Somewhere in the Middle

Ah, the middle of the road. A place I am all too familiar with. It is essentially where I live. I am neither on this side nor am I on that side, I am somewhere in the middle. I have been in the middle for a looong time. And most of the time it’s not too bad.

Sometimes though, sometimes, it sucks. It sucks big time. Let me tell you why.

When you are struggling with a condition, illness, or disorder and you have some of the symptoms, some of the time, and they aren’t “bad” enough or severe enough to warrant treatment, or even a diagnosis, being in the middle, just average, is a pain the ass.

Despite having symptoms that impact my day, my life, and my functionality, they are supposedly not as bad as they could be. They could be a lot worse, apparently. And because they aren’t a lot worse, I am left with no treatment, no guidance, and no support.

I was told, and I quote, “that I was not sick enough to be sick”. By a doctor. A specialist. And he, sadly, is not the only one to have ever said this to me. Because this is also not the only time, and disorder/illness/medical issue where I was “not enough” to warrant time, attention, diagnosis, and treatment.

It has also happened to me with social services as well. And with school loans. My income is not enough to cover school, and yet it is “too high” to qualify for a loan. Or a subsidy. Or a grant. Or a scholarship. I know because I’ve tried.

With social services, this happened a lot when I was a child, we weren’t quite “poor enough” to qualify for additional assistance yet we were “poor enough” to require using food banks and instead turned to borrow money from family, friends, and even neighbours.

I truly appreciate that some of the things are not as bad as they could be. I really do. I have seen the extreme of many circumstances and I am grateful to not be there. I am grateful for a number of things that could be much, much worse.

However, having said that, being in the middle of the road, average, not that bad, neither here nor there, can often be a very lonely place. A sad little thread that seems to have woven its way through my whole life.

Not being sick enough to gain a diagnosis and treatment, and being sick enough that functioning on a basic level is something I can only hope to achieve and can’t. Not being destitute enough to require assistance and support yet destitute enough to not have any food to eat. For lunch or dinner. Or breakfast. Many times.

It’s hard to be too much of one thing and not enough of another that I am mostly left on my own. It’s frustrating and leaves me feeling so defeated. I’m sure the pluses of being middle of the road and mostly average outweighs the minuses, I’m just not feeling it now.

So for now, I stand, in the middle of the road, on my own, hoping to finally find one side or the other.

Jerk in a Vacuum

Learning about trauma has given me many insights and new perspectives. Sometimes those insights and perspectives are difficult to learn and accept, and sometimes it really helps me understand things better.

Understanding why people behave the way they do has gone a long way to me having more patience and even at times, empathy. I used to believe that people were just acting like jerks because they were jerks. And whereas that might still be true at times, it isn’t true for every time.

Sometimes when people respond harshly, rudely, even hurtfully, it’s entirely possible there is nothing more behind it then them just being jerks. Other times though, there is a reason they respond the way they do.

They may have their own trauma that has affected how they respond to people. They may have great pain and injustice in their past that has led to them to acting out, being rude, and hurting others in the present.

This by no means makes their behaviour okay, or that a person can be allowed to hurt another without consequence, but it might explain why they do it. Knowing someone else is dealing with their own pain by causing others pain doesn’t make it go away, but it might help in maybe taking it less personally. When someone lashes out from their own trauma it is rarely about the person they’ve currently hurt.

People are rarely a jerk in a vacuum.

There is usually a reason for them to act out, respond, or behave the way they do. And that reason is usually linked to trauma.

If you have suffered trauma yourself, and have been conditioned with habits or behaviours that may have protected you or helped you to cope, then you might better appreciate when someone else does it too.

We never really know what another person is going through. The everyday people that we meet, outside, on public transit, grocery shopping, even at work, or among our friends and family, may be going through, or have gone through stuff we know nothing about. The same way they may not know about us.

Having some understanding, and if possible, some empathy towards another, even if they are lashing out or being hurtful, can go a long way to not having it take us down at the same time. Because it isn’t about us.

If someone is acting like a jerk for the sake of being jerk then that’s different. And without knowing for sure it might help to not jump to conclusions right away that that’s what’s going on. What if they have been so hurt by anger that they only know anger themselves? What if they have had years, maybe even decades of injustice in their own life, and all that is all they know? What if they have only ever known pain, and that is all they know how to speak, is pain?

Try not jump to conclusions and be careful making assumptions about other people and their actions. Of course, don’t let another take you down to their level, and regardless of why they do it, their coping should never be at your expense.

