mental health, Relationships

The Hardest Part of the Story

by Kim3 Comments on The Hardest Part of the Story

The only thing I’ve ever published on this blog and then deleted is still a hard story for me to tell. It’s one that needs to be told and one that I don’t try to hide, but I was far too emotionally invested to write about it appropriately.

People that have known me for a while remember when I got married back in 2010. Looking back at everything now, I realize that the marriage shouldn’t have happened in the first place because I was already far too consumed by my depression, but in the moment, it made sense. The marriage lasted three years. Most of it is now a blur to me, but there are still some very vivid memories.

I suppose I should start back before I even met him. I should start back at my freshman year of college. That was the year that everything started to change for me. That was the year that I partied far too often and invested time in some people that didn’t have good motives. That was the year that I lost any innocence and not all of it was by choice.

Fast forward to the next year when I met the guy I would later marry. There were moments at the very beginning that should have been clues that there was something wrong with my psyche. If I felt too constrained in a blanket or a hug was too tight, I wouldn’t be able to breathe, my eyes would instantly tear up, and my body would just freeze. Panic attacks would become more frequent as the years progressed, but I should have realized that something wasn’t quite right at the very beginning.

What started off as a casual friendship turned into a pretty serious relationship. I became dependent on him and went as far as to drop out of college and move to another state to be with him. That was when he proposed. Part of the reason for proposing was so that we could live together without the complete and utter disapproval from my parents.

Looking back, the year we spent together while engaged was a year of my emotional and mental health utterly deteriorating. I started waking up in the middle of the night because of panic attacks. There is nothing more terrifying than being unable to move and so frozen that your brain can’t process what is going on around you.

The wedding day quickly approached. I clearly remember wanting to call off the wedding day, but also being so concerned about what others would think if I did that I carried through with it. I was a mess the weekend of. There wasn’t a waking hour that I wasn’t fighting back tears. I thought it was happy nerves, but I’ve never been that out of control with my emotions, and I know now that the overwhelming emotions were more signs that there was something off.

We were married, and things were fine for a while. This is where things get even harder to talk about. I suppose typing it out is easier than verbalizing everything, but there were three different instances during the three years we were married that changed everything. It was a kind of abuse, the kind that is both hurtful and degrading, and I was completely unequipped to respond properly. After the third incident, I finally realized that there was nothing more important than getting out. I’ve always used the same example when explaining this, but it was as if there was a pane of glass that kept getting cracks in it until that third time. That final moment of hurt and abuse was enough to shatter the glass and make me realize just how badly I needed to remove myself from the situation.

I’ve found that this is a tricky topic to discuss for a couple of different reasons. For one, I needed to escape for my own health and safety, but I’m not out to paint my ex husband as an evil person. There are numerous great qualities about him, but I can’t look past the pain he caused me. I’ve never wanted revenge, but I wasn’t about to allow that hurt to continue. You hear about abuse happening, but you don’t imagine it happening in a seemingly happy marriage. You don’t imagine someone who is beloved by everyone who meets him could possibly laugh when confronted with the pain he’s caused somebody.

Secondly, I don’t want pity. I’ve never wanted people to feel sorry for me. It’s in the past now, and just like the other hurtful moments in my life, I’ve learned from it. I’ve learned how to stand up for myself and I’ve learned to be far less tolerant when confronted with similar issues. I’ve learned how strong I can be when it’s absolutely necessary, and I think that strength is my most beautiful quality. I’m proud of the person I’m becoming in my recovery.

So the reason I share the basic overview of this part of my story is this: I want more people to truly understand that there can be pain when everything looks perfect on the outside. I want people to be more willing to help when they think somebody might be hurting. Most importantly, I want people who might be experiencing something similar to know that they can be hopeful, that there is another side and a way out from the hurt. Recovery is possible even after the darkest moments.

Niederrad, Germany- October 2014

Niederrad, Germany- October 2014

listening to: Vance Joy

Reflections

Finding Balance

by KimLeave a Comment on Finding Balance

Life is strange. It’s beautiful in the strangeness, but it’s got an edge of danger. There’s this quote I read not too long ago about being on the edge of life instead of in the middle of it, because watching the chaos is better than being the center of that chaos. I like the visual that creates. It’s like this wild dance- if you’re in the center, you’ll be completely consumed, but if you’re too close to the edge, you fly out into nothingness. There’s a fine balance that exists, and I often find that balance difficult to achieve.

