We’re Healing, Babes.

Oof, do you ever wake up some mornings and just feel like you got hit by a car?

‘Cause samesies.

But maybe that’s because I did. Get hit by a car, that is. Kinda wild, right? Trust me, I don’t think there will ever come a day when I’m not in total shock. Definitely did NOT have that on my Bingo card for happening. Like, ever.

But it did. And I think I’m at the point mentally and physically (yer gurl is typing this with her right arm wut??!!!) that I can talk about it. Write about it. Start working through the trauma of what happened. I think at least for me, that’s the biggest first step towards healing.

The Accident

On October 1st while out on a morning run, a run that I’ve done a thousand times before, I was struck by a vehicle while crossing a small neighborhood intersection. I was almost in the middle of the road when a car driving directly towards me made a very fast right hand turn. Without slowing down, the car hit me on my right side. Maybe it was instinct, but I threw my right arm out, almost as if I was trying to stiff arm this very large vehicle moving towards me. My arm hit the car and I flew into the air, landed on the hood, and fell hard onto the pavement below me.

Lying on the road, completely in shock as to what had just happened, I opened my eyes and saw the car drive away.

Yep. The jerkface who just hit a human being (me) with their CAR (!!!) had the balls to just speed off. I don’t understand how they could do something like that. I don’t think I ever will. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was shock. Maybe it was just a complete and utter lack of human decency and compassion. Whatever it was, they fled the scene, leaving me in the middle of the street wondering what the heck just happened.

As I slowly gained consciousness back, and realized the brevity of the situation, I called Mike in tears. Thankfully I had my phone on me and was able to call for help.

“I just got hit by a car.”

The Aftermath

The next 8 hours were a blur—there was a slew of policemen asking questions and taking notes, an ambulance ride to the hospital where they took my vitals and stabilized my arm, head and neck as best they could, and an incredible medical team who immediately went to work treating my injuries.

The prognosis:

• A concussion.
• Four staples in my head.
• An elbow that had been shattered into pieces.
• Some gnarly cuts, gashes, scratches and bruises.
• And a very mentally shaken me.

I went home that afternoon in a daze.

I think anytime you go through a traumatic experience, your mind tries to immediately understand and process the situation. As your body physically starts to begin the healing process, your mind is left to pick up the pieces, to try and find the answers to the questions that are running through your head.

• How could this have happened?
• Is there something I could’ve done differently to prevent this horrible accident?
• Why didn’t that driver slow down when they saw me?
• Why did they just drive away?
• How am I gonna get through this?

A lot of unknowns, friends. A lot of feelings and emotions.

Healing Isn’t Linear

Healing is a very peculiar, funny and non-linear thing. It’s a very up-and-down, janky, rolly-polly thing.

It’s a rollercoaster of emotions, of thoughts, of progress and regression and progress again. I think the thing that has surprised me the most though throughout all of this is the giant wave of feelings I’ve felt over the last month or so.

Guilt and Shame

There was definitely a sense of guilt and self-blame at first. If only I ran a different route that morning, left earlier in the day, later. What if I hadn’t even gone for a run? This might not have ever happened.

But that’s just so silly. I know that now. This accident wasn’t my fault in the slightest. I was out doing something I love, something I have done a million times before. As a pedestrian who was following the rules of the road, who had the right of way, who was VERY much at a disadvantage against anything made out of metal and steel with four wheels, this was simply an unfortunate yet extremely terrible accident. I didn’t do anything wrong.

Despite not being at fault for what happened, I have recognized that healing from it IS my responsibility. Because if it isn’t, an unfair circumstance becomes an unlived life. And bleh, that just sounds awful and NOT what I ever plan on doing.

Fear, Anger, and Sadness

The second wave of emotions involved this sense of fear, anger, and sadness. I just couldn’t shake what had happened. Anytime I would close my eyes, I was right back there –the car, the accident, the pain coursing through every inch of my body. It was like watching a scary movie or reliving a nightmare on loop–you knew when the scary parts were gonna happen but you couldn’t do anything to stop them.

I was scared to leave the house. The sound of screeching tires, honking horns, and even being close to a car sent me into a fit of uncontrollable shaking and tears.

Anytime I’d look down and see the giant L-shaped scar on my arm, I was reminded of what had happened. Anytime I’d feel pain or discomfort, I’d get angry for what had happened, at the person who did this.

