Is your thinking faulty? Go to war.

Have you ever felt like the Cheshire Cat?

Fading away.

Slipping away.

Until you are no more.

Lately I’ve felt like the disappearing cat from a beloved children’s book. Fading, fading, gone.

Does anyone notice?

Can you still see me?

I feel as if I’m floating.

Barely here.

Barely there.

Stretched so thin that I’m now Gumby.

At what point will I snap?

Am I as indestructible as I hope to be?

Nothing can kill me.

Not even myself.

Pull. Pull. Pull.

You grab one arm.

You grab the other.

My stretchy, indestructible green arms will let you pull and pull but they will not snap.

I will reappear.

My grin wider.

More present.

I am reinventing myself.

Will you like me?

Can you recognize me?

My costume is the same.

Blonde hair.

Spray tanned skin.

Hooped earrings.

But I am not the same.

The strength and indestructibility I feel growing within me is superhuman.

You can’t break me.

He didn’t break me.

Nothing can break me.

Pull and pull with all your might.

This little girl can put up a fight.

Lately I’ve been battling demons.

Calling myself names.

Damaged.

Worthless.

Never. Good. Enough.

But I’ve won the fight. I’ve knocked down the demons. Changed my language.

Vulnerable.

Raw.

Trying.

The. Best. I. Can. Be.

Are you battling demons?

Fading into the background?

Until you’re nothing?

Being stretched every which way?

Me too.

What can you do about it?

Try what I did.

Change your language.

Fight the demons.

Reframe your negative thoughts.

CHALLENGE YOUR THINKING.

Ask yourself- is this true?

How accurate is this thought?

Because I may be damaged but I’m trying.

I am not worthless.

I am hopeful.

I am not always good enough but I am good enough for the people who love me.

Fight the demons.

We are at war.

I am at war with myself. But I’m winning.

I am resurrected and stronger than ever.

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Grief is not an event in time

me and dad

Today marks 14 years since my father died by suicide. It seems like an eternity ago and as if it were yesterday at the same time. This is the tricky thing about grief. It bobs along in the past and guts you in the present. No matter how much time passes by these notions still ring true.

Grief is not an event in time.

Grief is like love.

It is a life-long, ever-changing experience.

It evolves.

It expands.

It changes in depth.

Volume.

Intensity.

But it never fades.

It changes us.

For always.

Forever.

14 years ago when I heard the words fumble from my Mom’s mouth that my Daddy was dead, I was forever tied to this grief.

Anchored to its weight.

Bounded by its presence.

For always.

Forever.

It is both the past and the present.

Moments of gut-wrenching intensity bring me to inconsolable tears even 14 years later.

Today consisted of a few of those moments.

Seeing his photo grace my social media timeline today (even though he didn’t live to see Facebook- or Instagram- or my blog) brought me to tears.

His brown eyes reflecting back at me in the mirror brought me to tears.

Even though I see these eyes every day.

Explaining to an audience full of grievers that my son’s middle name carries on my Dad’s legacy brought me to a drive home with tear-streaked cheeks.

Grief is in the present.

It is the now.

Grief is for always.

Forever.

Grief is the price we pay for love.

These gut-wrenching moments are because I love my Dad.

Because I hurt that he hurt so badly and no one rescued him.

Because I didn’t rescue him.

Because I love him.

No matter the years that pass by my grief will never be in the past.

Not completely.

This grief. This love. Is a part of me.

It’s who I am.

It’s the best of me.

The worst of me.

My brightest light of hope.

My darkest depression.

This grief is me.

This grief is present.

For always.

Forever.

If you are missing someone you love and wondering why your grief is in the present and not the past- don’t feel like you’re doing something wrong.

Because you aren’t.

Grief is not an event in time.

It is the present and the past.

It is a lifelong, ever-changing experience.

Just take it one day at a time.

For always.

Forever.

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I’ll try again.

70E250EC-4692-4B65-9517-0D16F2E4EDA3

I feel as if I never really got better.

The depression will always hang heavy over me.

My limbs have been fighting against it for as long as I remember.

Lifting it up.

Pushing against its weight.

I couldn’t hold it up forever.

It’s as if I painted myself with gold paint.

For so long I was shiny and new.

Reborn.

Strong.

Sparkly from the outside.

But the paint was a thin layer.

That’s peeling at the edges.

Underneath is nasty.

Black.

Decayed.

Fucked up.

Paint doesn’t last forever. Over time it begins to discolor or chip in places and then what was once there is exposed for the world to see.

What I’m wondering is how I fooled everyone with this shiny layer? 

Could they not see my darkness peeking through? 

Did they think I truly changed?

