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I am good enough.

“I grew up in a rickety house on Jackson Store Rd. in the middle of no where.

I didn’t come from money.”

I penned that once before in a blog post but that rickety house came back to me today in a wave of shame, humiliation, pride, and gratitude all wrapped up into one.

Today was the first day, in the last 368, that I enjoyed living in South Carolina.

This move has not been easy on me. Change never is. The chaos of my childhood and the constant debilitating fear of what may happen next has made change a foe of mine. They say that chaos brings comfort to those with traumatic childhoods because it’s what they know. But I don’t know any good quote that covers the notion that sometimes a child finds safety and stability in a new space they deem home but then are uprooted. I tend to believe the chaos/comfort line is out the window and the little girl is hanging on with everything she has to what brought her perceived safety. Moving brought chaos to me. I hang on. Still.

I have resisted this move because the change brought grief and unsettling questions. Because change is scary. Because this move brought me closer to all of my nightmares. Because this move brought winding roads and trailer homes that replicate the roads of my childhood. Because this location is too close to that rickety house.

This morning it snowed.

And I mean snowed!

Mother nature brought us 7 inches of beautiful white snow that brought wonder to my son’s eyes and warmth to my heart.

I snapped a snow photo this morning of its glory (before the other 3-4 inches came). Here’s my winter wonderland of a neighborhood:

I came inside and happily browsed through my snow photos. This photo struck me like a ton of bricks.

The beauty. The size of the homes on my streets. The suburban-like nature of this very photo.

It slapped me in the face. I felt overwhelmed with disbelief.

How could this be where I live? How could this really be my life? How do I deserve this?

I get that this may look like a normal neighborhood to you but remember I grew up in a rickety house?

Let me give you a glimpse at my childhood home:

Granted, I took this picture in 2020. Moved out in 2000, I think. I know the house had windows intact and a flowerbed out front. I know it was not as dilapidated as it appears here. But I think you can get the overall picture. The tin roof looks untouched. The steps up to the house are the same. It now looks as atrocious as my memories that pour out of its broken window panes.

Not feeling deserving of good things is connected with a core belief I have that nothing I do is good enough.

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.

Maybe we are all looking at what we have and doubting our worthiness.

I do deserve this home. This family. This life. This goodness. The suburban-like nature of the photograph of my street.

I deserve to be out of that rickety house. I deserve to grow with change.

I worked for everything that I have. That rickety house had walls and a door with a key. It tried to keep me in. Hold onto me. But I escaped. When that rickety house comes up in my mind and covers me with shame- I can fight against it. I can change my thinking. I can try.

I am good enough.

You ARE good enough.

You are not alone.

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I have a flesh eating virus.

The soft tissue of my body has been overtaken by a flesh eating virus.

Or so it feels.

Anxiety making its way up and down my arms.

He is no friend of mine.

He hurts me.

Hurts the ones that love me.

Eats me alive.

Conversations with myself spiral.

Who said that?

What do you want from me?

What is wrong?

Something.

Can you be more specific?

Something is wrong.

NOTHING is ever specific with anxiety.

It’s a flesh eating virus that induces spiraling self-conversations that never get anywhere.

Anxiety is not a friend.

It is a foe.

Equipped with battle gear to fiend off your efforts to rid yourself of him.

A virus without a cure.

Eating you alive.

Anxiety makes everything difficult to understand.

To navigate.

To piece together.

Anxiety fogs reality.

Where are my wipers?

My battle gear?

My cure?

But there is not cure for anxiety.

No quick fix.

No all-protecting battle gear.

Instead, fighting off anxiety takes persistence.

Tenacity.

Grit.

It takes showing up each and everyday ready to take it.

Ready to face the all-powerful, all-consuming anxiety.

Ready to strip it of its power.

The flesh-eating virus puts up a good fight.

But I can handle it.

I can make it through.

I’m showing up everyday and I’m ready.

I won’t back down.

My track record is 100% for surviving my anxiety.

The flesh-eating virus never consumes me.

If I don’t fight back its as if it loses its power.

Anxiety is not all-powerful.

Anxiety is not all-consuming.

Anxiety is an ugly liar.

And anxiety does not win.

My track record proves that.

Does yours?

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Tread water with me

water

Living with high-functioning mental illness is exhausting and quite isolating.

I have been struggling especially hard with my anxiety and depression over the last couple of years but the majority of my struggle has been behind closed doors.

As a therapist, I can easily imagine my list of diagnoses branded to me by counselors and psychiatrists alike

F43.12 Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, Chronic

F33.1 Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent episode, Severe

F41.1 Generalized Anxiety Disorder

Z63.5 Disruption of Family by Separation or Divorce

Z91.5 Personal History of Self Harm

Z62.810 Past History of Physical Abuse in Childhood

Z62.810 Past History of Sexual Abuse in Childhood

Yikes.

