2020 has been quite the year. In the midst of a pandemic, life brought on major changes. Read below for a compilation of this year's theme.
Forward
It was 7:30pm on a Monday when I was driving to my new apartment from my first day at my new internship. I honestly couldn't stop smiling. Salt Lake has already been a dream come true (minus the nasty pollution). Intern days are a little long sometimes, but I also love being there and come home feeling fulfilled. It makes me excited to continue in my education and career goals. I'm ready.As I've been thinking of what this next year will be, I recognize a lot of changes will be happening. First, my "big" move to Salt Lake and the start of my internship, then my graduation from BYU-Idaho in July. Other things are coming and also a lot of unknowns. I'm really excited for this year and everything that's ahead. Honestly, the last year was SO up and down. While grateful for those challenges and for all the good as well (because without it 'Bloom' wouldn't have happened), I'm ready for 2020. For once I feel like I have a solid foundation. I have much better coping skills, I feel a lot more confident, and I've returned to God. Also, (no shade) but I'm not on campus. I'm away from the sometimes toxic culture of BYU-Idaho. Away from judgments and pressure to be someone I'm not. I'm able to breathe!
So with this year, with everything that's happened, and everything to come, my motto is this;
I want this year to be the "Year of Courage" because I don't want to hold myself back anymore. I want to take the things I've learned in therapy, from life, the use of medication, and strength from God to help me move forward.
Of course, I recognize not everything will go as planned. There will be really hard days. There have already been times my OCD has felt out of control. I walk out the door with my bed unmade and things out of place and I can't concentrate on the things in front of me. I make myself late to things because I'm picking up fuzz off the carpet. ED has grabbed me with its bony fingers and whispered, "You're gaining a 100 pounds by not going to the gym today." But I know those things don't have to stop me from becoming the person I want to be. I can break free from those moments. And in the times I don't, I know it's not the end. Those moments don't have to hold me back and stop my progression (recovery is never linear anyway).
All of us can "go after courage." In some of our darkest moments, in times when we feel we're trapped, we can conquer. They say courage isn't the absence of fear, rather doing something even though you're scared. For me it's also not giving up. It's taking even the tiniest step forward (something I remind myself of often as I leave my apartment with my bed unmade). Courage is standing up when you've been completely knocked down and you feel there's no more strength left in you. And sometimes it's even planting your feet on the ground after your alarm goes off in the morning.
2020 is our year, my friends.
Thanks for reading!
---Maggie
Between Heaven and Hell
I believed I was a good person. At the same time, I felt dirty. Disgusting. Unworthy. Ashamed. Guilty. My sexuality was devilish. Carnal- something that would never allow me to be with God. But when I wrote my poems, it was freeing. Beautiful and who God made me to be. It was nothing to hide. It was as real a love as anyone else's.
Wasn't that how it should always be?
Coming out honestly seemed like a lot of effort when fundamentally, I stay the same. I love that scene in "Love, Simon" where people have to come out as straight, because that's a little bit how this feels. At the same time, it also seems right that I do it. My blog is so much about letting others know they aren't alone and there is always good to come. Suffering doesn't last a lifetime. My goal here is to create a community; a welcoming environment where people feel they don't have to hide. That's why I decided to write this post.
I've denied my sexuality off and on for a long time. The mind is a powerful thing. There were times, in certain moments, in certain places, I accepted myself. I believed it would all be okay and I could love whomever I wanted. But soon after those freeing moments, the guilt would drown me. My religious affiliation didn't make it any easier. I'd been raised on the idea of marriage between a man and woman, that perhaps having this attraction itself wasn't a sin, but it would be if I were to "act" on it. So, I convinced myself I would fall in love with a man and marry him because I, at least, had that option as a bisexual woman. The older I got, the more I thought, "But what if the person I want to spend the rest of my life with isn't a man? I don't want to settle." I'd been raised to never settle for anyone.
I started writing this post about a year ago, give or take a month. It started with a poem I'd written a few weeks previous as I sat in the hallway of our religion building at BYU-Idaho. I wrote these types of poems fast, my hand always covering the words before to make sure any passerby wouldn't see the sins I felt I wrote. On February 7th, 2019, I watched people go by as I waited for my own religion class to start.
