Some Thoughts on Healing

On January 26, 2019, I moved out of the house I shared with the man I thought would marry. And now, for the life of me, I can’t remember why I thought he was worthy of my hand.

It wasn’t until I was laying on my childhood bed at my mom’s house that I put the pieces together. For nearly the last four years, I was in an emotionally, verbally, and financially abusive relationship. It was in that moment that I fully accepted what part of me knew for a while, I would never be safe with him.

The first thing I did was cry, then I slept, two things I never felt comfortable doing before. I was beginning to release the emotional and physical tension I carried from constantly feeling like I was walking on eggshells. Then, in my trusty Notes app, I started to plan. My plan for reclaiming joy. I started writing everything I had wanted to do but never felt like a possibility. When you are told “no” over and over, by your abuser and eventually yourself, you have to learn to trust your “yes.” I decided for the next year, if it brought me even a sliver of joy, I was doing it.

My Reclaiming Joy Plan took over my first day alone. I knew moving all of my things out was coming and I couldn’t let myself think about it yet. Planning for joy felt easier, safer. The hard part was coming and I just wanted to daydream for a bit. I wanted a new tattoo. I wanted to create again. I wanted to travel. I allowed myself to add or remove things from the list as I saw fit. I called it my year of yes. If it sounded fun, it’s a yes. I flew to Colorado and navigated public transportation, alone, for the first time. I dyed my hair purple, then teal, then blue. I bought tickets to see Lizzo. I got a tattoo… and then I got three more.

The only non-fun thing on my list was therapy. Even as I daydreamed, I knew I couldn’t get through this next year without it. I texted my therapist and we immediately set up regular sessions. I want to acknowledge the privilege I held, and continue to hold, as I navigated my new life. I had a safe place to go, a trusted support system, a reliable car, and access to therapy. I don’t take that lightly.

Therapy, if you are fully present, is messy. I had complicated, deep seeded feelings I needed to untangle if I was truly going to move forward. I needed permission to feel them. Through therapy, I realized how many of the things I thought was normal was actually manipulation. I sought so much validation during that time because I was starved of it for so long. My therapist continually reassured me that whatever I was feeling was okay, it was safe. I stopped thinking of things as good or bad when it came to healing. Instead, she taught me to ask “is this effective?” By telling yourself your coping is good or bad, you’re assigning judgement to your healing, which isn’t healing at all.

I found myself defaulting to anger at the slightest inconvenience. My patience and distress tolerance were essentially nonexistent. I apologized for things that wouldn’t even begin to warrant an apology. I asked permission before I left the house. “Is it okay if I go to the gym?” and “do you mind if I go see a friend?” I felt the need to justify every single move I made. I felt like an animal, just recently released back into the wild. I wasn’t meant for captivity but I didn’t yet trust my instincts in the wild.

I was learning to exhale.

I was learning to be still. I used to be a voracious reader but I didn’t read anymore. To lose myself in a book, I needed to focus on the words on the page, which meant letting my guard down. There wouldn’t be someone barging into my room, yelling at 3:30 am. There wasn’t anyone watching my every move, questioning how I could be so lazy and read while there was cleaning to be done or a workout to do. Reading again was just a small part in regaining a sense of control. If I could reach chapters at a time, I was accepting I was safe.

I was also learning how to have fun again. I was making new friends, slowly gaining confidence. It was weird at first. These people only knew me as an after, as I was still figuring out who I was again.

It had been a long time since I made a new friend. I had to relearn boundaries. Not everyone you meet is worth letting into your inner circle. I learned that quickly. I’ve always been “too much” to some. I used to apologize for that. I don’t anymore. However, for me, there is a fine line between being myself and being overbearing. There’s a time and a place to disclose past trauma, and generally it’s not over brunch with a group of people you just met. It was like learning to walk again. I tried to run before my legs were steady.

Luckily, I had really wonderful people in my life who could see the relearning. They gave me space to figure it out. They supported me when I needed to talk things through and they distracted me when I needed a break from all the processing. They forgave me when I lashed out. They gave me tough love when I was leaning too hard into self destruction.

