Just Keep Swimming

 

Twenty days ago, I was so excited to start writing again.  I had ideas and wanted to just ride the wave of creativity and then the wave became unsteady, I became unsteady, fell over, and got caught in the waves. 

The “waves” in this instance is depression and anxiety.  I take medication and I see a therapist but sometimes…sometimes it just happens. 

I read this article or post or something that said that when you’re caught in ocean waves, you’re not supposed to fight.  You’re supposed to swim parallel to the shore until you’re out of the current then head for land.  I’ve been caught in ocean waves before and it’s really hard to figure out which way is up when you’re at the mercy of the ocean – swirled around, bobbing to the surface just to be hit in the face by another wave of salty water, eyes stinging, mouth and throat coated in salt, lungs filled with liquid, no room for air.

That’s how depression and anxiety feel.  What makes it harder is you’re supposed to fight it; use your coping skills, remind yourself that it’s your brain playing tricks on you, talk to your therapist, take walks, take your meds…

just. keep. swimming

But it’s exhausting, your limbs hurt, your mouth is coated in salt, you’re choking on water, and your eyes are burning.

So, this is what I decided to write about because there’s nothing else, I can think to say.  It’s not glamorous, witty, thought provoking, or uplifting.  It’s just part of who I am and a part of my life.  I just keep swimming.

Reboot

 

Lately, I’ve missed writing.  I used to write all the time.  Hell, I got a master’s degree in English with an emphasis in creative nonfiction but the experience and the “constructive” criticism I made me doubt myself. I decided I wasn’t really a good writer.  So, I stopped taking it seriously.  I stopped looking for contests and paying attention to how other authors wrote.  I kept writing but I didn’t care.  It was just something I did until I didn’t.    

But lately, I’ve felt this overwhelming desire to write again. 

So, I decided to resurrect my old blog from about 7 years.  It took me about 30 minutes to figure out what Gmail address I’d used and another 30 to get to the blog.  When I saw it, I was kind of shocked because – why did it look like I was a cosmetics influencer when my blogs had nothing to do with makeup?  It felt like looking at an old diary.  Back then, I was desperate to contribute and be seen and validated.  I wanted to be part of the group of creative voices I heard, read, and watched but I got too focused on what the blog looked like versus what I said because again I didn’t really care what I wrote.  Looking at the blog, I remember being exhausted by the decorating and having no energy to put into words.

So, I’m starting over.  I’m not going to worry about background and font colors or what colors a button changes to when you click on it (although I did change the theme to something more me and less “buy this foundation”).  I’m just going to write.  Obviously, I’m going to edit and probably have someone review my writing for grammar and spelling.  So, if something slips by it’s not my fault.  Even if it is, it’s my editors. 

Here’s what to expect – random thoughts and words.  There’s no theme to my blog.  It’s just me sharing insight and thoughts on whatever comes to my ADHD mind to share.  I might write about a sermon from church or share a recipe and pictures of something I’ve cooked or baked.  I might vent about work, friends, family.  I’ll definitely post about my cats and dog.  I just want to share and be part of the writing community again.  I miss it.   

Honestly, I’m not even sure if I’m actually going to post this.  I might just act like a turtle and stick my head back in my shell.  I mean, my shell is pretty nice – internet, TV, two cats, a dog, and valet trash pickup.    

An Alicia by any other name...

My white mother named me after my grandmothers.  She fell in love my paternal grandmother’s name.  My grandmother was delighted when she found out I had been named after her.  Growing up my name was not popular, in truth, most Mexican-American/LatinX names were not popular.  There were no bike license plates with my name on it, no pencils, or pens.  

However, monogrammed bike plates, pencils, and pens were small compared to trying to get people to understand and pronounce my name correctly. 

Trying to get people to understand was always tedious.  The correct way to pronounce my name is Al-lee-C-ya.  Here’s the pronunciation:  Alicia.  When I gave my name, most people inevitably heard:  Elise, Alisa, Lease, or Lisa.  Even when I spelled my name after saying…A L I C I A…they still got it wrong.