I sent a screenshot of a girl's Instagram that I really liked to a friend towards the end of my first semester at BYU-Idaho. I thought she was beautiful and I wanted someone to know that. Somewhere in my subconscious I decided I would tell him. This friend of mine had been one of my closest friends. I had no real secrets from him and he always made me feel comfortable and safe. When I made a comment about her to my friend after sending the text, he joked by asking me, "Maggie, are you bisexual?" I answered.
It was an easy conversation and he accepted me for who I was. But I was preparing to go on a mission and I knew there was nothing to be done about it. As part of the interview questions for going on a mission they asked me if I "struggled with same sex attraction." (though I often argue I have never struggled with liking girls. The only struggle came from hating myself because I was taught it was bad). I said no. I didn't want anything to get in the way of me doing what I felt God wanted me to do, what I wanted to do then too. So, it would remain buried in my years of poems, in that text conversation, in prayers with God, and in my head.
18 months passed. We received a lot of questions on same-sex marriage and relationships. I admitted to people I didn't understand any of it, but spat out the answer of "God will work it all out in the end" (though I wasn't sure I actually believed that). Anyway, after that year and a half, I thought maybe I'd gotten over it. I was set in my religion and had unwavering faith in God, with a foundation as solid as you could get. Nothing would deter me from that path.
I went back to BYU-Idaho and I soon realized the feelings were still there. I was actually embarrassed. I wrote a high concentration of poems on my sexuality, a lot of them angry, or with words that essentially said I could never love who I truly love. I decided I didn't want to feel shamed. I wanted to tell someone. I felt hopelessly alone and it had to be said. That's when I wrote the blog post about it. It's since been deleted because once I started thinking of the repercussions, of the "what will people think?" scenarios, I got scared. I can fall in love with a man, too. I kept telling myself those girls I liked growing up were just flukes. Maybe I didn't even like them. Maybe I just was really close with them and appreciated them. Maybe it was all in my head that my heart beat a little faster when I was with them and perhaps I didn't actually look forward to seeing them everyday like I did when I liked a boy at school. And maybe, just maybe, those feelings of wanting to date them were me being dramatic or something.
A few months after being home from my mission, my brother came out. It was a roller coaster of emotions. I'd become set on marrying a man and only dating men. I had to stay in the church. I had to follow God's commandments or I was going to hell. I was a returned missionary, after all. But in a way I thought, maybe I could tell my family. They were so accepting and loving of my brother (and why not?). Like I said, though, it was a roller coaster of emotions- for everyone. And I felt like I had a choice, but my brother didn't, so why would I bring up my sexuality when I'd "made up my mind" and had this course? Besides, when I talked with people about LGBTQ+ matters, it was all about "loving, not supporting" and so I believed no one would ever support me, which meant they would never truly love me either.
I was angry. Angry with God, with the church I'd dedicated my life to. I rebelled and made a lot of different choices out of anger. I lost my faith. I sat in church and legitimately rolled my eyes. Eventually I stopped listening and came for appearances, to go in order to keep my ecclesiastical endorsement.
As we all know, I started therapy and medication. Not only did that change the course of my life in relation to my mental health, it helped me find confidence in myself. I felt I could speak my mind for once. I wasn't riddled with anxiety. It was time to use my voice, to no longer stand by as people were being hurt.
If you lived with me, or ever saw my Instagram stories on my personal account, you'll know I spent a semester working with a fantastic group of social work students and the LGBTQ+ community. For this class we were to pick a community and create an intervention in which we would just, help them in a way we saw they needed. I felt inspired to work with the LGBTQ+ community and my group felt it was a good idea. So for a semester we attended Understanding Sexuality, Gender, and Allyship (USGA) at BYU-Idaho. We tried to work on a campus that is... small, to say the least. We worked incredibly hard to help this community, these human beings be seen, to help them find safety and love on a Christian campus. I wanted to help students now and in the future not have to live in fear and hiding.
Somewhere along the way, I had to admit it was a project for me too. For an entire semester I saw bravery and acceptance of self in a place I'd grown more terrified of in the last year than ever before. I watched students wear their labels with pride and come together on a campus that can be pretty judgmental. I wanted to be like that. I didn't want to hide anymore.
When I was a kid, I used to have contests with my brothers or my cousin for who could hold their breath the longest. I remember trying to hold my breath for so long. My lungs would hurt a little and I grew increasingly desperate for air as the seconds went by. It felt like I would never get another breath. Being at BYU-Idaho, hiding a part of myself, felt like I wasn't breathing, and it hurt. I wanted to be able to fully live my life and be authentic. I wanted to feel like I could breathe again. So, I came out to my group because I decided there was nothing to be afraid of. I'd decided it was time to stop bs-ing myself into thinking I had a choice.