I would get extremely frustrated that I could no longer do things that once came so simple and without even thinking. Acts like simply brushing my teeth, using my computer mouse, putting on a shirt and eating now took concentrated effort, were painful, and sometimes weren’t even possible without the assistance from someone else. Talk about humbling.

Part of me felt like I lost myself, too. Running has always been my happy place, my outlet to destress and think. It’s my biggest passion. I feel like that was taken from me the moment that car struck. Physically I will soon be able to run again. But I think it’s going to take some time for me to work up to running outside again, being on the road, without fear of being hurt.

My sense of safety was compromised that day, stolen. That doesn’t just come back overnight.

I guess I just felt so powerless to my emotions, powerless to the situation, powerless in my own body.

There are moments when I still do.

But as the days go by, I’m slowly regaining some of the power back.

The Uncomfortableness of Asking For Help

The next wave of emotion came when I realized that, well shoot. This very independent, need-to-take-care-of-others gal all of a sudden was very much in need of some care herself. I’ve always had the hardest time asking for help, allowing others to provide that help. I never want to feel like I’m a burden (something we’re definitely working through in therapy lol). But I simply had no choice this time–I had to rely on the people in my life that I love and who love me, to help put me back on my feet again.

And goodness, I am BEYOND thankful and grateful for those beautiful souls in my life who were there when I needed them the most. My friends, my family, my coworkers, and especially my wonderful husband Mike.

I cannot even begin to express the overwhelming amount of gratitude, adoration, and love I have for this incredible man. In my scariest moments, in the moments when I felt like I couldn’t pick myself up, he was there to hold my hand, to wipe the tears from my face, and to tell me that everything was going to be okay.

Not only did Mike literally save my life, but he has also been there for me every step of the way as I slowly pick up the pieces, being the shoulder I figuratively and literally lean on as I ever so softly begin to heal my head and my heart.

From helping to wash my hair and making sure I eat, to getting me in and out of bed, making sure I’m comfortable and always making me ugly snort-laugh and smile like a total goober, Mike has been an absolute superhero. My rock. My steady ground and biggest supporter. On top of everything else that he is juggling right now (it’s A LOT), he has sacrificed so much in order to be right by my side through it all.

How in the heck did I get so lucky?!

Hope

I still have my hard days, moments when I struggle, times when I get a little sad. But for the most part, I am feeling so gosh darn hopeful. Hopeful that I will get through this, hopeful that I will regain the use of my arm again, hopeful that they will find out who was driving that car early that Sunday morning.

I have quite a ways to go until I get back to where I was before the accident, but I have also come a long ways from where I was after it. And that I have to celebrate. That, I have to be incredibly proud of.

Everyday We’re Getting a Little Stronger

I was a victim of a horrible accident.

But I’m also a survivor. I’m alive. I’m a badass!

I went though the most traumatic experience of my life and was able to walk away. That’s pretty dang incredible.

Despite feeling like a somewhat broken human right now, I’m also incredibly grateful. There no doubt was a guardian angel looking over me that day. And every day after.

This has been by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to go through. I am tested constantly on my will, on my strength, on my fortitude and hope. But we’re doing it. Little by little I’m getting there.

The scars will fade. My arm will regain its mobility and I’ll start to feel whole and safe again.

Until then, I will practice the utmost grace and patience, and lean on the people I love and who love me. I truly have the most amazing humans by my side.

And to the driver who hit me, I hope you find the power to forgive yourself (and find it in your heart to come forward and clear your conscience).

I’ll be back stronger than ever, fam (it’ll be with a bionic arm, but I’ll be back).

The Fog Will Lift

Anxiety is a weird thing, friends.

Honestly, life is a beautifully weird thing.

Since a very young age, I’ve struggled with feeling anxious, worried and at times, just so overwhelmed.

Maybe you can relate?

When I feel things, I feel them fully and without conviction. I not only carry the weight of my own heart, but I also carry that of others as well. When the ones I love are hurting, I hurt. When people around me are scared, sad and suffering, I feel that pain. And I try to do everything I can to make it better, to make them feel better. Sometimes at the detriment to my own mental health.

My wonderful and amazing boyfriend Mike told me that being an empath is one of my greatest attributes, and he’s absolutely right. It makes me who I am. In a world that can often be so cruel and hard, I remain soft, caring, kind, hopeful. And I honestly think that’s pretty incredible.

But friends, feeling all the things and trying to carry those burdens can also be one of my biggest downfalls.

