’m not a napper. (And no, there isn’t something else wrong; this is what mental illness can look like.)

I am Tired. That’s part of this struggle for me – this space of not wanting to continue down this road of recovery; I am worn out. It’s not “I can’t do this anymore,” it’s “I don’t want to do this anymore.” I’m tired. If you knew what all I’ve been through, and what all I have done to overcome it, this would make more sense and sound less like (perhaps) drama. I don’t think I’m ready to go there on here yet, but the point is mainly that it has been a long, hard road, and I am worn out. I am WORN. OUT.

Now what?

I can’t think about the future, or make plans. Bless the people (including the kind soul on the other end of last night’s chat ….) for thinking it might help me, but – RIGHT NOW – it actually adds to the feelings of overwhelm and hopelessness. So, for now, the work is literally one day at a time. It’s just Today, and not even always that much – sometimes the thought of feeling despair til bedtime when it’s only 7am is much too big an ask. In that case, like today, it’s one cup of coffee. One episode of something. One chapter of something light (on the rare occasion I can focus enough to read). One trip outside with the dog. One hour. Sometimes even just the next 15 minutes. Some days, the way through is literally one right thing after another – and “right” is basically anything that is not acute self harm.

When every activity counts as a unit, I can look at my morning and realize I have gotten through a lot of units already. I’ve had (decaf) coffee, and a refill or two. I have been outside three times with the dog. I have answered an email. I have returned a few texts. I have showered, because soon I will go to an appointment. I have even helped two family members secure their vaccine appointments. I have managed quite a few units this morning, and this helps me remember that – unit by unit – I can make it through the next little while, and the afternoon, and the evening. For now, my next unit is to find a pair of socks. Or, maybe, I’ll sit here a little longer and have my next unit be mindfully enjoying the soft, sleepy dog lying next to me.

This is the work. Today, right now, I will do one unit at a time. Just one. And everything I do that gets me through the day counts as a unit.

Write, and write honestly: one unit – maybe two.

Hit “Publish” on this post: one unit …….

I Don’t Like Easter

(TW: talk of ideation and self harm)

Funk got worse in recent days. Easter weekend not helping at all.

I’m not totally sure how ready I am to talk about this, if at all, but I’m going through what people call faith “deconstruction.” (Think Demo Day on Fixer Upper ….) In addition to all of the other stuff going on for me – all of the other trauma and pain, there is a necessary sorting and purging (demolition) of the baggage in my life born from religion.

It’s Easter today, and the truth is I’m SO GLAD to not have to go to church today, or engage with people – especially religious ones, or do anything other than sit with what’s coming up for me. Friday night I ended up making a rather late call to my therapist because I wasn’t sure I could keep myself safe, and a large part of what was weighing down so heavily was grief about Easter. Grief for my younger self(s), who could never hear their own voice (let alone trust it) enough to know they were triggered, and repulsed. Grief over my whole-hearted participation in something so harmful to so many. Grief for the loss of a faith that truly buoyed me for so many years. Grief over what the Church has turned Easter into ……..

I made the colossal mistake of checking Facebook briefly. I really want to sit with this, because I’m curious about what drove me to that choice when I knew full well I would leave feeling worse about the world. More specifically, about certain “Christians” in my life. Oh, and that reminds me of a new realization: as I slowly start to reengage in the world soon, I do not want to put any time or energy into any relationships where I have not been and will not be able to be authentically me. Additionally, I am fine with agreeing to disagree with people on issues, but I am not fine with being in close connection with people who’ve revealed themselves not only to be racist and other -ists in the last year, but who have made it painfully clear they are not interested in learning more about the pain or hardship of anyone who doesn’t fit their privileged narrative. I find this inexplicably abhorrent in Christian friends of mine. I cannot reconcile their religious posts on social media with their attitudes and behaviors in the comment threads. I cannot reconcile their hate, bigotry, arrogance and ignorance with their supposed love for a God of justice, wisdom, truth, and unconditional love.

The world doesn’t feel safe to me. I’ve said it before. People have all but destroyed my faith in humanity at this point, and the Church has all but destroyed my faith.