It was another warm welcome. I'd never been happier than saying it out loud. I was so excited as I was walking home after our group meeting. I sent a Marco Polo to my brother and his then boyfriend (now fiance) and told them. And that was easy too. The next part was to tell the rest of my family.
I planned to tell them at Thanksgiving, but the opportunity never felt like presented itself and I was scared. It wasn't a fear of losing their love or anything like that, it just seemed hard to tell that to the people who had this vision of me marrying a man in the temple. I had to ruin that vision for them.
One day my mother and I were at the mall around Christmas. I'd prayed a lot for strength to tell my parents. For an opportunity to present itself. My lack of a dating life tends to be a topic. I'm education and career focused, so, like most parents, mine just wanted to make sure I was okay.
My mom is incredibly easy to talk to. She's also come to know what I'm thinking and is a very smart woman. I told her sitting in the food court over Chinese. My father was told later that evening in the middle of a restaurant.
I've hit some bumps in the road as how to come out to the rest of my family and things like that. Honestly the tears shed over this whole thing are kind of a blur now. All I feel is the joy I've been filled with since talking about it out loud. It's not just on paper that no one reads.
Since my posts on social media, I've been asked how I came to know about my sexuality. And I guess the answer isn't very straightforward. Acceptance of myself had been off and on (Denial became my best friend for a long time). Knowing came in moments until it grew into something I really understood. It came when I prayed to understand myself, from watching others, and really just looking at myself in the mirror and no longer denying my right to freedom and joy. It came somewhere and I can't really pinpoint it, but it came. And now I realize I don't have to sit in the middle and play this game of tug of war.
Towards the end of last year, I felt I couldn't give up on my Father in Heaven. There were too many miracles, too many witnesses of His existence, too much of the Spirit to deny Him and His Son. I would lie awake and think, "What am I doing?" I'd believed my entire life (and taught every day for a year and a half) that Christ has felt every pain, every experience, and joy we go through. Surely He knew how this felt. I'd also taught that we have a loving Heavenly Father and Savior. With so much prayer, so many tears, and heartache, I came to see myself through Their eyes. My first and foremost identity is as a child of God. They love me more than I can ever comprehend. I've had so many sacred experiences in this time. I know this is who God has made me to be. It isn't something to hide and hate myself for. It's not a mistake. It's not a trial to overcome, it's not for people to get over themselves and learn to accept (and support) and love me. That's not my purpose in life. My sexuality is as much a part of me as it is the color of my skin, but just like my brownness, I am more than that.
This has all brought me to a much different place than I imagined a year or so ago. But I am so much happier than I could've ever imagined. I no longer feel pain. Guilt. There is hope and a new found peace in Christ. I've understood there is a place for me in the world, just like there is for you.
"Don't ever doubt your worth."
Thank you for taking the time to read this- it always means so much.
---Maggie
PS- These 3 links give some basic information on bisexuality, bi-erasure, and bi-phobia. PLEASE watch/read at least 1 of them. If we never take the time to educate ourselves, we'll never change.
https://www.hrc.org/resources/bisexual-faq
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oa6AnOCQD50
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cK7yuKsP_5A
Wasn't that how it should always be?
Coming out honestly seemed like a lot of effort when fundamentally, I stay the same. I love that scene in "Love, Simon" where people have to come out as straight, because that's a little bit how this feels. At the same time, it also seems right that I do it. My blog is so much about letting others know they aren't alone and there is always good to come. Suffering doesn't last a lifetime. My goal here is to create a community; a welcoming environment where people feel they don't have to hide. That's why I decided to write this post.
I've denied my sexuality off and on for a long time. The mind is a powerful thing. There were times, in certain moments, in certain places, I accepted myself. I believed it would all be okay and I could love whomever I wanted. But soon after those freeing moments, the guilt would drown me. My religious affiliation didn't make it any easier. I'd been raised on the idea of marriage between a man and woman, that perhaps having this attraction itself wasn't a sin, but it would be if I were to "act" on it. So, I convinced myself I would fall in love with a man and marry him because I, at least, had that option as a bisexual woman. The older I got, the more I thought, "But what if the person I want to spend the rest of my life with isn't a man? I don't want to settle." I'd been raised to never settle for anyone.