Take care of you first and foremost. And try to remember that as much as you may have habits or behaviours you have used or are using to cope and survive that can be hurtful to yourself and others, so too might another. Be kind when you can.

*TW* Edible Art Projects

I am sure that I am not the only one to have a low that they have sunk to when dealing with hunger. I imagine there are thousands of moments of others who have been so hungry they have eaten things or done things for food that most others would not even consider.

To those who have not been there, I ask for kindness and understanding because the feeling of hunger is one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. And unless you’ve been there, and literally had nothing, please don’t judge or condone the choices we have had to make in order to feed ourselves. If the circumstances had been different we would have tried to make “healthier” choices, but we didn’t.

I sincerely hope whoever is reading this never has to experience the feeling of raw hunger. Of having to make choices and eat or do things for food that under different circumstances would not have even been considered. I hope that whoever reads this always has food.

Hunger. Raw hunger is an ache that can barely be described. It’s not just missing a meal, or been so busy you didn’t eat all day, kind of hunger. I mean hunger that goes deeper than you can imagine. To the very pit of your core, not just your stomach.

It is more than an emptiness. It can literally feel like your body is eating itself, it is so hungry. It is an awful feeling. And when it has been days, maybe weeks, since you’ve seen a meal, your mind starts to lose its capability to function.

You start thinking about food, all the time. You start imagining food, everywhere. You start to see things that normally would not be considered food as the possibility of becoming something edible.

Things like dirt, grass, leaves, flowers, paper, even some furniture might have parts or pieces that could be edible, they all suddenly come under scrutiny as eligible to become food.

To someone who has not been here before this may seem crazy but again I ask for empathy and understanding because if you have no food, if you have no money for food, and neither is on the horizon anytime soon, you start to consider the inconsiderate.

I was no different.

I have my own experiences that I don’t like to think about, and even less to talk about because as much as it made sense in the moment, I’m sure there would be some who would be surprised by what I’ve done.

And this isn’t the only experience of desperation I have. Being hungry often as a child has given me many opportunities to surprise and offend others should they learn the truth. Should they see the reality, that being hungry is not glamorous, nor is it cool, or fun or something to strive for.

The reality of being hungry can be very gross and offensive to those who are not in our position. We do what we need to in the moment. Even we often find it surprising and gross. But we do it anyway. Because it gets us food. It literally feeds our hunger.

One of the things that are more surprising than gross for what I’ve done for hunger is the day I ate macaroni off of one of my art projects as a kid. It has a little element of gross but I think the reaction is more, uh, what? Then, yuk! But I could be wrong.

My idea of gross could be slightly skewed by what I’ve been able to tolerate and endure with years of coping behind me.

I couldn’t help it. I was just really, really hungry. And there was almost no food in the house. And when I say there was almost no food, I mean all we had was a bottle of ketchup, a box of baking soda, and a can of expired beets, and that was it.

There was no bread or eggs or cereal or meat or even boxed macaroni and cheese or crackers. There was nothing. And I did consider the ketchup and the baking soda. But I quickly learned that ketchup is less than filling and very acidic, and to eat enough ketchup to feel full gave me heartburn and nausea.

I did also consider the baking soda but it worked even less than the ketchup and was much faster at causing stomach pain and heartburn. I could have looked past its total lack of flavour if it hadn’t given me immediate nausea.

When hunger shrinks to this deep, aching gnaw at the pit of your stomach, your mind starts to play tricks on you, and things you wouldn’t have even thought of, like eating baking soda, suddenly become viable options. It’s a desperation that skews your ability to differentiate what is a good food choice versus what will simply fill your stomach.

It’s why things like grass and dirt and paper become edible choices. Because if you eat them, you know, logically, it will not nourish you, but maybe, just maybe, it will take away the sickening gnaw that somehow seems to dig deeper every second you don’t have food.

I had considered the macaroni on the art project before but I somehow had managed to avoid using for it sustenance. I used to feel quite ashamed at some of the things I had eaten, and the ways I had gotten food before because it felt like I was a nothing with no moral compass who would eat anything and do some immoral things for food.

My list of immoral actions is not super fantastic nor is it salacious, but it was immoral enough for me. I lied and I stole. A lot. When I was a kid, there were many moments where I suspended my values long enough to find food or means to get food. It may not be a sensational story but it bothered me to do what I did to get food.