You see, when you take on that much heaviness, it can start to wear on you. Two years ago I experienced my first panic attack. Multiple, actually. I had never felt so completely not in control of my own body before. It was terrifying. My heart was racing. Every breath I took felt like concrete coursing through my lungs. It was almost as if there was this dark and menacing cloud that I just couldn’t get out of.

The panic attacks haven’t been nearly as frequent as they once were, but I still have moments of doubt, of fear, of helplessness. I think that’s all part of being human.

May is #MentalHealthAwarenessMonth, an opportunity to truly bring to light the importance of looking after your head and your heart, and to have these sometimes difficult but open, honest and poignant dialogues and discourse about the struggles we all can face from time to time.

I have the most amazing life, and am blessed beyond measure for so many different reasons. But it’s important for me to be honest. And the truth is, I still struggle asking for help, and still feel bad anytime I feel bad.

That’s a funny concept with mental health.

It can sometimes appear to others that you’re living this perfect life, thriving – when in reality you’re struggling to keep your head above water. On the other hand, it can appear to people on the outside that you’re suffering – when actually you’re fighting and flourishing. It really can be both.

Despite it all, I love this big ole mess of a brain that I have. She is clever, she is funny, she is kind and positive and painfully empathetic. She doesn’t know a stranger, she loves anything and everything she comes across. She has felt a lot (thank goodness for writing 😅) but most importantly, she has fought. She has fought for who she knows she is. For the person she knows was handmade by the wittiest, most sovereign of artists. She has never given up. And deserves to remember those things. YOU deserve to remember those things. Even when your brain is convincing you of the opposite. In the deepest part of your spirit, you know who you REALLY are. Please keep showing up for them! For us! We are all worth that.

There will be days that are a little rockier, a little heavier, a little harder.

And on those days, I try to remind myself to simply: Try.

Try to breathe.

Try to be kind to myself.

Try to listen to my needs.

Try to write.

Try to move.

Try my best.

Try again.

Just, try.

So this is me trying.

Breathing, being, believing that just as it always has, the fog will lift. And whatever space you’re in right now, I hope you’ll keep trying too. Because this world needs both of us. All of us.

We can do this.

The fog will lift.

Let’s try together.

Eviction Notice Part II

Eviction Notice

Dear tenant,

This is your final eviction notice. When you decided to move into my house nearly 11 years ago, the first thing you did was destroy my favorite comfy couch, spilling Pepsi and smearing Cheetos powder all over the well-warn and intricate flower patterned seat. You said it was because it was simply “too ugly and tacky to be around”. You gave all my furniture and knick-knacks away while I was at work, replacing them with your own. There was nothing left that belonged to me, nothing that I could call my own. Pieces of you were scattered all over the house, from one room to the other – nothing resembled the way it did before. This was just the first of many changes you made to the house we shared. I have found that sharing accommodations can create quite an odd dynamic, and when you replaced my things with yours, it was made distinctly clear who dictated this dynamic, and it certainly wasn’t me. Every day, I would put the key in the door to my own house, and feel like I was breaking in to a stranger’s home.

When I first entered my house and found all my belongings missing, I was utterly shocked and a bit taken a back. I walked towards the living room and discovered that where my funky old and worn couch used to be, there was now a sleek, perfectly white leather sofa; it honestly looked like something directly from the set of Sex and the City, all demure and perfectly perfect. What had happened to my beloved comfy couch? The one I sat countless hours in, reading and playing games, snuggling up to my dog in and watching endless episodes of Seinfeld? The one I had known for all of my life? The one that was unique and funny and so loved? How does a person sit on this pearly white seat without looking as though they are trying to balance a book on their head? What sort of person actually feels comfortable curling up on this sterile slab? And it wasn’t just my living room that you had changed. Oh no, everything felt cold, devoid of personality and warmth. It was empty.

I sat down, very carefully on your white sofa, all the while being mindful not to put my somewhat dirty and sticky hands on the leather. I sat there for a long time convincing myself that your things were better than mine. Everything had that new car smell – that feeling of being brand spanking new and totally modern. Somehow, you sneakily came to have everything in our house, my house. I didn’t even have a say in which brand of toilet paper we stocked. I reasoned that a person needed their own things to feel comfortable and since these were your things, I should try to love them. I hated your silly white sofa.

In the beginning, I let you move all of your stupid things in. I convinced myself that you needed your own things, everyone does. Plus, if I let you have the upper hand in our our house was run, my house, I could count on you to always be there, as much as I wanted you to leave. This was the first of the many justifications I made for your awful behavior in the long time we lived together.