I got asked the other day if I believed in myself. Not just on a surface level, but at the true root of my being. The entire conversation was very emotionally charged to begin with, and despite responding with a “yes”, I don’t think I was very convincing. It’s funny, really. I’ve realized that I unintentionally come off as pretty confident to people I don’t know very well, but I think it’s a shell personality. It’s a way to protect the insecurity that I’ve always dealt with but haven’t been comfortable enough to let others see until recently.

I think it’s really difficult to transition from a personal outlook of insecurity to one of actually believing in yourself. It’s not as if I haven’t had supportive friends and family. I have. But I also had expectations that were astronomically high. Some of my most vivid memories from my past are ones where I just knew I let somebody down. My depression took that even further. I transitioned from somebody who had all sorts of potential to somebody who could barely function enough to do daily tasks like change clothes and eat. I suppose part of this disbelief in myself stems from a fear that I’ll be too overwhelmed with the business of this new life I’m leading and the thin pane of success I’m treading on will completely shatter. Of course, I know part of the issue is the living in the past that I’ve written about before, but I do know that I need to occasionally step back and look objectively at my actions and life to make sure I’m not unintentionally headed back down a road leading to depression.

I want to believe in myself. I want that surface confidence that I supposedly have to permeate through those layers and show up in the deeper parts of my life. Intellectually, I know I have some things about me that I can be proud of, but it’s truly believing it that is the hard part. It occurs to me that writing and exposing those insecure and vulnerable moments is a practice in being confident, which I believe is one reason why I do write about those topics so often. Perhaps with enough of that, the confidence will slowly start to become a secure part of my personality instead of just a surface decoration.

Niederrad, Germany- October 2014
Niederrad, Germany- October 2014

listening to Damien Rice

Social Issues

Underground Community

by Kim4 Comments on Underground Community

There’s an underground current rushing through Tyler, Texas right now. It’s a movement full of creativity and community, and it’s one that I wasn’t really expecting to experience.

The first time I lived here, I despised every second of it. I hated living in the south, and wasn’t a fan of how sheltered people seemed to be. Texas is a little world in and of itself, and many of the people I encountered didn’t care to expand their way of thinking. I moved as soon as possible for university in the funky little town of Fayetteville, Arkansas.

I adored Fayetteville after one visit. The weather was milder which made outdoor activities such as hiking and camping much more enjoyable. They have an amazing music scene, and local businesses are given a huge priority in the community. It was an exciting place to call home for a while.

Being back in Tyler has been an unexpected journey for me. I dreaded being surrounded by that small town atmosphere again. However, Tyler’s changed. There are so many people that I knew years and years ago that I keep running into that have joined this underground community. It’s a community built up of artists, musicians, and dreamers. It’s obvious that this culture is being built very intentionally, and that’s so exciting to me. I had a talk with a new friend yesterday who was talking about living in Tyler again, and he said that when he moved back to Tyler, he knew that if he wanted a good atmosphere to live in, he would have to part of the hard working group to create it.

It’s thrilling to be a part of a group of people who are creating a culture that they can be proud of living in. After all, we’re part of the generation that is ripe for initiating change.

“I like to surround myself with creative people. They love life in such a contagious way that can’t often be put into words” – Rachel Wolchin

East Gallery (Berlin Wall) - Berlin, Germany 2014
East Gallery (Berlin Wall) – Berlin, Germany 2014

listening to Bastille

mental health, Reflections

Feedback

by Kim1 Comment on Feedback

If there’s one thing that I’ve enjoyed about writing on this blog more than anything else, the chances it’s given me to connect with other people is hands down my favorite. I’ve written about how flattered, yet taken aback, I’ve been when it comes to old acquaintances or friends emailing me to let me know they’ve been reading my blog, but it struck me again just how incredible it can be.

Yesterday, I got the pleasure of having lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in over 10 years. She was only back in Texas for a few days visiting family before flying back to LA, so getting to spend a few hours catching up with her was really special. We got onto the topic of my blog and how she had started reading it months ago, and it was just so exciting to get to audibly hear what somebody else thought of it. The thing that struck me most is that she found what I’ve written so far to be relatable and open, which has always been my main goal.