“It must not have been true faith, then, if people can wipe it out so easily.”

Just don’t.

You don’t know me, and you haven’t walked my path. You have no idea how many hours/weeks/months/years/decades I was all in. You have no idea how much manipulation and abuse I put up with, or made excuses for. You have no idea the personal cost to me and my family. (And my apologies to the three people who actually read this. “You” obviously is not you, lol.)

Deconstruction is extraordinarily painful. I had no idea what I was in for. I had no idea it would essentially be an additional trauma. Or, rather … the process itself is not what’s traumatic. The truth is. It’s HARD to look at everything you once held dear and see all of the lies and harm in it. It’s like being in a committed relationship that spans decades and finding out your partner was not who you thought they were, and in the worst ways.

Easter is hard. It’s hard because I feel lost. I feel like I got asked to no longer sit at the lunch table with the cool kids, and I found out the cool kids are mostly really not good people. I found out they don’t actually like me because I started thinking and talking about things that made them uncomfortable. I started asking hard questions, and challenging injustice within a group that is supposed to be just to its core.

Easter is hard because all of my childhood years were riddled with pageantry and pompousness. With the finest threads worn by the most evil people (in my life).

Easter is hard because my best friend died on Easter one year, and no one allowed me to grieve. I was a child.

Easter is hard because my two worst perpetrators were always in the same room as me at family dinners where everyone was so holy but no one did anything but gossip and fat-shame and create a wide berth for abusers in their midst ……..

Easter is hard because I feel lost, and invisible, and betrayed, and exhausted. I feel disillusioned, overlooked, forgotten, and cast aside. It is no wonder that Friday night I was not sure I would make it through the night without doing something impulsive (and final), and it is no wonder that today I am noticing intense urges to self-harm. Like …. intense.

I have chosen to just Be today. No plans. No interactions with people unless necessary. No schedule, even of what I will watch or read or listen to. Just me, being with me. Trying to listen. Trying to sit with the truth that has never really been given air until now. That is self-care for me today; I choose to give myself room to tell the truth, no matter how horrible it feels or sounds, and I choose to try to welcome those truths and their pain into my space instead of Shoulding them away, or trying to stuff them down with food, or force them out with a mandated joy I don’t have access to.

I don’t like Easter, I am having a hard day, and I’m glad to just finally tell the truth – even if it’s just anonymously.

The Tyranny of Spring

I always found it curious, in the past, that suicide rates are higher in the spring. Now I get it.

I am not ready to re-enter the world. I am not ready to go back to the schedule I had prior to the pandemic. By ‘not ready,’ I mean that just the thought of re-engaging is causing me increased physical anxiety. I mean that I am having trouble with panic before and as I walk out the door go places. And I basically only go three places right now, and those weekly.

And it isn’t just that my body will need time to catch up to the data when it’s actually “safe” to return to life, though that is a real and pressing issue. The “bigger” issue (can they even be rated?) is that I am already having so much trouble with living, and everyone’s excitement and agendas centered around nicer, warmer weather and plans for outings and vacations and summer and (*insert whatever people are doing and saying*) feels very much like pressure to perform for me. Friends are exhibiting a joy that’s been dormant for much of the last year, and I cannot relate. Family is talking excitedly about potential plans and desires, and I feel like I cannot breathe. It’s not unlike those dreams where I’m trying to run and can’t move, or trying to scream and absolutely nothing comes out. I am the scream that won’t come out. I am the legs that can’t move – that aren’t even there on the body in the dream. No legs. No voice. (Aaaaand I totally see the trauma response expression there …… freeze response …… powerlessness – real or perceived …. voiceless ……… )

The nicest days this last week have made me feel uncomfortably vulnerable and almost panicked. I don’t want to go outside even to care for my furry friend. I’ve never been like this before that I recall. I have never especially loved spring, but I have not in my memory ever felt threatened by it. I do feel threatened by it. It reminds me of my abusive caretaker, forcing me to go outside regardless of how I actually felt about going out. Regardless of whether I was ready or not, interested or not, willing or not. I feel so much pressure from everyone else’s glee and anticipation and planning. Friends are starting to text about getting together, and each text of that sort is like a surprise (bad) bolt of electricity that goes through my body. I actually got electrocuted once, and this feels similar, mentally/emotionally.