I started writing this post about a year ago, give or take a month. It started with a poem I'd written a few weeks previous as I sat in the hallway of our religion building at BYU-Idaho. I wrote these types of poems fast, my hand always covering the words before to make sure any passerby wouldn't see the sins I felt I wrote. On February 7th, 2019, I watched people go by as I waited for my own religion class to start.
it was a game of"Her" referred to no one in particular at the time. It was all just a longing emotion. Perhaps while writing it I remembered when I was 13/14 and had my first major crush on a girl. Remembering those moments when I told myself throughout my years growing up it was wrong to be excited to see this girl or others at school. It was wrong, wrong, wrong. My heart was filled with ache, feeling isolated that no one knew the struggle between feeling like I had to choose God or love (being Mormon, or being openly bisexual). And I was scared to ever bring it up because of the environments I often found myself in as a member of the church. It wasn't until I decided to serve a mission that I finally told someone.
tug of war
my heart wanted to follow Him
but it also wanted
her
I sent a screenshot of a girl's Instagram that I really liked to a friend towards the end of my first semester at BYU-Idaho. I thought she was beautiful and I wanted someone to know that. Somewhere in my subconscious I decided I would tell him. This friend of mine had been one of my closest friends. I had no real secrets from him and he always made me feel comfortable and safe. When I made a comment about her to my friend after sending the text, he joked by asking me, "Maggie, are you bisexual?" I answered.
It was an easy conversation and he accepted me for who I was. But I was preparing to go on a mission and I knew there was nothing to be done about it. As part of the interview questions for going on a mission they asked me if I "struggled with same sex attraction." (though I often argue I have never struggled with liking girls. The only struggle came from hating myself because I was taught it was bad). I said no. I didn't want anything to get in the way of me doing what I felt God wanted me to do, what I wanted to do then too. So, it would remain buried in my years of poems, in that text conversation, in prayers with God, and in my head.
18 months passed. We received a lot of questions on same-sex marriage and relationships. I admitted to people I didn't understand any of it, but spat out the answer of "God will work it all out in the end" (though I wasn't sure I actually believed that). Anyway, after that year and a half, I thought maybe I'd gotten over it. I was set in my religion and had unwavering faith in God, with a foundation as solid as you could get. Nothing would deter me from that path.
I went back to BYU-Idaho and I soon realized the feelings were still there. I was actually embarrassed. I wrote a high concentration of poems on my sexuality, a lot of them angry, or with words that essentially said I could never love who I truly love. I decided I didn't want to feel shamed. I wanted to tell someone. I felt hopelessly alone and it had to be said. That's when I wrote the blog post about it. It's since been deleted because once I started thinking of the repercussions, of the "what will people think?" scenarios, I got scared. I can fall in love with a man, too. I kept telling myself those girls I liked growing up were just flukes. Maybe I didn't even like them. Maybe I just was really close with them and appreciated them. Maybe it was all in my head that my heart beat a little faster when I was with them and perhaps I didn't actually look forward to seeing them everyday like I did when I liked a boy at school. And maybe, just maybe, those feelings of wanting to date them were me being dramatic or something.
A few months after being home from my mission, my brother came out. It was a roller coaster of emotions. I'd become set on marrying a man and only dating men. I had to stay in the church. I had to follow God's commandments or I was going to hell. I was a returned missionary, after all. But in a way I thought, maybe I could tell my family. They were so accepting and loving of my brother (and why not?). Like I said, though, it was a roller coaster of emotions- for everyone. And I felt like I had a choice, but my brother didn't, so why would I bring up my sexuality when I'd "made up my mind" and had this course? Besides, when I talked with people about LGBTQ+ matters, it was all about "loving, not supporting" and so I believed no one would ever support me, which meant they would never truly love me either.
I was angry. Angry with God, with the church I'd dedicated my life to. I rebelled and made a lot of different choices out of anger. I lost my faith. I sat in church and legitimately rolled my eyes. Eventually I stopped listening and came for appearances, to go in order to keep my ecclesiastical endorsement.
As we all know, I started therapy and medication. Not only did that change the course of my life in relation to my mental health, it helped me find confidence in myself. I felt I could speak my mind for once. I wasn't riddled with anxiety. It was time to use my voice, to no longer stand by as people were being hurt.