I never wanted to be a liar. I never wanted to be a thief. And it still bothers me to this day that I was. It may have been a means to an end that allowed me to eat but it did violate my moral code to do so. Even as a kid I hated how it felt to violate my moral code. But hunger, deep, raw, gnawing hunger, makes suspending that code very easy.

The day I ate the macaroni, I was by myself, and we were without food, even the food bank food was gone, and we were days from getting the next paycheque. I mindlessly picked off one of the pieces just to try, and it wasn’t until after I had eaten a few pieces of the macaroni that I not only realized I was also eating glue, but that I was also eating uncooked pasta. From an art project.

Uncooked pasta is less than satisfying and it actually hurt to digest it. Although some of that discomfort could have also been the glue. What saddens me the most about that memory is not just that I ate macaroni, and glue, off of an art project, but that I looked for other art projects that might have food on it for me to eat.

Sadly, it was the only one. There was nothing else in the house that had anything edible attached to it. And I did look.

I deeply wish that I did not have this experience or memory. Not having food or the money to buy food can make a person feel like they aren’t human anymore. It feels like you become relegated to something less than human who is only on the hunt for food. No matter where you get it. No matter how.

Everything shrinks to surviving and finding food. It is the only thought you have. The only sensation your body feels. Everything else falls away, and it is all about food. All day, every day, every moment, it’s just about food.

Your imagination is filled with food and eating. Finding food. Drowning in food. Being buried in food. Swimming in food. Eating mountains of food. Filling deep canyons with food and diving in. Everywhere you look is food. Everything becomes food. It’s just all-consuming. No pun intended.

I am so grateful that I no longer consider macaroni on an art project a viable food option for me. I am truly grateful that I no longer wonder when I will be able to eat again. I have food. And I can get food. I don’t take that for granted because I know that things can go bad very quickly and I could suddenly have no food.

I sincerely hope I never find myself desperate for food again. And I hope for those currently experiencing not having any food, and maybe even considering their own art projects that have uncooked pasta as a meal, that they are able to get food very, very soon.

Hm, maybe I could help with that. I’m going to look into that. Into helping. So that maybe far fewer would know that deep, aching, gnawing hunger.

Okay, gotta go now.

Hostility

I’m feeling particularly hostile towards children, and a little bit towards the elderly, right now. Why? Because they are two groups that are typically given leeway, patience, and understanding (in certain situations), whereas adults are typically not.

As a child, it is expected that you are going to make mistakes, that you may not behave in an inappropriate manner, that you may throw a tantrum for no apparent reason. It is okay for a child to cry or to get angry. It is understood that a child may act without thinking, and may respond more to their emotions than what is considered good manners. It is expected that children do not know any better.

As an elderly person, it is expected that you may not have all your faculties, that you may behave in an appropriate manner, that you may freak out for no apparent reason. It is okay for an elderly person to cry or get angry even when those around them are uncomfortable as it happens. There is a great effort made to alleviate their suffering and placate them into passiveness. It is expected of some elderly people that they don’t remember that they know better. (I am not referring to all elderly, just those whose faculties have diminished with age.)

As an adult, no longer a child, and not yet an elder, it is expected that you understand what is going on, that you will behave appropriately, that you will not throw a tantrum or freak out. It is expected that you will conduct yourself in an appropriate manner and not make a scene. It is expected that you will fix your own problems and you need to placate yourself. As an adult, you know better.

Well, screw that.

Because I want to be able to freak out too. At least some times. I want to be able to be upset or angry or sad and show it. I may not relegate to the point of a temper tantrum, but I can’t promise that. If a temper tantrum is warranted, then so be it.

And I want to be able to throw said tantrum without people looking at me funny, or thinking that I’m crazy, or thinking that I need the proper authorities to intervene.

I just want to throw my tantrum as needed, and then move on. I want to be able to get it all out and then go about my day. But I can’t. And should I attempt to, there is no doubt in my mind it would not be as widely accepted if my age were much lower or much higher than it currently is.

So, this makes me envious, and yes, somewhat hostile, to those who can.

Generally speaking, I don’t hold any ill-will towards children or the elderly. It’s really only on this specific topic that I take issue.

The other day I saw a child, maybe 2 years old or so, and for whatever reason, they were in their stroller freaking out. Crying, fussing about, with some screaming, and unable to be placated by the efforts their caregiver made to quiet them. And I was so envious.