On the day I placed the ad on Craig’s List for a roommate, I was indeed a tad lonely and in somewhat in need of a friend. When you called, you sounded eager to see the room right away but made it clear that you were only available to meet me and see the room that very second. I was at work at the time and didn’t really have time to go all the way back home to meet you, but I was desperate for someone to move in as soon as possible. I lied to my boss about feeling unwell and left work. This was my first lesson in the art of deception, something you came to teach me very well over the years that we have known each other.

I met you outside of a Starbucks. I could tell by the way you spoke on the phone that you would be beautiful. The tone of your voice was self-assured, strong and had a no-holds bar attitude in it. As I walked towards our meeting place, I spotted you standing by the entrance of the shop, clutching a coffee cup, designer hand bag in the other, looking like the world was at your feet. You had an aura of confidence that only comes from the knowledge that you were the most beautiful woman on the street. I approached you, feeling insanely unattractive and embarrassed and introduced myself.

“You must be…?” Suddenly I realized that you didn’t mention your name when we spoke on the phone. I bowed my head, looking for a spot on the footpath to focus on. To not have asked for your name seemed very silly and I cursed myself for being so stupid. “Wendi.” You replied and extended your hand towards me. My immediate thought was that you had picked up on my embarrassment for not knowing your name and by saying your name was the same as mine was your idea of a cruel joke. “Really?” was the only response I could fathom. “Yes, isn’t that hilarious?” You chimed. You were so full of life when we first met. Your enthusiasm was relentless. “Oh, I thought you must be kidding. Of course, you know that my name is Wendi too!” You smiled and fixed your eyes on mine. “It must be fate.” You said. “Fate” – of course, that was why you moved in with me, to seal my fate.

After we decided that sharing a name was fate, I went home, slumped into my beloved sofa and began to fantasize about all the things we would do together once you moved in. We would become the best of friends over endless glasses of wine and slices of pizza, talking about boys and having endless discussions on who was the better team, the Cubs or the Brewers (she of course was a die-hard Cubs fan, having grown up in Chicago and me, well, I was anything but. This would be the only thing we would ever really disagree on. Or so I thought). I soon realized that fantasies rarely cross over into reality.

After physically morphing my once comfy and cozy house into a set for a glossy, lifestyle magazine, you began to dictate what could and could not take place on set.

When we had been living together and sitting on your perfect furniture for a month, I noticed that you had been reading my planner. I came home late on a Tuesday night, to find the contents of my handbag strewn across the glass dining table that you never sat at. “What happened?” I said. I could feel the tension in the room. Had my phone rung? Was it my Mom? Was she ok? I couldn’t justify you rummaging through my hand bag for any other reason. I stepped towards the living room, where I found you, sitting up very straight on the edge of the seat. You didn’t look at me; your head was facing the television even though the only thing that was on was a black screen.

Without warning, your head spun towards me so violently it looked like she was trying out for the sequel to the Exorcist. “Where have you been?” The words came out of your mouth so fast that I couldn’t understand what you had said. “I told you that I had met a friend for dinner after work.” I said, while trying to understand where this conversation was headed. “You should have said something, I had dinner ready.” You replied. I looked over to the kitchen where I saw two plates of broccoli staring towards me. “Oh. I’ve already had dinner.” I said. “I can see that.” You emphasized “that”, sat up, strutted towards me and pinched my hip. “I can see “that”, right there.” I pushed you away and tears welled behind my eyes. “You shouldn’t go out for dinner when you have hips like that. Tomorrow, I will show you how to steam vegetables and we can eat together. What do you think?” Your reaction to my not being home on time scared me – I didn’t want to make you angry. You might move out and leave me on my own again. “Sure. Let’s do that.” I said. “Excellent” she said.

Your words spun through my head a thousand times over in the following days until they morphed into a simple, three letter word – “fat”. That word was the only one that occupied my brain from then on and those three letters dominated my thoughts for the next 11 years.

Now a year is a long time for any two people to share the same house, let alone 11. After a while things, became strained. You became increasingly angry with me over my lack of motivation and doubted if I had the strength of character to keep striving for perfection. The truth is, by the second year, all I wanted to do was take to your gleaming furniture a bottle of royally red grape juice and hope that it left a stain.