So I started using the white American pronunciation:  A-lee-sha which was better except the spelling was butchered.  I became Elisha, Alisha, Aleesha, etc.  But it was easier to have my name misspelled rather than mispronounced.  Then some where along the line a white teacher changed my name to the “American” (really the white) name Alice and by default my classmates followed suit and called me Alice because who are/how dare we questions/correct adults.  Side note:  my mother HATED that I was called Alice.  She would always exclaim, “you’re name is Al-lee-C-a not Alice!”  She didn’t care that it was hard for people to say.  She named me what she named me and in  her mind everyone else needed to get in line.   

Finally, when I went to college, I became Alisha because I wanted to use my name but knew I had to make it easier for white folks before they changed my name again.       

Then my name became popular, the world started to become more inclusive, I became an adult, and people started to ask me, “How do you pronounce your name?”, “Why did you tell me it was Alisha?”  And I had to explain to people the politics of being Mexican-American/LatinX with a Spanish name. 

“It’s easier for white people to say Alisha” which offended some and made others feel guilty.     

The truth is there was more to it than just mispronunciation of my name.  It was about assimilating and making it easier for the majority to accept another Mexican-American and to call me by a name that, even if it wasn’t exactly correct, was more correct than it had been before. 

I’ve started to use my correct pronunciation more often and have gotten to spelling my name right after even though the person still spells it wrong but baby steps, you know?   

Not Really a Compliment

To understand this blog, I have to tell you a little about my mental health.  Which doesn't bother me as much as it might bother others.

In a nutshell, I have been diagnosed with anxiety and depression.  I take medication and I see a therapist.  The anxiety is much easier to control than previously.  It still rears its ugly head from time to time and I have to fight to keep it from overwhelming me but I do okay. 

The depression, on the other hand, is a monster that I have a much more difficult time handling.  It's always there under the surface and there are times when it's worse than others.  My depression is marked by a loss of appetite and weight loss and a more reserved and quiet me.

So, anyway, a few nights ago I went to an end of the year get together with classmates and professors.  Everyone was happy to see me as I don't have classes this semester so I have been MIA, so to speak.  During this get together someone remarked that I looked good; that I'd lost weight.  I replied that I hadn't been trying and the person remarked, "Well, whatever you're doing keep doing it."

At that moment, I had a choice.  I could 1) let the comment sail by me, smiling and nodding in agreement or 2) I could be discomfort inducing honest with the person.  I opted for honest because misery likes company, I don't know, I guess.

I looked the person straight in the eye and said, "I'm going through a serious depression and am not eating much or at all at times."  Their face went blank then embarrassed because complimenting my weight loss should be a compliment, especially for someone my size, right?  Oh yea, I forgot to mention, I'm also fat.  And as a fat person, I should be trying to lose weight and I should be happy when someone compliments my weight loss.  

Except, I'm not trying to lose weight.  I'm trying to make sure I eat rather than just sleep or stare into space.  I'm trying to keep breathing even though I'm suffocating.  I'm just trying to survive.  Which means telling me I look good having lost weight and that I should "keep doing what I'm doing" is not really a compliment.  

I know compliments about weight loss are well meaning and some people (those who are actually trying to lose weight) appreciate those compliments.  But unless you know for a fact that the person is trying to shed some pounds maybe find something else to compliment them on; maybe compliment their hair, or clothes or shoes.  Otherwise, you might be flashing a light on a personal battle.   
 

Go the Distance

When people ask me to name my favorite film, they’re often caught off guard by my answer – Rocky.  I get it.  I don't look like the type of woman who would like something like Rocky.  It's not a romance drama/comedy or action film filled with hot guys.  It just doesn't seem to go with my outward appearance--hair, makeup, and nails done.  Unless you know me.  Then you get it.  For those who don't I'll explain why Rocky is my favorite film.  