Particularly since I was having some severe anxiety, bordering on a panic attack, and I kind of wanted to freak out myself. I wanted to sit down on the floor of the bus, put my hands over my ears and start rocking back and forth. I wanted to crawl under the seat and curl up into the fetal position, humming to myself. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t just let loose and do what I wanted, and frankly, what I needed, to do at that moment. Because if I had started to plug my ears, sit on the floor, crawl under the seat, rock back and forth, and start humming, I would have felt better. It would have gotten me home without feeling like I was going to die.

Now would other passengers on the bus have seen it as a coping method? Would other passengers have realized that I was trying to take care of myself and that I would be okay if they all just let me sit and rock and hum? Probably not.

No doubt, they would have freaked out themselves, the bus driver would have to stop the bus, and probably put the bus out of service, inconveniencing all those passengers trying to get home, and call 911 because something was drastically wrong with an adult woman on their bus.

I’m guessing that a child wouldn’t have the capabilities to know how to soothe themselves for whatever reason they were unhappy and fussing, but I did. And yet, they got to freak out, and I didn’t. And to me, that just seems unfair. And therefore, I feel hostile about it. At least for now.

I am well aware that throwing tantrums or freaking out on public transit, or anywhere for that matter, is probably not the best way for an adult to handle things. And there would definitely be some cases where an adult freaking out would not always know how to soothe themselves any better than a child would. So I’m not going to argue that it should become accepted per se.

But I reserve the right to feel envious, and slightly hostile, of those who are able to freely and openly show their emotions, even to the extreme of a tantrum or a freakout, and it is generally accepted without expecting them to “know better”.

I wouldn’t expect to be able to freak out and lose my crap all the time, but sometimes I would very much like to. Sometimes I am extremely tempted, regardless of what may or may not happen around me. To date, I have not. At least, not yet.

So for now, instead, I will just feel envious and hostile.

Okay. Rant over.

 

Am I Allowed?

As an adult there are very few things, breaking the law or violating moral values notwithstanding, that I am not allowed to do. This leaves a very wide range of things that I can do. Or rather that I am allowed to do.

Except I don’t always believe that I am allowed.

I know that might sound odd that I would need permission to do anything. Except I think I do.

I often feel afraid to do things at home. A lot of things. From decorating the home, or moving things around, to what I watch on tv, or what I do with my spare time, whether it’s writing or reading or colouring or just anything.

In short, I feel afraid to be myself. And it’s nothing that my husband has done or said, although even with him home, and being understanding and accepting, I still find myself feeling afraid to be me.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why my anxiety was so high at home. I just assumed I was always anxious, that my sympathetic system was in overactivation, and I just had to deal with it. I just feel unsafe.

Working with my psychiatrist I have started to pull back the layers of the anxiety onion to discover what is really going on, and with any luck, try to make it better.

It wasn’t much of a surprise then when it finally occurred to me that it was from years of living with my mom, having her harsh opinions thrown at me on a daily basis, as well as all the questions she would ask me, no matter what I did, no matter what I said, she would question what I bought, where I went, what I did, why I did it, who I was doing it with, it was all questioned and chastised.

If I felt like bringing home crayons and colouring books, she had a question and a comment. “What did I need those for?” “Why was I wasting my money on those kinds of things?” “What “possessed” me to buy those?”

The questions were endless. And the criticism was painful. I learned very quickly to either go “underground” with what I did and where I went or just not do it. It marked me. It made me feel that who I am was wrong. All of me. What I was interested in, and what I did, where I went, just all of me, was wrong.

And it wasn’t just my mom. My ex-boyfriend too. He was very strict about what I did with my time, and never gave me any space to pursue interest, or friends for that matter. He was extremely effective at squashing things that interested me.

I had learned from my mom that it was not safe to be me. And my ex-boyfriend perfected it.

Now, as I live with an amazing, understanding, caring husband, and am able to do and be whatever I want, I hesitate. Is it safe? Is who I am okay? Is what I do okay? My past experience with squashing who I am and what I like has carried to today.

With the help of my psychiatrist, I am doing my best to remind myself that I am safe now. That I can be who I want. And I can do what I want. Save the exception of doing something dangerous, I can do anything I want, anytime I want.

It hasn’t totally sunk in yet that I am allowed. I have to constantly remind myself that I am allowed. That I am safe.

When I look back on those beliefs, that I couldn’t be myself, it saddens me. It makes me cry. I want to tell past me that who I am is fine. She is fine just as she is. It’s not her. But obviously, I can’t. So I tell me now.

So that every day from today I know I’m okay, just as I am, with what I want to do.

Better late than never.