If you lived with me, or ever saw my Instagram stories on my personal account, you'll know I spent a semester working with a fantastic group of social work students and the LGBTQ+ community. For this class we were to pick a community and create an intervention in which we would just, help them in a way we saw they needed. I felt inspired to work with the LGBTQ+ community and my group felt it was a good idea. So for a semester we attended Understanding Sexuality, Gender, and Allyship (USGA) at BYU-Idaho. We tried to work on a campus that is... small, to say the least. We worked incredibly hard to help this community, these human beings be seen, to help them find safety and love on a Christian campus. I wanted to help students now and in the future not have to live in fear and hiding.
Somewhere along the way, I had to admit it was a project for me too. For an entire semester I saw bravery and acceptance of self in a place I'd grown more terrified of in the last year than ever before. I watched students wear their labels with pride and come together on a campus that can be pretty judgmental. I wanted to be like that. I didn't want to hide anymore.
When I was a kid, I used to have contests with my brothers or my cousin for who could hold their breath the longest. I remember trying to hold my breath for so long. My lungs would hurt a little and I grew increasingly desperate for air as the seconds went by. It felt like I would never get another breath. Being at BYU-Idaho, hiding a part of myself, felt like I wasn't breathing, and it hurt. I wanted to be able to fully live my life and be authentic. I wanted to feel like I could breathe again. So, I came out to my group because I decided there was nothing to be afraid of. I'd decided it was time to stop bs-ing myself into thinking I had a choice.
It was another warm welcome. I'd never been happier than saying it out loud. I was so excited as I was walking home after our group meeting. I sent a Marco Polo to my brother and his then boyfriend (now fiance) and told them. And that was easy too. The next part was to tell the rest of my family.
I planned to tell them at Thanksgiving, but the opportunity never felt like presented itself and I was scared. It wasn't a fear of losing their love or anything like that, it just seemed hard to tell that to the people who had this vision of me marrying a man in the temple. I had to ruin that vision for them.
One day my mother and I were at the mall around Christmas. I'd prayed a lot for strength to tell my parents. For an opportunity to present itself. My lack of a dating life tends to be a topic. I'm education and career focused, so, like most parents, mine just wanted to make sure I was okay.
My mom is incredibly easy to talk to. She's also come to know what I'm thinking and is a very smart woman. I told her sitting in the food court over Chinese. My father was told later that evening in the middle of a restaurant.
I've hit some bumps in the road as how to come out to the rest of my family and things like that. Honestly the tears shed over this whole thing are kind of a blur now. All I feel is the joy I've been filled with since talking about it out loud. It's not just on paper that no one reads.
Since my posts on social media, I've been asked how I came to know about my sexuality. And I guess the answer isn't very straightforward. Acceptance of myself had been off and on (Denial became my best friend for a long time). Knowing came in moments until it grew into something I really understood. It came when I prayed to understand myself, from watching others, and really just looking at myself in the mirror and no longer denying my right to freedom and joy. It came somewhere and I can't really pinpoint it, but it came. And now I realize I don't have to sit in the middle and play this game of tug of war.
Towards the end of last year, I felt I couldn't give up on my Father in Heaven. There were too many miracles, too many witnesses of His existence, too much of the Spirit to deny Him and His Son. I would lie awake and think, "What am I doing?" I'd believed my entire life (and taught every day for a year and a half) that Christ has felt every pain, every experience, and joy we go through. Surely He knew how this felt. I'd also taught that we have a loving Heavenly Father and Savior. With so much prayer, so many tears, and heartache, I came to see myself through Their eyes. My first and foremost identity is as a child of God. They love me more than I can ever comprehend. I've had so many sacred experiences in this time. I know this is who God has made me to be. It isn't something to hide and hate myself for. It's not a mistake. It's not a trial to overcome, it's not for people to get over themselves and learn to accept (and support) and love me. That's not my purpose in life. My sexuality is as much a part of me as it is the color of my skin, but just like my brownness, I am more than that.
This has all brought me to a much different place than I imagined a year or so ago. But I am so much happier than I could've ever imagined. I no longer feel pain. Guilt. There is hope and a new found peace in Christ. I've understood there is a place for me in the world, just like there is for you.
"Don't ever doubt your worth."
Thank you for taking the time to read this- it always means so much.
---Maggie
PS- These 3 links give some basic information on bisexuality, bi-erasure, and bi-phobia. PLEASE watch/read at least 1 of them. If we never take the time to educate ourselves, we'll never change.
https://www.hrc.org/resources/bisexual-faq
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oa6AnOCQD50
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cK7yuKsP_5A
Recovery Road
I've spent the last couple months constantly on the move. Nannying part-time, trying to get 250 hours done for my internship, maintaining my physical health, and trying to find moments to myself have kept me busy. For the most part, I've loved every second of it. I was starting to feel fulfilled in life, starting to become a version of myself I was happy with. There was a sense of freedom and belonging I hadn't felt in a long time. Coming out and getting away from Rexburg was a huge burden lifted.