Healed? 

Grew?

I didn’t. 

I’ll always be broken. 

Dingy.

Decayed.

Fucked up.

The moment that monster crawled on top of me.

The moment she turned on that dryer. 

The moment I heard our dogs yelp in agony. 

The moment my Dad fell asleep in a room filled with carbon monoxide.

The moment I cut my wrists on that bathroom floor.

The moment I said I do.

The moment my son was born.

The depression has always been there. Growing. Lingering. Forming. In remission.

I’ve been broken.

Through everything.

The good and the bad.

The paint is peeling.

I don’t know what to do. 

I feel like giving up. 

Throwing in the towel.

Dropping the act.

I feel so ugly.

Decayed.

Fucked up.

Broken.

I don’t want to do this anymore. 

How can I expect someone to paint on another coat? 

It will just peel again.

Or discolor.

I am unfixable.

I came off the manufacturer line fucked up from the beginning.

They should of threw me away. 

Why won’t I give in to the darkness?

Who I really am? 

Why do I keep getting myself repainted only to find the paint peeling in the future?

I am throwing away my used paint brush.

Will you throw me away?

It’s for your own good. 

Just let me go. 

The weight of this darkness, this depression, reminds me of the monsters body. Heavy. Suffocating. Never ending. 

I want to be done. 

But here I am…

Purchasing a new paint brush. And a sander. 

Sand me.

Buffer out my darkness.

Smooth out my flaws.

Then paint me up.

Make me new.

Help me heal.

Take my hand. 

Pull me out of this darkness.

Make me shine.

Or maybe I should paint myself this time.

This darkness is not your burden.

You are not a hired hand.

It is not your job to fix me.

It’s mine.

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You are good enough.

you can

Two steps forward, one step back.

The hesitation pattern of my life.

Second guessing.

Overthinking.

Two steps forward, one step back.

I am my own worst critic.

You will fail.

You will embarrass yourself.

You. Are. Not. Good. Enough.

The thoughts that cloud my mind.

I have never been a good friend to myself.

I can pick myself apart.

Any award or accomplishment I have received has been ripped apart in my mind.

Luck.

Chance.

They felt sorry for you.

The thoughts that cloud my mind.

When I was in fourth grade I was awarded the honor of student of the month. Some girls at school snickered behind my back. In a bathroom stall I heard them gush about how the teachers felt sorry for me.

Words of judgement slipped through their nine year old mouths rather quickly.

“Did you notice her bruises?”

“Her hair is always a mess.”

“Does she only own one pair of shoes?”

Walls built, my heart as guarded as can be. I remember walking out of that stall with my head held high.

The front I show to the world is confident.

Controlled.

Powerful.

Motivated.

Gritty.

But I can pick myself apart.

You will fail.

You will embarrass yourself.

You. Are. Not. Good. Enough.

Two steps forward, one step back.

It could be worse.

It’s slow movement but its movement.

GET OUT OF YOUR HEAD, BRANDY.

Stride.

Move.

Try.

Hesitate no more.

Life is too short, too fragile, and too uncertain to take so many steps backward.

I want the front that I show the world to be my reality.

Confident.

Controlled.

Powerful.

Motivated.

Gritty.

Maybe one day I’ll be her. Until then I’ll admit to the world that I pick myself apart.

Because maybe I’m not alone in this.

Maybe we are all criticizing who we are instead of loving ourselves as we should.

You will succeed.

You will be proud of yourself.

You ARE good enough.

You are not alone. 

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Guarded by a Fortress.

locks

I’ve been told I’m difficult to get to know more times than I can count.

I wish I could give better first impressions.

But the real me is guarded.

Protected.

Locked up tight.

The keys to my castle are hidden in the depths of my mind.

He who shall enter be warned.

It isn’t always pretty.

I put on a good show.

Hair, makeup, nails, clothes, education, employment, dinner, dessert.

But it’s all a show.

Who am I?

He who shall enter be warned.

It isn’t always pretty.

When I was in fifth grade some girls in my class cornered me. They made fun on my beat up gym shoes and my frizzy strands. They bestowed upon me the presidential title for the IBTC. All fellow girls cringe at that committee. No one wants to be President. But what those girls didn’t know is I didn’t care. My walls were higher than their words could go.

Before fifth grade I built my castle walls. In the streetlight lit room of my childhood I built a fortress around myself.

I realized at a young age the importance of protecting myself. From the monsters. From the mean girls. From the frigid air of our unheated home.

Protecting myself meant that no one could hurt me. It gave me power. Control. Safety.

All the things I didn’t have as a girl who grew up in chaos.

Taller and taller the walls went following each night in my pale pink room filled with snow made of baby powder.