I know I don’t have to say Yes to the plans and offers. I know I can (and need to) stay in my lane and not feel like I have to do what everyone else is doing. I know that I have the right and responsibility to choose and to set and keep healthy boundaries. I know. But it feels like this: I’ve been floating on a raft, my feet hanging over the edge into warm, relatively clear and safe water. I don’t want to be in the water, but this version is manageable and I have adjusted to being here. But now, suddenly, everyone around me who was also floating is now starting to paddle and splash and abandon their raft and swim, etc. And that doesn’t mean I have to follow suit, but it does mean that the water around me has suddenly ceased to be calm and manageable. In real life, I have sensory processing issues, so things like being splashed in a pool are actually quite dis-regulating for my nervous system. It feels to my skin like a sudden blast of extraordinarily loud music or interference from microphone feels to your ears. Unwelcome. Unsettling. Startling. And that is how the nicer weather and other people’s feelings about it is feeling for me; startling. Unwelcome. Unsettling.

People are pointing out hope, and new life. I am continuing to wrestle intense despair, and grief. The hope talks and posts are, currently, like a bright flashlight in the eyes of someone asleep in the deep dark. The inability to connect to the sense of hope, to the inspiration of nature and new life that is literally bursting before my eyes …….. it adds to the heavy longing to just hit the OFF switch. It is, in the truest sense of the word, unbearable.

Why do I have to want to clean my baseboards or have a party just because the thermometer is different and there is increasingly more light in a day? Why am I supposed to magically be no longer grieving just because the crocuses are breaking through and buds are giving birth to blossoms?

I don’t feel normal. I am already painfully aware that I am not like those around me, and I already feel alone. Not being able to connect to something that (it feels like) everyone around me is excited about just makes me feel that much more alone, that much more broken, that much more hope-less.

For today, it’s rainy, and I am grateful, because no one expects me to be something I can’t be. For today, other people feel more like I do, and I can breathe a little easier. For today, I feel slightly insulated from the tyranny of spring. For today, oddly enough, the ideation is slightly less intense. Other people – “normal” people – feel crappy today because of the weather, so …. no flashlights in my eyes today. No splashing today.

I’ll have to figure this all out again tomorrow when the weather and people’s plucky attitudes return to their full spring pageantry. For now, I will sip my coffee and pretend I have only today to manage.

Dying to Live

I think maybe one of the worst feelings in the world is not being able to articulate how I feel, what I need, or what is happening in my brain. The part in The Matrix when Neo’s mouth disappears always makes me feel like I absolutely cannot breathe, I guess because I am all too familiar with having no voice. No ability to speak.

I had therapy today, and it was excruciating because I came to that place once again where I just could not put to words what I need to get out. It’s like math was for me in school. I have always struggled with math, and completely lost my way when they introduced letters in with numbers. (WHY, THOUGH?!) I just could. not. get. it. One parent tried to help, but that parent is an engineer and so their life was math, and at one point they said – albeit kindly, “I don’t understand what you’re not getting.”

Yeah. Same.

And that’s how this feels now. That’s how I feel about what’s going on inside my head. There are pieces missing. Something gets lost in translation. Work that ought to help some issues improve does not make a difference. It’s like putting money in a vending machine, having the machine accept the money, but then nothing happening when I enter the buttons to instruct the machine what I want in exchange for the money. The money goes in, but the goods do not come out.

I don’t know what’s wrong inside. I don’t know how to explain to others what I’m not getting. And, consequently, my helpers don’t know how to help me.

It’s crazy-making. I have deep fears about being incapacitated in some way that makes me unable to communicate while fully aware of everything that’s going on, and I’m fairly certain those fears are rooted in this very issue of being trapped inside with no apparent way out. And, after decades of being trapped to varying degrees, I am at a cliff of sorts. I want out of this hell.

And, yet ……..