But people who meet me. People who take me in. Really breathe me in. They don’t see these things. It’s not that I necessarily try to hide them- I’m just in recovery. And healed- for the most part. But scars run deep. And some days they rear their ugly head and I’m crying in a parking lot. Or on the tiles of my bathroom floor. Or on my sons carpeted floor.

The high-functioning part confuses people who are close to me.

I work several positions in the helping field. Achieving credentials and new certifications regularly.

I am a doctoral student.

I am a wife.

A mother.

A volunteer.

A friend.

I am truly the girl who tries to do it all.

However, struggling with the demons of my past while also being a perfectionist and over-achiever can be completely exhausting and isolating.

My highlight reel is *insert 100 emoji here*.

Smiling faces. Matching family outfits. Funny Instagram stories. Perfect skin.

But they are only the highlights.

Don’t be fooled.

There are endless photographs that are never taken. Never posted. Never shared.

Panoramic views of my mascara streaked cheeks on nights when I cry endlessly to my husband that I just can’t do *this* anymore.

Still frames of my toddler hitting me in the face because hitting is really, really entertaining to him right now.

Nonexistent polaroids of me on my knees begging my husband to please forgive my hurtful words after an argument.

These are the pictures I don’t post.

The pictures you don’t see.

Don’t you have these pictures too?

Don’t be fooled by my success.

I. Am. Struggling.

Sometimes.

Just like you.

Because having a childhood filled with trauma, monsters, and haunting streetlights can really impact a girl.

But I don’t give up.

That’s the high-functioning part.

I keep going.

I survive.

But I struggle too.

Do you get that?

Doing both is completely possible.

I’ve learned overtime that being high-functioning doesn’t make my struggles any easier.

Sometimes I’m bobbing along in the ocean. Other times I’m being pulled under, caught up in a riptide and battling the water that is trying to drown me. It may seem as if my struggles are less severe or less intense but its just that I’ve leaned to tread water.

Tread water with me.

Crocodile in a dress.

Self-concept is everything.

A few nights ago I found myself sharing a meme on Facebook. One that hit a bit harder than others.

What is with these memes about fitting in with other girls that cuts me to the core?

This one was pretty light-hearted. I actually laughed out loud at it at first.

Until I let it sink in that this is my reality:

blend in

I have some pretty amazing people that commented back with encouraging words.

Screen Shot 2019-04-03 at 9.43.15 PM

But ultimately these words didn’t change my self-concept. It didn’t puncture a hole in the ever-growing belief I have that I don’t fit in.

I’m that crocodile.

I wish I could view myself through the lens of those who commented. You are all so kind.

However, I have never taken compliments well.

How could I when I continue moving the bar of what will be good enough.

This recovering perfectionist has fallen off the wagon.

I live in this belief that I’ll never, ever be a girl in a squad.

And sometimes that is okay.

Sometimes it is gut-wrenching.

Growing up I never had steady friends. A short-lived connection here and there. Fizzled out after a few months. Maybe a year.

I always said I was too busy for friends.

Pageants. 4.0 GPA. Volunteering. Cheerleading. Track. Church. Family. Boyfriends.

But those were walls.

Guarded walls that protected me from the risk.

The risk of feeling like that crocodile.

I still do it today.

I think to myself some Saturday’s that I’m too busy for friends.

Too many jobs. Too much responsibility. Endless school.

But those, again, are my tried and true walls of protection.

Because I believe that I am that crocodile.

And who wants to take ballet with an outcast in tights?

Who wants to invest in someone damaged like me?

Recently I thought I was obsessed with an Ariana Grande lyric that says,

“Been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch
Who woulda thought it’d turn me to a savage?”

Until I told my therapist about it (yes- even a therapist can see a therapist) and he looked me square in the eyes and said,

“Do you really want to be a savage?”

No.

I don’t.

It’s all protection. Guarded walls.

These walls stem from how I view myself.

An impersonator in a dress.

A bruised-up, broken, damaged girl in a cardigan.

I’m working on this.

I’m not that girl anymore.

I truly, in this moment, feel as if I am not that girl anymore.

Becoming an adult can be freeing for a girl with a traumatic childhood.

But sometimes that little girl with bruised hips and an empty fridge shows herself to this strong, confident woman I’ve become.

And who would have thought a meme could trigger it?

Although I will now forever imagine myself as that crocodile in a dress I am wondering if somehow, someway, someone out there would like to be friends with an outcast in tights?

Because i’m sick of not believing I’m enough.

I. Am. Enough.

Scattered. Bruised. Strong. Resilient. Hopeful.

If you’re that crocodile in a dress too- try to read the comments. Try to believe the people around you telling you otherwise. Challenge yourself. Take risks.

And ultimately, be vulnerable.

It’s the best.

Thanks for reading- my thoughts were just sort of going tonight.

“Been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch Who woulda thought it’d turn me to a savage?”

I. Am. Enough.

“Been through some bad shit, I should be a sad bitch
Who woulda thought it’d turn me to a savage?”