But I write to you at 4am because I feel heavy.
We all know the state of the world right now. Honestly, for the most part I've been pretty calm about it. I'm trying my best to do my part in flattening the curve, staying safe, keeping myself informed, etc,. Amidst all the chaos, I've found joy in the newfound hours I get to write and play the piano. All the memes make life a little more bearable and keep me laughing. I've been working out in my room to keep my body moving too. Generally, I've tried to keep a routine. Despite my best efforts, though, I've been feeling a little like season 10 episode 2 Ross:
I didn't think moving to Salt Lake would be the easiest thing in the world. Though I was excited to rid myself of toxicity and the chains of trying to be a straight, active church goer, I was leaving behind something that had grown comfortable for me; roommates, the same apartment complex, the Ricks building I attended 6 out of 7 days a week, and always having someone close by. Granted, I love having a room to myself, but after college and a mission, you get used to having someone to always talk to, someone to laugh and cry with, and enable you to do reckless things (like cut bangs at 12am).
In the last couple months since I made my move, I haven't had much time to even breathe. I struggled to find time to even write down a couple poems. I would come home so exhausted from my internship, nannying, or going to the gym, that I'd watch something on Netflix and take the time to myself before the boys came home. And then I'd spend the rest of the evening with them and head to bed. It was a routine I generally enjoyed. I was busy, active, feeling accomplished.
With hours to myself, I've struggled a lot with my mental health. My eating disorder stares at me as I get ready in the morning. ED tells me that my "at home workouts" from the Nike training app are useless. It screams at me that of the few meals and snacks I eat throughout the day (a result really of my inability to keep track of time these days), I am still eating too much. With a recent event I won't go into detail on, ED taunts me with the idea that I cannot be loved because I do not look a certain way, that my body is forever imperfect.
My OCD comes and goes throughout my day, demanding I pick up that piece of fuzz off the ground or I won't be able to concentrate on the thing in front of me for longer than 2 seconds. It's constantly telling me that everything around me needs to be reordered, re-cleaned, and reorganized even though I've done all of those things multiple times every single day.
Finally, depression grips me at night in the deafening silence, because instead of thinking about my internship or school or literally anything else, all I think about is the fact I have been alone all day, will fall asleep alone, and wake up alone. It asks me where my purpose is.
I've had a few panic attacks in the last week. Tonight I had one of them. I've been feeling overwhelmed by a few things, and impending doom has seemed to overshadow me, especially this evening (morning?). I began to grow frustrated that I've been feeling as bad as I have over the last month when it felt there was no reason for everything to feel so dark. I'd worked hard in therapy. I tried to apply those skills/tools I learned into my life here in Salt Lake. I thought I would start healing from the last year. And what about my medication? Why was it letting me down?
I prayed and asked God why, but really asked for strength, and just some help. And then I felt inspired to grab my laptop and write. As I've typed my thoughts, messy, in the blue light of my lit up keyboard, with dried tears, I've been reminded that recovery is never linear. I've heard it in my social work classes, and I even mentioned it in my first post of the year, but it's something that really stuck out to me today, because I know that even when this all ends and we can resume our normal lives, these feelings won't go away. Just like they didn't really go away when I moved. Yeah, they've probably hit a little harder because I'm stuck inside and I think a little too much sometimes, but they were already there. 6 months of therapy and taking medication every day wasn't/isn't going to make everything magically disappear. I'm even going to get an emotional support dog and that won't solve my feelings of loss and loneliness. These things have/will alleviate these struggles, but regardless, it all takes time. Some moments are easier than others. Sometimes I can walk away from putting a shirt on a hanger inside out, but other times the image of it creeps into my head throughout the work day.
I've also struggled with the idea that because I'm out and I live in Utah, my life can't be sad. It's that whole toxic perfectionism thing (*eye roll*). It's all or nothing, black or white. Which, totally is unrealistic and honestly part of my problem because I haven't allowed myself to feel these things until I was forced to (I honestly just had a revelation writing that).