I also needed to pour energy back into old friendships. I had missed birthdays, celebration dinners, wedding showers, and housewarming parties. It wasn’t that I questioned my friendships with them, but I knew it would take effort to reestablish our bond. The ones who truly love me got it. I apologized for being absent and they reassured me that no apology was necessary. These were the people who knew me before and loved me through my after. It still makes me cry to think about their relief when I told them I had left.

I suddenly had nothing but opportunities to explore new things. I started playing Dungeons and Dragons. I hosted dinner parties for my friends. I drank without fear of judgment. I went to my first musical festival. I booked flights. And, for the first time in years, I could freely spend money.

This got me into trouble fast. Part of me is glad I could have those unmonitored trips to Target. It taught me that it is, in fact, okay to spend money you’ve earned. Part of me, however, wished I could have made a budget first. I knew my credit wasn’t good. It was something he held over my head and ridiculed me for. It took me nine months to have the confidence to walk into my bank and ask for a financial advisor. With their help, and a dialed in budget, I increased my credit score by 300 points in less than six months. The biggest, and most unexpected, way I gained confidence was through financial independence. For the first time in my life, I have my own apartment and all my bills are on autopay without worry.

I’ve never been one for moderation. Why tell myself no when there’s so much at my fingertips? I love excess. I love dinners that last for hours. I love round after round of drinks with good company. When my ex and I first started dating, I felt like I needed to perform to be liked. I was the good time girl after a couple glasses of wine. The rest of the bottle made me the life of the party. I loved the attention. I loved feeling confident, even if it was an illusion. Instead of seeing my insecurities and encouraging me that I was worthy on my own, he instead called me an alcoholic. I pushed back on it. Even with my insecurities, I knew myself pretty well. But here is this person who calls himself my partner, who says he loves me, he must see something I couldn’t see myself. He gave me an ultimatum. If I drank again, the relationship was over.

So I stopped. I told my friends and family that this was a decision I had made to try and get a handle on things. I never mentioned his demand. I was doing this for myself. This was the best thing for me. I told myself this enough that I thought I had addictions that I never truly had in the first place.

In addition to giving me permission to feel all of my complicated and messy feelings, my therapist also helped me untangle my relationship with alcohol. It wasn’t that I was addicted to a substance, it was the validation I got when I was drinking. If I could be secure with myself and all my messy pieces, I wouldn’t need the crutch of needing to be liked by others.

This was another new boundary I needed to learn. I didn’t drink if I didn’t feel like it. I never drank alone. There were moments of over indulgence but I was learning that a fun night with friends does not automatically mean there’s a problem. I wasn’t drinking to feel liked by my new friends. I wasn’t trying to show off. I wasn’t reckless. I wasn’t irresponsible. I was testing my steadiness. I was proving that I did, in fact, know myself.

I wonder if this nagging voice in my head will always be there. It used to clearly be his voice. Now it sounds like mine, but echoing his words. As I write this, it has been exactly two years, one month, and 22 days since I left. I struggle with how much time needs to pass before those words are gone forever. It’s surprising, the way his words pop back in like an unpleasant, unannounced visitor who stays far past his welcome. Sometimes I can catch it myself and focus instead on the truth. Sometimes I need someone else to catch it for me.

Last May, I had surgery on my finger to repair nerve damage. We were building garden boxes, my ex was holding the drill and it slipped. My finger was broken. My finger healed but I was left with lingering nerve pain. I learned quickly to not let him know how much pain I was in. It would be dismissed as me being overly dramatic, not being tough enough to deal with a pinky finger. After two years, the pain became unmanageable. Pain struck like lightning, making me catch my breath. It woke me up at night. At this point, it had been over a year since I had left. My loved ones encouraged me to see a doctor. My doctor referred me to a specialist who determined it was time for surgical intervention.

I’ve always had a flair for the dramatics. I’ve been known to play up a cold if it meant more time cuddled up in bed. This was different. I couldn’t stay curled up in bed anytime I had a flare up, I would have never left.