If I didn’t believe, SOMEWHERE inside me, that there is more to me and to this life, I wouldn’t be in the pain I’m in. Somewhere I read something to the effect that suffering is basically caused by the conflict inside between reality and what could be. (I’m paraphrasing and not eloquently, but you get the idea.)(I hope.) Meaning ….. if I truly believed there was absolutely no hope for me, I wouldn’t be in this much pain over not being able to do what I need to in order to heal. I wouldn’t even be on the healing path. So, SOME part of me believes – or knows – there is more for me.

I guess it should also be said that I survived everything that made me this way in the first place. I did not survive all of that just to quit later on. Yes, things are hard. Unbearably so, at present. And, things have been hard for me before – and I lived through 100% of them and went on to brighter days.

I don’t really want to die. As my therapist said not long ago, “Something IN you needs to die, but it is not YOU. YOU do not need to be the price.” Yes. Something IN me needs to die….

Does Shame ever die? It hasn’t died in me, but I do know people and have read stories of people who say it did die in them.

Do phobias die? I personally have overcome other phobias, so …. yes. It’s possible.

Does trauma, and C-PTSD “die”? Again, it has not resolved within me – not yet – but there are people who have overcome the impact of trauma in their lives. PTSD is a disorder, which means ….. things can be re-ordered. (Right?) Neuroplasticity has demonstrated that the brain can and does change. Hardwired behaviors can be rewired. Well-worn neural pathways (e.g. core beliefs, default responses, etc.) can be replaced with new neural pathways. My mind can literally be changed. Am I discouraged that it has not changed “more” in the time I have put in immeasurable amounts of hard work? Yes. To the point of fantasizing about quitting life altogether. BUT … this (writing) right now is helping me remember (again) that this is not permanent. Who I am right now is not permanent. My situation right now is not permanent. This is not as good as it gets, and I have not reached a dead end. I am Tired. I am discouraged. I am frustrated, and I am mostly afraid.

I am afraid.

I am afraid I will never feel “normal.” I am afraid I will always have this crippling anxiety and this panic disorder. I am afraid I will always struggle with attachment issues. I am afraid I will never know what it’s like to truly trust or freely love. I am afraid I will never break free of self-defeating, subconscious behavior. I am afraid that I will miss out on what’s left of my life, as I have missed out on most of what I’ve been alive for thus far. I am afraid that I will never be able to be fully present for my own life. I am afraid that I will never finally know who I actually am, or be that person well.

I am afraid that I will die without having lived.

(Which begs the question: why would I consider guaranteeing it by putting an end to any chances I have left? If I am afraid of dying without living, why would I choose that very thing? ……… Maybe it’s about feeling powerless. Thinking about choosing to stop living provides me with some measure of (perceived) power…..)

Maybe I’m dying to live. Maybe the only way to live my life beyond survival is to go through the process of dying inside. What I mean by that is …. the pain won’t die without grieving. Avoiding pain is not the cure to pain, it just moves it around. Spreads it. Grief, the expression of loss, is the medicine. The pain IS the way out, not the obstacle to it.

Maybe writing to heal will actually bear fruit ….. stay tuned.

Day 5?

So, clearly “every day for 30 days” was a stretch. Noted.

So was writing solely for myself.

Today I feel ……. scattered. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. Disconnected.

I also feel on the verge of tears frequently today.

I am trying so hard to be gracious and kind to myself. To be patient. I have a lot to grieve, but I think I still judge it when it surfaces because it’s not ….. ________ (I don’t know what word goes here …..)

When your spouse or partner or parent or child or best friend dies, people understand your grief. At least for a time …..

But when the grief is the result of accumulated, immeasurable, intangible losses, people in general have much less understanding, tolerance and grace. For example, a lost childhood. Waves of this are innumerable and nonlinear, they hit when one LEAST expects them, and they’re hard to even allow (at least for me) because they’re so ….. _______ (again with not knowing the right word …..)

My therapist was noting today that I struggle a lot with time, meaning I feel extraordinarily pressured by it. This is the result of many, many unfortunate events as a child, as well as life in a society that is in chronic rush in every area of our lives.