Really, guys, life sometimes sucks and it's totally valid to feel. And we totally don't have to beat ourselves up when we slip up. At like, 2am, I said to myself, "Wow, Maggie, you suck because you worked out this morning just to burn calories, not because you want to maintain your strength and keep your body and mind healthy." But you know what? I don't suck. I slipped up and let ED win, but I've fought it off a lot of other times and will continue to. It is not the end of the world.
Anyway, at this point I'm getting a little ranty, but it's past 5am and I'm realizing God was right; I did need to write out my thoughts. Also, He does answer prayers.
To end, let me remind you of my theme of courage for this year; "In some of our darkest moments, in times when we feel we're trapped, we can conquer."
Thank you, for reading through my jumbled AM thoughts- you're the best.
---Maggie
But I write to you at 4am because I feel heavy.
We all know the state of the world right now. Honestly, for the most part I've been pretty calm about it. I'm trying my best to do my part in flattening the curve, staying safe, keeping myself informed, etc,. Amidst all the chaos, I've found joy in the newfound hours I get to write and play the piano. All the memes make life a little more bearable and keep me laughing. I've been working out in my room to keep my body moving too. Generally, I've tried to keep a routine. Despite my best efforts, though, I've been feeling a little like season 10 episode 2 Ross:
In the last couple months since I made my move, I haven't had much time to even breathe. I struggled to find time to even write down a couple poems. I would come home so exhausted from my internship, nannying, or going to the gym, that I'd watch something on Netflix and take the time to myself before the boys came home. And then I'd spend the rest of the evening with them and head to bed. It was a routine I generally enjoyed. I was busy, active, feeling accomplished.
With hours to myself, I've struggled a lot with my mental health. My eating disorder stares at me as I get ready in the morning. ED tells me that my "at home workouts" from the Nike training app are useless. It screams at me that of the few meals and snacks I eat throughout the day (a result really of my inability to keep track of time these days), I am still eating too much. With a recent event I won't go into detail on, ED taunts me with the idea that I cannot be loved because I do not look a certain way, that my body is forever imperfect.
My OCD comes and goes throughout my day, demanding I pick up that piece of fuzz off the ground or I won't be able to concentrate on the thing in front of me for longer than 2 seconds. It's constantly telling me that everything around me needs to be reordered, re-cleaned, and reorganized even though I've done all of those things multiple times every single day.
Finally, depression grips me at night in the deafening silence, because instead of thinking about my internship or school or literally anything else, all I think about is the fact I have been alone all day, will fall asleep alone, and wake up alone. It asks me where my purpose is.
I've had a few panic attacks in the last week. Tonight I had one of them. I've been feeling overwhelmed by a few things, and impending doom has seemed to overshadow me, especially this evening (morning?). I began to grow frustrated that I've been feeling as bad as I have over the last month when it felt there was no reason for everything to feel so dark. I'd worked hard in therapy. I tried to apply those skills/tools I learned into my life here in Salt Lake. I thought I would start healing from the last year. And what about my medication? Why was it letting me down?I prayed and asked God why, but really asked for strength, and just some help. And then I felt inspired to grab my laptop and write. As I've typed my thoughts, messy, in the blue light of my lit up keyboard, with dried tears, I've been reminded that recovery is never linear. I've heard it in my social work classes, and I even mentioned it in my first post of the year, but it's something that really stuck out to me today, because I know that even when this all ends and we can resume our normal lives, these feelings won't go away. Just like they didn't really go away when I moved. Yeah, they've probably hit a little harder because I'm stuck inside and I think a little too much sometimes, but they were already there. 6 months of therapy and taking medication every day wasn't/isn't going to make everything magically disappear. I'm even going to get an emotional support dog and that won't solve my feelings of loss and loneliness. These things have/will alleviate these struggles, but regardless, it all takes time. Some moments are easier than others. Sometimes I can walk away from putting a shirt on a hanger inside out, but other times the image of it creeps into my head throughout the work day.
I've also struggled with the idea that because I'm out and I live in Utah, my life can't be sad. It's that whole toxic perfectionism thing (*eye roll*). It's all or nothing, black or white. Which, totally is unrealistic and honestly part of my problem because I haven't allowed myself to feel these things until I was forced to (I honestly just had a revelation writing that).
Really, guys, life sometimes sucks and it's totally valid to feel. And we totally don't have to beat ourselves up when we slip up. At like, 2am, I said to myself, "Wow, Maggie, you suck because you worked out this morning just to burn calories, not because you want to maintain your strength and keep your body and mind healthy." But you know what? I don't suck. I slipped up and let ED win, but I've fought it off a lot of other times and will continue to. It is not the end of the world.