The day of my surgery, I was so worried they would find nothing. That it was all in my head, I was crazy, I was just being dramatic again. It wasn’t until I was at my follow up appointment that someone else caught the unannounced visitor. My surgeon, who sees countless patients a week, remembered how worried I was. Even drugged up in the OR, I told him they’d find nothing. That it was all in my head, I was crazy. Instead, he said my nerve had grown between the pieces of bone. He validated my pain. When I got to my car after that appointment, I sobbed. I had let the unannounced visitor run my thoughts about very real pain for so long. It felt like, finally, the last part connecting me to him was gone. Surgically removed.

When I started writing this, I had originally planned on reflecting on my relationship with my body. Once I started diving in, I realized how closely my body image was tied into this relationship. I had never been the most confident person when it came to my body. I could take a good picture, but being comfortable walking around in my own skin always felt uncomfortable. I’ve been overweight most of my adult life. I’d lost weight only to gain it all, plus some, back. I met my ex during that in between period. There was never any disillusionment about my size. I wasn’t trying to fool anyone with my profile on the dating apps.

Looking back, I know there are red flags I had previously overlooked. The first, and one of the few, time he told me he was proud of me was when I started a diet. It was always a push to work out with him, typically for hours at a time. I started counting macros, but the weight wasn’t coming off fast enough for his liking. I needed to lose weight faster otherwise I would “need to be okay” with him sleeping with other women. So I started keto. I was miserable. Through all of this, I was posting my meals on Instagram with captions highlighting wellness and balance. I hoped that my words were enough of a screen to avoid judgment or suspicion. Maybe if I said this was fine, eventually it would be.

Everything surrounding food was controlled. What I put on my plate and how much of it. No diet soda. No fruit that was too high in sugar. No sweets unless it was a predetermined carb day.

“Did you check the servings size on that?”

“Do you realize how many carbs are in that?”

“I taught you how to read food labels, why would you buy this?”

“You’re really eating that?”

If I went out to eat with anyone other than him or his parents, I was questioned relentlessly. It was eventually easier to just not go at all.

After I left, I joined a gym and hired a personal trainer. I was doing this for me, I told myself and anyone else who would listen. But his voice was still in my head. I pushed myself to lift heavier and heavier weights. I pushed myself past the breaking point almost every single workout. Who was I trying to impress? What was I trying to prove? Yet another area of my life I had to relearn to trust my choices. Was this bringing me joy? I’d be lying if I said it was.

So, I stopped going. I stopped policing everything on my plate. I set boundaries with others about their input on these choices. For the first time in years, I was honoring my cravings. I ate actual pasta instead of a vegetable replacement. I ate as much fruit as I wanted without checking the number of carbs per serving. I ate chocolate without worrying about what it was sweetened with. I didn’t read a single food label.

I started wearing the clothes I’d always wanted, too. Crop tops. Bodysuits. Bikinis. Mesh. Rompers. I stopped wearing a bra most days. Was it a fashion masterpiece? Not so much. But it was freeing. That freedom was palpable. My smile looked like mine again. Not strained or forced. My eyes matched my smile. I kept hearing from my friends and family that my joy radiated. They said I was confident.

Was that what this was? Confidence?

It was easy to wear whatever, post whatever while my weight had mostly remained unchanged. I knew that part of eating with joy instead of restriction would lead to weight gain. That’s the reality of real sugar, real butter, and bottles of wine shared with friends. I felt that confidence fading as my weight changed. But I was determined to fake it anyway. It felt good to be the happy, fun girl who wore whatever she wanted. Some days, it still feels like an act.

When the doubts crept back in, I focused instead of everything my body has carried me through. I started saying thank you instead of offering myself criticism. And, as uncomfortable as it was, I asked for help. I asked my friends for validation and encouragement, always making sure to return in kind. My friends are supportive but they’re not bullshitters. I knew I could trust their words whenever I questioned mine.

Do I love my body every minute of every day? No.

I would rather be someone who lives in freedom instead of restriction.

My body is what it is, and that is more than enough.

We hear it all the time, healing is not linear. In my opinion, it’s also never really over. My life will always be marked with a clear before and after. I like to think I would have become this person even if I never met him. We’ll never know. As I healed, I realized I was not going back to my old self. I was building a new self. A more vulnerable, confident, joyful, sometimes cynical and callous, resilient self. A free self.