Deep in my soul, I have all these dreams of being able to help people who are struggling with the same types of demons that I’ve fought for years. That isn’t to say that I wish some of my past experiences on anybody, but being a support system for somebody who might not have anyone else has been a goal of mine for a while now. Yes, I do get caught off-guard every time anybody tells me that I’ve been able to inspire them the smallest amount, but it’s also exciting. It means that being as honest as possible on here is accomplishing exactly what I’m hoping for: letting people who might be struggling know that they’re not alone.

I don’t think I can say this enough times, but I like being an open book when it comes to my writing. It’s a freeing experience. I have this tendency to dwell on specific moments for far too long, but when I can write down the thoughts going through my mind, it’s almost as if I can remove myself from the situation a bit and look at the problems more objectively. I think exposing all of the dark moments is the best way for me to truly heal, so I’ll continue down the path of sharing as much as possible for as long as possible.

Cotton plants on the way out to West Texas - October 2014
Cotton plants on the way out to West Texas – October 2014
writing

The Shoes

by KimLeave a Comment on The Shoes

I have these shoes. They’re easily my most prized item of clothing. It’s not that they’re worth a lot of money or are from a top designer. Rather, it’s the fact that they represent a beautiful story.

I got them the week after Thanksgiving last year. This was a particularly difficult time for me emotionally. I had just informed my now ex-husband that I was filing for divorce three weeks prior, and we spent Thanksgiving dinner together at a Golden Corral because we had no family to visit and no kitchen to eat in. I very vividly remember getting a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a salad and eating maybe two bites before everything tasted like cardboard. That night, a friend and I left to spend the weekend in Dallas. We went to a concert, ate and drank far more than any two people should, and did copious amounts of shopping. The shoes were my big purchase of the trip.

About two weeks later, my aunt passed away after an extremely long and difficult battle with multiple sclerosis. My shoes accompanied me to the gravesite as my family said their final goodbyes. The wind was sharp and cold, and the only part of my body that had any sort of warmth and comfort were my feet. It seems silly to think about that now and write the words down, but when you’re in the midst of difficulties, the strangest thoughts pop into your head, even thoughts about how it’s nice that at least your feet are warm.

I spent the next five weeks in Texas with family and friends. There was a four day period where I stayed with some friends and we took a mental vacation with hours upon hours spent playing video games with short breaks only for sleep and food. I would reach down and tie the laces of my shoes so often without looking that they almost seemed to tie themselves.

Soon after that, I took the biggest leap out of my comfort zone yet and moved to Frankfurt. The shoes accompanied me through bag checks, security lines, and customs. I wore them for countless walks around the small village of Kelsterbach with an infant that quickly stole my heart. They kept my feet comfortable and warm through rainy days back and forth from the middle of the city picking up the greatest little girl I’ve ever known from preschool every day.

They were the only shoes I brought with me when I went to Israel a month later for work with the family I lived with. It was during one of the days wandering through the maze of streets that make up the old city of Jerusalem when the left shoe acquired an inky black mark on the toe. I still have no idea what it is, but I don’t think I really care to know.

I walked around the streets of Paris wearing the shoes even though they had started to show a little bit of wear and tear. They accompanied me to Lugano in the south of Switzerland. They were the only shoes I brought when I visited a friend in Aarau, Switzerland, so when I rode on the back of his motorcycle from his flat back to the train station in Basil in the rain for an hour, my shoes were drenched and didn’t end up drying out for two days. When I finally got back to the states, I wore the shoes walking around the city of New York, and they supported me through the hours I spent on my feet at the Warsaw bar in Brooklyn during the Damien Rice show, which is arguably in the top 5 moments of my life thus far.

When I was talking to a friend last night about writing this post, I told him that it felt a bit superficial to be writing an entire blog post about a pair of shoes. However, this point in all of this is that these shoes have become a physical symbol of the changes I’ve been through this year. They might be a bit beat up and worn down, but I am absolutely in love with the character that the dirt and water have added. There are stories behind every little mark, and that’s the beauty of it.

shoes

listening to: Glen Hansard