One Bleeder at a Time

I don’t know how many times I’ve sat down with my phone or computer and tried to articulate how I’m feeling in the past three days. I have so many thoughts stirring within me that I’m having trouble sorting them out. I also know this post has a strange title, but stick with me, I am going somewhere with this.

This past week has been tough. I’m in the middle of trauma therapy, which hurts like hell and has brought up a lot of repressed feelings of guilt and self-blame. I feel as though I have gone backwards – I’ve regressed. Something that my therapist confirmed yesterday (in the most encouraging and uplifting way possible). Coming face to face with the fact I’ve gone backwards instead of forwards has been defeating. I had been making progress. I had been able to leave my house and walk around my building without utilizing my safety blankets (having someone on the phone or Ativan). The panic attacks were lessening. But this week, I’ve developed paranoia… I really, truly believe that someone is after me. I jump at every noise I hear. I obsessively check to make sure my door is locked and no one is outside. Even in the middle of the night, I hear a sound and have to go check and make sure he’s not there. I lose hours of sleep to this obsessive need to ensure I’m safe.

This step backwards has not only left me exhausted, but so defeated. This fight is hard enough without knowing that I’m going backwards. I have been lacking hope this week, so much so that even clinging to my frozen moments of joy hasn’t been enough. It’s been dark, painful and discouraging. When I saw my therapist yesterday, he made a comment about how my last post had a different tone… That it was lacking the self-hope I’ve been trying to convince myself of. And, he’s right. But it was an accurate reflection of how I was feeling. I felt invisible. I felt helpless. I felt hopeless. I was plagued with the question of whether this is really worth it. He told me it was a hard post to read and some others have made comments about it being less encouraging. I hear you. However, I started this blog to share what it’s like to be in the trenches, fighting an Invisible Illness within my mind 24-7. Some days, I don’t see hope. I can’t, no matter how desperately I try to. There are some days where I’m fighting so hard just to not end it all that thinking about feeling joy again in the future is impossible because I don’t know how I’ll even get to the next hour. I’m just trying to stay alive. I know that’s uncomfortable for people to read. It’s uncomfortable for me to write, to feel, to accept. But my goal is to raise awareness and, well, Mental Illness isn’t pretty. Some days I don’t have an encouraging thing to share. That’s part of my fight and I think those moments are equally as important to share, because those are the raw, real, vulnerable moments we don’t hear of often. It’s a glimpse inside of my world and inside of my illness; into the moments I wish there was a guidebook for how to survive these feelings. The moments that leave me wishing more people could share what it’s like to be here, buried so far underground there is no light, so I know I’m not the only one. The moments that I so desperately am yearning for a sign to hold on.

Sometimes, the signs don’t come when I need them and I just have to hold on. But other times, when I feel like I’m buried 400 feet underground and am slowly suffocating, an unexpected moment of “hope” crumbles down the tunnel to me. Yesterday I was blessed with two and they came at just the right moment.

I had just arrived home from a two-hour therapy session and I was… done. The session was incredibly helpful, but processing the thoughts and emotions that arise in sessions on my 35-minute drive home is often very difficult. Yesterday was no exception.  I was exhausted in every capacity. I felt like I had nothing left to give. I was overwhelmed, confused, hurting and just done. I needed an escape – something to distract my brain for a while.

However, distracting my brain is often difficult. I find it ridiculously difficult to stay focused. On anything. I used to be able to read for hours and now I’m lucky if I get through 5 minutes. I get lost in my head watching TV and the parts that I do catch I can’t remember 10 minutes later. But I needed something, so I grabbed my iPad and put on the newest episode of Station 19 (I know, I know, another TV show post and not only that, another Firefighter/Paramedic/Medical show, but trust me, I’ve got a point). Somehow, by some miracle, my brain focused and I found a tiny glimmer of hope… in a TV show.

The Station was grieving the loss of a fellow firefighter and the scene that grabbed my heart was an interaction between two firefighters. Andy, one of the firefighters was struggling with memories of losing her mom in childhood and was overwhelmed with all the thoughts and emotions that came up when they lost one of their own. After a long, anxiety driven rant, she stated, “I’m 9 years old all over again and all this stuff is coming up that I don’t know, I don’t know how to clamp it down, I don’t know how to make it go away…” I heard her and whispered an emotional, “Dang girl, me too.” A major trauma happened to me when I was nine too. I’m reliving it now trying to process and heal and I too don’t know what to do with it. The triggers are strong. I’m so overwhelmed. There’s so many thoughts and feelings and I feel like things are spinning out of control, much like Andy.

Her partner graciously listened and then put his hands on her shoulders and said something that I just can’t forget. He responded saying, “One bleeder at a time…. one bleeder at a time. It’s something I learned when I was a surgeon. When you open a patient up and everywhere you look there’s something bleeding, falling apart, when it’s damage control. All you can do is tackle one bleeder at a time…”

Now, I know that’s an incredibly weird statement, but it spoke deep into my heart because in a really weird way, I could relate. I can easily compare my emotional state to being a patient lying open on the table while surgeons are frantically trying to control massive damage. Forgive the gory analogy, but dealing with all these thoughts and emotions trauma therapy has resurfaced makes me feel like I’m bleeding out uncontrollably, spurting from every artery. I know I’m in danger, I know I need to do something or I’m not going to make it. I see the desired end result, know the treatment required and know I need to stop all the bleeds (or heal from all my traumas, in my case). But the piece that I’ve been overlooking is that I can’t do it all at the same time. The end result consists of many small steps. I can only tackle ONE bleeder at a time. Surgeons are slow and methodical. They take their time, performing lots of small adjustments based off what’s presented. I’ve been feeling so frustrated, so defeated that I needed to be reminded that this is going to take time. I can only tackle one thing at a time. I need to focus on the step I’m at right now, instead of thinking about the 25 other steps to come. One bleeder at a time.

It’s okay if it’s slow. It’s okay if I take a step backwards. It happens in surgery and surgeons adjust, tackle one thing at a time and proceed. I can do the same. Rushing the process only adds unrealistic expectations which produce more stress and anxiety. I need to take this slow, one thing at a time and stop putting pressure on myself to be further than I am.

After hearing that conversation on Station 19, my brain was reeling, desperately trying to convince myself that it’s okay to be in the space that I am – to have taken a step backwards.

As I previously mentioned, my focus is limited, so not long after I opened up Instagram to find that Morgan Harper Nichols, someone whose writing I adore, had just posted her daily writings. As I was struggling to accept that healing will take time and that I’ll be in this painful place for longer than I want, I read this quote and was blessed again with another moment of encouragement.

“Perhaps, even here, I can still have hope for the future” (MHN). Even here. Even though it feels dark and hopeless right now, doesn’t mean it will forever. Yes, I’ve regressed, but I need to trust my therapist when he says it’s okay and it’s part of the process. I won’t be stuck here forever. My map to healing has many stops along the road, but there is a destination. My story is not over. I can get there. One bleeder at a time.

Hang in there, sweet friends. The road is long, winding, dark and stormy but we can make it through. Don’t feel you’re a failure if you’ve taken a step backwards. You’re trying. Fight to not get stuck there. Healing takes time. Keep up the fight, know you’re not alone and reach out to your supports because “[e]ven here, [you] can still have hope for the future”.  

Love,

Becca

Final quote adapted from Morgan Harper Nichols’ quote featured above. Feature Image from Google – No Copyright Infringement Intended. Episode Quoted is Station 19, Season 2, Episode 16 “For Whom the Bell Tolls”, Aired May 9, 2019