At its core, past the grit and blood and sweat, it’s a story about a man going on a journey not to reach a goal set by others but by himself.  Rocky is seen as a loser, a thug, someone who was too lazy to reach his potential.  Prior to becoming his manger/trainer, Mickey says as much to him.  Frustrated and angry Rocky sets out to prove others and himself wrong.  When others tell him he isn’t going to win and he’s wasting his time, he tells them he doesn’t care.  Because, Rocky doesn’t agree to fight Creed in order to win the championship.  Rocky decides to fight to prove to himself that he can go the distance with something. He says, “just once I’d like to go the distance on something.”  And he does and it makes him a better man.

 

 Ultimately, Rocky loses the fight but he meets his goal.  We watch as he trains his mind, body, and spirit to meet his personal goal --punching meat, chasing chickens, and running.  

 

As the music swells during his long solitary run we understand what he's gained.  And we know no matter what happens he's already won.  

So at the end, exhausted, bloody, and beaten to a pulp, he celebrates his personal victory, calling for Adrian to tell her he loves her.  

Too many movies now focus on the hero winning the fight.  And while winning is important what’s more important is what is learned on the journey to the win.  Even when we lose, we take the knowledge we’ve gained from failure and use it to win the next time.  Life is not always about winning more often it's about the losing and what we learn from that loss that helps us to grown, change, and win our next challenge. 

Rocky is a movie about the journey not the destination.

And that’s why it’s one of my favorites.    

Poetry Month

This month is poetry month.  In honor of the month, I'm sharing a favorite poem.

fuck
by Kim Addonizio

There are people who will tell you
that using the word fuck in a poem
indicates a serious lapse
of taste, or imagination,

or both. It’s vulgar,
indecorous, an obscenity
that crashes down like an anvil
falling through a skylight

to land on a restaurant table,
on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
But if you were sitting
over coffee when the metal

hit your saucer like a missile,
wouldn’t that be the first thing
you’d say? Wouldn’t you leap back
shouting, or at least thinking it,

over and over, bell-note riotously clanging
in the church of your brain
while the solicitous waiter
led you away, wouldn’t you prop

your shaking elbows on the bar
and order your first drink in months,
telling yourself you were lucky
to be alive? And if you wouldn’t

say anything but Mercy or Oh my
or Land sakes, well then
I don’t want to know you anyway
and I don’t give a fuck what you think

of my poem. The world is divided
into those whose opinions matter
and those who will never have
a clue, and if you knew

which one you were I could talk
to you, and tell you that sometimes
there’s only one word that means
what you need it to mean, the way

there’s only one person
when you first fall in love,
or one infant’s cry that calls forth
the burning milk, one name

that you pray to when prayer
is what’s left to you. I’m saying
in the beginning was the word
and it was good, it meant one human
entering another and it’s still
what I love, the word made
flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one
whose lovely body I want close,

and as we fuck I know it’s holy,
a psalm, a hymn, a hammer
ringing down on an anvil,
forging a whole new world.

Becoming a Rape Advocate -- Day 3 & Day 4

This week I had two days of training --Tuesday and Wednesday.  While there are more facts I could give, I decided I wanted to talk about emotions.

The first day of training our trainer told us that for some of us, who might be survivors, some of the information we were going to be given might trigger us.  She assured us that if we didn't feel we could handle it, we could quit, no one would be angry or upset with us.  After that, two women dropped the class. 

On Tuesday, we talked more about the victims of rape, the process of collecting information and evidence, and what our role as an advocate would be.  We also learned about the physical evidence of abuse and rape such as bruise, tearing, etc.  Some of it was entertaining.  I learned a lot more about the hymen but that's for another blog at another time. 

As we were being told about strangulation, it happen, I felt triggered.  I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me; thousands of little pins scattering over my skin.  I clasped my shaking hands together, crossed my legs at my ankles and just waited for it all to be over; to move onto a new subject. 

Talking about it yesterday, I told the instructor that I'd felt triggered but decided not to leave the room.  While she asusred me that I oculd have walked out and no one would be upset I told her I didn't want to leave.  I wasn't going to be able to leave when a victim came in and talked about their experience because the victim would need me.  So, I had to learn how to seperate myself from my feelings and focus on being there for the victim.  Maybe, I was wrong or too self-sacrificing, I don't know.  I do know that I just want to do my best and be the advocate I would have wanted when I was a victim.