All I needed was a key and I swallowed it whole.

Although this fortress protected me over the years, I’m afraid that I’ve blocked out too much.

Too much possibility. Too much hope. Too much Brandy.

I want to let her shine but I fear the mean girls.

I fear the rejection

I don’t fear the monster because I could take him down if I wanted to.

I don’t fear the chaos because I now have power. Control. Safety.

Should I remove a brick?

Will you remove a brick?

Will you know me?

I swallowed the key. Can you find it?

He who shall enter be warned.

It isn’t always pretty.

 

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I slaughtered her.

Do you ever scroll through old Facebook updates and cringe at the utter embarrassment you used to be?

Because I have.

On a daily basis I am able to capture a narrow glimpse at the person I used to be.

you've changed

It’s no wonder I don’t have lifelong friends.

I changed.

I grew.

I stood on that alternate Brandy’s shoulders and claimed the territory.

I slaughtered her.

I grew anew.

Updates like a lost car that was never lost or declarations of being on house arrest because of my troublesome behavior and my parents attempting to salvage my reputation and mental health are plastered across my memory page on Facebook.

In the past I allowed myself to cringe.

But not anymore. I have new eyes to see these updates with.

Although it is still slightly embarrassing to remember the person I used to be….

It’s actually reassuring at the same time.

It assures me of the capability and possibility of change in each and every human.

My hope for humanity is, oftentimes, restored amongst the feelings of shame buried deep inside of me.

For who we are now took a journey.

And on my journey to myself I’ve been so many people.

Along the way I have nurtured my soul.

I have attempted to the best of my abilities to feed and fuel myself with grace and care.

Although the slaughtered alternate Brandy still lives somewhere deep inside of me. She is kept at bay. She is the roots of this Brandy. The very beginning of her transformation begins with a drunk night and a lost car. With declarations of being on house arrest after a night full of secrets.

Do not cringe at who you once were.

Remember your roots began there.

Fuel your soul. Allow yourself grace.

Water your roots, for they may grow into flowers.

 

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The shit had to stop: the day I stopped trying to kill myself.

When I was 22 years old I tried to kill myself.

I was crying on my knees in a communal bathroom and remember breaking a razor and slicing my wrists. There was a lot of blood. Sometimes in my dreams I still see the red pools on the floor around me. I remember shaking in shock that this time I had actually done it. After years of toying with the idea and overdosing on tylenol or swerving my car recklessly, I had actually done it. I felt panicked but was glued to the floor. I thought of no one. And things went dark.

I woke up in a hospital room the following day. Alive.

Let me back up a bit.

As a child, things were no walk in the park. My family was dirt poor and broken. There was violence in the home I grew up in. For many years I was ashamed to discuss this because I was dealing with years of family secrets and shame. I didn’t want anyone to think of me as less than. I was hurt as a child. However, I was also loved. It’s not fair for me to gloss over the good in my childhood. I loved singing in pageants and spending Saturday’s at my MaMa’s house. But there were days I feared my Mom would be killed. Or things even worse would happen to me.

Things improved around middle school despite my frizzy hair and constant awkwardness of my life.

Then, my Daddy killed himself my sophomore year of high school.

Feelings of blame, shame, anger, hatred, disgust, abandonment, insecurity, and guilt consumed me.

I became overwhelmingly depressed for years to come.

I battled with depression. Long and hard.

I also had good days. Days I smiled. Days I thought I could do this. Days I moved forward.

But the bad days. They hung heavy. They became me.

I was unfocused.

I was barely existing.

I was more insecure than I feel that words could ever justify.

My existence depended on other people.

If they loved me enough. If they cared about me enough. If they texted me. Then I would live. If they didn’t I would swallow as many pills as I could get my hands on and try to sleep. Hoping for a long, dark sleep.

And then I hit rock bottom.

I joined the military to escape everything. I was shipped off to basic training and 9 days later I slit my wrists in a bathroom with blue walls. This is the day that changed everything for me.

I spent 23 days in the hospital. TWENTY THREE.

I got on medication.

Resisted treatment. Then began to open up.

I let myself feel all the emotions I had pushed aside all those years.

I began to heal.

And I decided I needed a change. I wanted to live. I deserved to live.

Much like an addict, I decided this shit has got to stop.

The self-destruction.

The victim act.

The poor me spectacle.

The shit had to stop.

And it did. I became determined.

Even though I hid my suicide from most of the people in my life (who so graciously believed my lies surrounding my medical discharge from the military), I was empowered. I knew I needed to work in mental health. I knew I had a purpose in life.

And..