Our relationship was so in sync that one couldn’t do anything without the other finding out about it. Eventually, we turned on one another and began to verbally tear each other to shreds, day in day out. You would stand in the kitchen, hissing through clenched teeth that I would never be worthy enough. The argument was always the same; we would play ping pong with each other’s words over the kitchen table, aggressively hitting a tiny white ball back and forth until someone missed. You always won.

Despite you constantly humiliating me, you would lure me back in with a simple sentence; ““In **** weeks time, if you follow me, you’ll be perfect – exactly who you want to be.” You knew that the idea of being who I wanted to be was too difficult to resist. I’d follow you down the darkest of alleys, losing anything and everything in the process…but one day – I looked back. Today is that day.

Without you whispering in my ear, I came to realize that instead of obsessing over living my life in a certain way, pressuring myself to conform to an idea that I never believed in, my life is complete without you. It will be complete in every way – I will have my friends back, my family back, and my piece of mind. I will have my confidence back, my fun-lovingness and humor and out-goingness back. I will have my health and my strength back. I will have my voice back. My voice,not yours. I am discovering that once you leave, letting go of an obsession for the unobtainable is the only way I will ever come to fully appreciate life without any hidden agendas.

Sometimes, when I’m lying on my comfy sofa, the ground moves in the wrong direction and I get thrown to one side and it’s in these moments that I realize that I had every I had ever wanted without you.

The Darker Side of Mother Nature

On a more serious note today, I would like to acknowledge the many, many people who have been affected in some way by the terrible storms that have hit parts of the US over the past few days.

Mother Nature can be quite mysterious and unpredictable sometimes.  She has the power to bring great joy and  happiness–a pleasantly cool autumn night, a light breeze on a hot summer day, a fresh white snowfall on the eve of Christmas. She also from time to time can throw a curve ball at us, one that is not so nice, that tests our strength and perseverance. Over the past week, thousands upon thousands of lives have been dramatically impacted by the severe weather that has plagued parts of the United States, including the Midwest and South, as well as other areas. As many of you all know, I have a very intense fear of tornadoes. I have been extremely lucky not to have been in any (although on several occasions, I have come very close). It amazes me how much power a twister has, how it can spring up out of nowhere, move and tear through a town and within a matter of mere minutes, destroy everything in its path.

This is a picture taken Wednesday after a massive tornado made its way through Birmingham, AL. The tornado was one of many spawned by a vast, violent storm system that has so far killed as many as 231 people in six U.S. states as of today. At least 131 people have died in Alabama alone, where several strong tornadoes tore through cities. One weather man was quoted as saying, “This could be one of the most devastating tornado outbreaks in the nation’s history by the time it’s over.” I can’t imagine the feeling of coming out of a storm to this scene, to have lost everything you own, to not be able to recognize the town or city you once were so familiar with.

A silent monster, although to be quite honest, these monsters can be anything but silent. Witnesses say that this tornado (which was just over a mile wide) that barreled through Tuscaloosa late Wednesday night sounded like a steady moving freight train, demolishing everything in its path. In all of the times that I  have come close to tornadoes such as these (but not nearly to the extent to which these were), there was always an eerie stillness and quite that both proceeded and followed the storm. Nothing is as scary as that stillness, that muted silence that fills the air.

 

The devastation that these terrible storms brought was  simply unparalleled.  Cities’  infrastructures have been absolutely decimated leaving many homeless and without a great deal of hope. According to Red Cross officials who were present, the number of ambulances on the street in Birmingham was just like taxicabs in New York; there was a constant flow of people being ushered to the hospital, loved ones trying to find each other, injured victims being catered to…it was the definition of chaos. These are scenes that I can only begin to imagine in my nightmares. The good thing about nightmares is that you eventually wake up from them. The victims of these violent storms don’t  have that option–they are left to deal with the aftermath, to pick up the pieces and to move forward.

I want to let everyone who might have been affected by these storms know that each and every one of them are in my thoughts and prayers. I know that hope may feel slim right now, that there is a deep sense of sadness and heartache and loss. I can’t even begin to imagine the strength that these people must have to be able to go through something as tragic as this, rebuild not only homes and their town but their lives, and be better people because of it. Mother Nature may work in mysterious ways, but God takes the cake on that notion. I don’t know the reason behind why or how these storms took place, nor do I pretend to understand why it will probably happen again in the future. All I do know is that the big guy upstairs does not give us anything we can’t handle. He does things to test our strength and faith and hope in him, in ourselves, and in others. There could never be a rainbow without a little rain. The sun will shine again and that is one thing that everyone can hold on to.

“Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.”  ~George Iles