I do feel pressured by time. I hear all of the ungracious, non-understanding, impatient and judgmental things people in my own life have said and the armchair experts say in comment threads on social media. All of the notions that, collectively, spell WE DO NOT WANT YOUR DISCOMFORT AND SO YOU SHOULD BE OVER THIS.

But I’m not. And trying to force it, while also trying to hide everything inside while doing so, has just brought me here – this place where I think a lot about Not Being Here Anymore, and writing in an anonymous blog to try to help myself through it. (And a reminder, or intro if you didn’t read my initial post: I am not in active danger, I do not have a plan, and I have good support.)

***(two days later)***

It is now Day 7. This time, it wasn’t on purpose. I really thought I’d finish that on Monday. Yesterday, I got my first covid vaccine, and while I did have a lot to write about, I ended up being very busy managing the panic of having to go get it, etc. – among other things. PTSD: The Gift That Keeps On Giving.

Here is what I know today: I fell asleep on the couch last night, and woke up at 12:42am panicking. My heart was racing and I was very nauseated, and a torrent of tears were just behind a screen door. Often, the most helpful thing is to let the tears come; what comes up can move through. But I did not have the bandwidth at that point to manage any of it, so I took something to help me sleep and I turned on the TV to distract myself.

This gets old.

So does not having the control of things the way society and friends and (former) religion and other entities have made me believe I should. Do people not get that NO ONE would like for me to heal and be different more than ME?!

Yesterday, despite having my first dose and being on the way to getting back to normal activities, etc., I did not feel hopeful. That was, in itself, disappointing. There is an older person in my life whose spouse is extremely high risk through no fault of their own (why did we ever start moralizing covid risk???). The person and I are on basically the same vaccine schedule, which means that, in just a few more weeks, I will actually be able to see them in person for the first time in over a year. Not seeing them, in particular, has been the hardest on me, and it’s curious to me that one dose down didn’t make me feel excited that now it’s really only a few weeks until I finally see and hug them. HUG THEM. But I don’t.

It’s survival mode, I know. I’ve been rather shut down. Not going to a place inside that allows hope is a safety mechanism in the brains of people like me – it’s not a choice we make. And after a year of continuous crushing disappointments and delays and cancellations etc, it makes sense that my brain isn’t currently open at all to the hope of seeing and hugging that person soon now. It’s the person I’ve missed being in the physical presence of the most all this time, and it started out as “just for two weeks,” which became three months, then two more, then “who knows when,” then the holiday surge set us back – on and on. I’ll believe it when I see it. I kind of still don’t believe I got my first round yesterday, let alone that soon I will have my second, and will no longer be at risk of hospitalization or death from C19. (Unrelated, this paragraph looks a little like the state of Pennsylvania …..)

Getting my first dose didn’t lessen the ideation. If I’m honest, the trouble I had leaving the house, and taking a new route to public transportation (and taking public transportation for the first time in over a year), and going to a different pharmacy than mine, etc. all added to the overwhelm I’ve been experiencing, as well as the weariness. I think if I could get people to understand one thing about suicide, it’s that it’s not a problem of selfishness or lack of motivation, or the need for a different perspective or _________ (*insert whatever one tells themselves from their armchair about suicide*). It’s a pain problem. Often, it’s a pain + exhaustion/overwhelm problem. For me, it’s not that “I can’t do this anymore.” I know I can. It’s that I am so very worn down from the process of continuing to find courage and battle monsters again all day another day, and I don’t want to anymore.

It’s not that I don’t see the good in my life. I do. Pain, overwhelm, and other things I can’t explain or make sense of to anyone who’s never been in my specific shoes make seeing the good in my life its own source of pain.

It’s also exhausting to constantly “hear” (read) all of the sound bytes on what one needs to do to change their brain or life. Experts promote whatever they’re selling on the backs of those for whom there is not a simple solution or even set of solutions.

*** (three days later….. ) ***

There are probably a thousand ways to read into my delays. Whatever the reason, I struggle with doing this. With finishing posts. With publishing them. I’m not adding more to this today, I’m just hitting “Publish” because I think I need to follow through more than I need a new or finished post …….