Seven short years later and my life is far from perfect but it is absolutely perfect to me. Perfectly imperfect.

I am married to the love of my life. The only person who knows every, single secret that I spent years hiding and loves me anyways.

I have the most wonderful son. With the brightest blue eyes in the world. He is so worthy of life.

I have my work. Where I’m able to empathize to great lengths. I’m able to use my experience to truly understand how shitty life can be but also know how beautiful it can be.

So, if you’re like 22 year old me. Know you’re not alone. LIFE IS HARD,

but it can also be beautiful.

So, so, so, so beautiful.

I thank God daily for my second chance. Not everyone gets that.

I wonder if we had found my Daddy earlier what would things be like. What if we had barreled down his bedroom door and released all the poisonous gas that would fill his body and take him from us. Would he feel the same way? Would he say THANK GOD I FAILED AT THAT. THANK GOD I GET A SECOND CHANCE.

I like to think he would.

Because we could have proven him wrong. He would have held a grandchild in the future. One with big, bright blue eyes who giggles with all the joy of the world.

Don’t do it.

A second chance isn’t guaranteed.

Call 1-800-273-8255 if you need someone to talk to.

No one else can play your part.

no one else

Why do we always give generic praise and specific criticism?

I’ve been thinking. 

About how we communicate with others.

How we interact relationally and make meaning.

And it got me here:

why do we give generic praise and specific criticism? 

Have you noticed that?

We are quick to give real meaty and specific criticism because there is something that we don’t like and we want it different. Criticism focuses on what’s wrong. Why don’t we focus on what’s right?

Do your realize what giving a genuine compliment does for the person you give it to?

You can completely make someones day by a genuine gesture.

What about what giving a genuine compliment can do you for?

Focusing on the good in the world- what’s right with the world- can improve your mood immediately.

Also- giving a genuine compliment can further a conversation or strengthen a bond.

So here it goes- instead of criticism I choose praise.

good job and well done

Anonymous compliments to those I love (because directed ones may not belong in a blog post):

I am grateful for the way you make me feel appreciated, loved, and worthy. I recognize the effort you put forth in making me feel this way. I have never felt so at ease with another person. You are my safe place.

Your trust means everything to me. I have let you down time and time again and you continuously believe in me. That’s courage! (and unconditional love that only a Mother could have)

Life dealt you some rough cards but you really showed her!

You were brave to get your divorce and be true to who you are. Your bravery does not go unnoticed. And I love the REAL you.

I have never known someone with such a love for life as you. You make everyone around you feel good and energized about life.

I value the moments of true friendship we shared. You helped me become who I am today.

You are so caring. No matter what, you ask me how my day is and that does not go unnoticed. The effort you put into our friendship is meaningful.

You are the definition of strength.

You have changed in all the best ways. You have worked so hard to be the person you are today and your dedication to being your best self is admirable.

You loved me when I didn’t love myself and that’s praiseworthy.

I challenge you- GIVE SPECIFIC PRAISE.

Give compliments.

Shower those around you with positivity.

Focus on what’s right with someone.

 

Don’t let an outcry go unanswered

Six years ago I was clinically depressed.

I was self-harming. I hated myself. And I had almost no hope for the future. I can remember questioning my purpose and spiraling deeper and deeper into oblivion.

On October 7, 2011 this was a post I posted on social media:

why

And it received 0 comments.

Depression can make you uncomfortable. I get it.

However, this was clearly an outcry. I was begging someone to tell me the purpose to life. Pleading for a reason to live. But no one commented. My outcry went unanswered and I continued to cut.

The posts surrounding this one was some nail design (I used to be super into doing my nails for whatever reason) and a song lyric. Both of these posts had comments. “Luv that song girl” and “Cute nails”. But 0 comments on my what’s the point post.

About 80% of people who complete suicide send out warning signs.

Look for them. Be a detective. Search for the hurting and the lonely. Give them a reason to live.

Answer their pleading “why’s”.

Don’t let their outcry go unanswered.

Warning signs that a person may be in acute danger and may urgently need help:

Talking about wanting to die or to kill oneself;

Looking for a way to kill oneself;

Talking about feeling hopeless or having no purpose;

Talking about feeling trapped or being in unbearable pain;

Talking about being a burden to others;

Increasing the use of alcohol or drugs;

Acting anxious, agitated, or reckless;

Sleeping too little or too much;

Withdrawing or feeling isolated;

Showing rage or talking about seeking revenge; and

Displaying extreme mood swings.

{DISCLAIMER: Okay, clearly no one expects everyone to comment on every depressing post. No one is to blame for the 0 comments. However, if you see someone post something out of the ordinary or that makes you worry-reach out to them.}