*Trigger Warning* Mention of suicidal thoughts and feelings of worthlessness.
Little Gab was one of a kind.
She was a dreamer, a sensitive soul that didn’t even want colors to feel left out. When she was asked to picked a favorite, she always answered, “All of them!!” She tearfully waved goodbye to beanie babies she couldn’t take home from the store. “Someone will come to love you soon,” she would say. She made herself the unofficial welcome committee for new students in grade school. She would be their first friend! She wanted to make others feel wanted.
She wanted to be a lot of things, for a lot of different people.
Look at me with my third-person again….
Little Gab wanted to be an artist, an actress, and a singer. Little Gab also wanted to wear the clothes her mom bought her and be blindly confident in the way her dad taught her and be a daughter that her parents could brag about. They had outlined lots of ways she could gain their favor. If they said never, she never. If they said do, she did. Never questioning why.
Beauty was pain, group gatherings were for hosting, and getting good grades made her a good person. All of this made her- made me- feel special, loved, and valuable. These are probably my deepest desires and most essential emotional needs. And the way I needed to act to meet those needs became my identity.
I was special and loved— as long as I did what they wanted.
Mid-high school, I started to branch off. I went to church camp and wanted to be baptized. I started dating my first real boyfriend. I had friends and wanted to hang out with them. But it didn’t matter what I wanted. If it didn’t align with their preferences, I was selfish and wrong.
Fast forward: I go to college.
News flash: I do not excel.
Because I am no longer motivated by the public praise and honor roll ceremonies of K-12, my ego loses its balance and falls off a cliff. No one cares if I spend hours on a diorama in college. I have angry phone calls with my parents, my a cappella group becomes more of a burden than it was life-giving, and my roommate decides to hide some of our shared furniture. And as a cherry on top, this was November 2016. I was stressed, to say the least. I felt emotionally unsupported and misunderstood. I would cry if someone said something vaguely nice to me. I end up losing my scholarship and I have to take summer classes to get things back on track, but my identity is foggy. I no longer felt “smart” or “good” as I struggled through college socially and academically.
When I married Z, all my hopes were unfairly pinned to him. He was my knight in shining armor and he played it well. For a little while, my story felt finished. I felt loved and chosen and it felt like a happily ever after.
And then Covid hit.
Covid did a lot to a lot of people, a lot more to others than myself, but the most significant thing it did for me was make time stand still.
Along with most people in the world, we stayed home in our 1-bedroom apartment. I was a teacher who couldn’t teach in her classroom, an extrovert with no people to please, and could no longer look forward to escaping on trips as a married couple. I kept pushing todo lists on us to feel like I was succeeding at something and following the steps from storybooks like I had my whole life. I would be happy once I found the love of my life and settled down— that’s the goal I need to achieve.
Logically, I was on track.
We bought a house and a dog and we had everything needed to secure happiness in the forecast, and yet— there was a storm brewing. Even with “everything I could ever want,” I still ended up breaking down in a way I never had before- on the floor of the room that would become my son’s nursery 2 years later…
I found myself in a pool of self-rejection— a self-hatred so deep it was hard to grasp any other way someone could see me. I was a burden, I was dispensable. My feelings too much, my successes not enough. All of me was up for debate.
The show I put on was no longer sustainable.
Now, people would see me for what I really was: imperfect, incorrect, defective… not actually special. Not actually loved. Not actually valuable. I felt a sort of numbness in the solution to the problem that was me: I shouldn’t be around anymore.
It was there on the floor of that empty room that I was able to fully express my darkness to Z, who crumpled with realization beside me. In that moment, he met me where I was and we cried together. He fully understood that I was sinking and how desperately I needed help. And he picked me up. Sometimes still, when my mind heads that direction, I visualize him in that moment and he picks me back up again.
Starting therapy truly saved my life.
I feel very blessed to have been directed to 2 amazing therapists- one that was vital in the initial validation of my struggles and the other that was EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) certified. I was NOT crazy or stupid or immature or foolish. I no longer had to bear the weight of all the hurtful words they pinned to me. My feelings were allowed to be felt and required processing. And most of all: my feelings mattered, and they should matter to those who claimed to care for me.
Enter: CPTSD Diagnosis
I had experienced a lot throughout my developmental years that continued to interrupt and affect my life as an adult. CPTSD (Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) was driving my actions and reactions, and showing up in the form of anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, and severe panic attacks.
I wasn’t just randomly and confusingly upset. I was upset because of all my triggers that tugged on the parts of my heart entrapped in hurtful memories. Those parts of me continue to defend me in the ways they know how, which are not always helpful. However, I have to give all these parts of myself grace. That’s why I have continued the work to retrace my steps, help heal Little Gab, and pave new roads toward better ways to live.
This, of course, involved me setting boundaries and expressing my feelings more than I ever had before, which didn’t mix well with those in my life that counted on my people-pleasing ways. My fear of being rejected manifests everywhere I go- at work, at home, with friends, and in groups. I continue to discover just how often I am in emotional turmoil.
So that brings me to this blog.
Little Gab always wanted to share her writing, but she was afraid of rejection. I still am. I didn’t want to share something that made someone I knew upset.
But then I realized that by holding myself back, I was rejecting myself. And every little tweak I made for others’ sole benefit were reminders that I would rather delete parts of myself to feel accepted by others instead of living in joyful acceptance of myself.
My newest therapist recently asked who I would be if others’ opinions didn’t matter. As my mouth hang agape, she tasked me with creating a mood board that captured the real me and where I wanted to go from here.
And this is one of my first steps.
I have things I want to write about, and I want them to exist more than just in my brain. Creating this blog feels like my thoughts and feelings finally matter to me. It’s something I remind myself of daily: What I have to say matters, makes sense, and is worth taking the time to understand.
With all that to say— this blog feels like a risky move for me.
Some topics I plan to dip my toes into may make some people I know uncomfy. But in my mind, the reader of these blog posts is getting to know me- in my purest written form. Through my words, I will face my fear of rejection and I will choose to lift up Little Gab, quirks and all, even though all my previous paths have led me to turn from her.
I have no worries for those I do not know in real life. Strangers to friends or strangers to strangers. That’s fine and dandy to me! I moreso wonder what my mom will gather from my musings, if my closest friends will hear my voice through the text, or what will happen if my coworkers stumble across this blog… WHO KNOWS? First and foremost, I must care for Little Gab’s reality more than the comfort of others.