Day 3: Cry Me a River

I forgot, until late last night, that I was “supposed to” write here. By the time I remembered, I had been crying for hours and felt too raw and too tired. Maybe Raw is a really good time to write, especially given the nature of this experiment in writing to heal. Alas, I did not, and here we are.

Day 3

I feel very Morning After this morning. And, I’m still fairly teary. A part of me feels weak, saying that, but another recognizes it’s a miracle. I almost never cried as a child – sometimes not for a few years (YEARS!) at a time. I could name the times in a decade in which I cried – on less than ten fingers, and almost all because of deaths. Crying now feels a little out of control, and yet the catharsis is more welcome than a pound of cookie dough.

What started the tears falling? Tension with a loved one, which turned into a full-blown, vulnerable “meltdown.” (But really …. a massive buildup over the last year, especially.) Honestly, though I was sharing with two of those closest to me and they are kind, loving and sympathetic, I still felt and feel embarrassed and ashamed. In a way, I feel a little relieved, because I have been trying to keep this gigantic beach ball under water for months. In another way, I just feel ashamed. Regretful. I wish I wouldn’t have gone there.

Why?

Conditioning. Years and years of conditioning. I was taught from infancy that I do not get to have feelings, or opinions, or care. I was taught that my job is to ensure the happiness of others, regardless of the cost to me; I do not count. Even though I know, now, that that’s categorically untrue, conditioning is a strong force and I am very much prey to it still. My nervous system still works overtime to protect me – it just doesn’t know that, now, annihilating myself for survival is no longer serving me.

So what do I do with these tears today? I think I just …. sit with them. Allow them. Grief has built up inside to the tune of thirty-or-so extra pounds, joint pain, gut problems, insomnia …. (list goes on) ….. my body is literally CARRYING the Unresolved, the Unexpressed, and the Unacknowledged. And to what end? It hasn’t earned me any friends, brought back any estranged family, or decreased my feelings of worthlessness and hopelessness. No, I think I will just invite it all in for coffee and empty carbs. Trying to keep it at bay has cost me everything and saved me nothing. Maybe the only way to save myself now, literally, is to feel the Unbearable.

I don’t like feeling like I may need a raft soon, and yet maybe tubing down a lazy river of collected tears is exactly what I need in order to find my footing on dry land …..

An Experiment

(Trigger/content warning: suicide)

I set this up in an attempt to be able to write more freely than I’ve ever written. It’s not working, because I’m still (over a year later) either avoiding writing completely, or, relegating anything I write to the Draft (or trash) folder.

I’m struggling, however, and I’ve decided to conduct an experiment. I’ve decided to try writing a little (here) each day for 30 days to see if getting Things Unsaid off my chest helps reduce the volume and intensity of destructive thoughts. I don’t expect it to be a cure. I’ve journaled for years and I still struggle like I’m getting paid for it. But I also edit myself in my journals to a degree, knowing there is always the chance that someone I know will read them eventually.

I live in this bizarre tension of wanting desperately for people to know the real me, and, not wanting a single soul to know what actually goes on in my head.

The truth is, I’ve struggled for a while with suicidal ideation, and I need the volume on that turned down. And for anyone who felt alarmed by that, please know that a.) I am not in active/acute danger. I have no plan. b.) My support people know and are working with me. c.) I have resources available to help me keep thoughts and actions clearly separate. I don’t actively want to die, I’m just worn out by trying to survive. Something inside me needs to die. I’m in an immeasurable amount of pain. This is what I’m trying to hang on to; suicide is a PAIN problem. It’s not that I don’t want to live – I do, or I wouldn’t be so conflicted. It’s that I’m worn down by pain. BUT …. pain, when shared, expressed, grieved, felt, and honored, does fade. And maybe that’s the point of this experiment? A little sharing, expressing/grieving, honoring what’s got me so sideways? Unclear. But it came to me to try this and I have no other ideas right now, so …. here we are.

I’ll stop here for now. I’m feeling vulnerable and self-conscious, and that’s always when I either Delete or Draft. But if I want a different result for anything, then I’ve got to stop doing the same things. So, this is me, trying something different. I’m telling (more of) the truth, and I’m hitting Publish.

Experiment, Day One.

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