Anyway, at this point I'm getting a little ranty, but it's past 5am and I'm realizing God was right; I did need to write out my thoughts. Also, He does answer prayers.
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| I straight up pinned this 2 days ago and here we are. |
Thank you, for reading through my jumbled AM thoughts- you're the best.
---Maggie
Stepping Away
Good Friday was yesterday. Many (if not all) of you participated in, or at the very least saw a post about, the Worldwide Day of Prayer and Fasting. My heart remained heavy as I saw these posts and these invitations to join. I found myself struggling to have the desire to participate because of the betrayal I've felt from an organization I've dedicated my short life to. Before I continue, though, let me say this; I am in no way bashing on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Personally, I would never do such a thing. It's something that offered me a lot of good growing up, and is something many of my loved ones know to be true, and I highly respect that. There are also parts of it I still believe and find good in.
When watching General Conference last weekend, I recognized a large shift in what my life was like not that long ago. Flashes of my last conference, just last October, crossed my mind, because shortly before that conference, as I was pushing myself to stay active in the church, I wrote a post about struggling with my testimony. So, a few weeks later, when that conference arrived, I felt like I was coming back, like I was going to make it. Really slowly, but I was making my way.
I'd attended a mission reunion and watched a session with many missionaries I'd grown to love over my time serving with them. I saw my mission president and his wife, excited to see them once more. I wrote down pages of notes. I was starting to feel a small sense of hope that maybe there was a place for me. By the end of the weekend, I was crushed (softly sobbing to myself in the conference center) when I was once again reminded of the doctrine of marriage and the law of chastity. I'd felt like I was being fed spiritually, and then this feast in front of me was being thrown in the garbage before I even got to finish. After that, I felt an ever increasing waning desire to push through the questions I had and keep going to church.
The thing is, so much of myself wanted to believe what I was writing at the end of that post from September 2019, because I believed that to be the only path I could take. Living within the church was pretty much all I'd known. It was semi-comfortable for me to just stay with what I knew, even though it was causing me a lot of heartache. I went on a date shortly after moving to SLC, and this person asked if I still went to church and I told them, "Not often. But I go sometimes just because it's all I've ever known." It was hard, though. I sat in the back of my ward, I listened to talks, and still felt like I was out of place. I tried so hard to make it back and feel like I could really participate in church. I tried so hard to focus on Christ and nothing and no one else. Being a member was my only real choice at the end of the day. How else would I make it to live with God once more? How else would I ever be happy? The guilt, the feeling that I'm losing my salvation, was the only thing that kept me going. I wasn't happy living that way. At all.
As I was forcing myself to go to church shortly after moving to SLC, I decided to move my records. I was (very kindly) bombarded with new information and invites from auxiliary leaders in a "new member meeting". I smiled so much in this meeting and tried so hard to act as though I would try to make it to some ward activity and that I was all into the whole church thing, that I was like, "Nah. I can't come back after this." But, right after that meeting, the Relief Society President invited me to go to class. I felt bad saying I "needed" to go because she was honestly so nice, so I went, but was really waiting for class to be over so I could leave... and as soon as it ended, I just smiled at everyone and said, "See ya!", knowing very well I wouldn't.
To be quite honest, I've felt a huge burden lifted off me as I've decided I wasn't going to participate in anything I didn't want to. I was consumed by feeling like I wasn't a good member, that I had to choose between finding love or being an active member, and I hated always wishing that things would change. It wasn't good for my own mental and spiritual health.
My final religion course I needed to graduate was my Eternal Families class. I tried faking my way through the semester with tear-filled eyes and a hurting heart, until certain questions were asked, or students would say things like being LGBTQ+ was similar to dealing with an addiction or eating disorder. I felt I had to be careful with what I said because I knew that if I fully admitted my thoughts or how I was living, I could get a nice little chat with the Honor Code Office. And that was frustrating. I'm not a bad person because of my choices, and I still believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I honestly feel the Spirit guiding me all the time. I feel Their presence in my life, through all those really good moments, and in those dark moments where I feel I'm completely alone. I've thanked my Father in Heaven for an opportunity to leave a toxic place, for helping me find myself, for His divine plan for me. I've felt His hand as I've embraced my sexuality and been on this new adventure in Salt Lake.
This decision didn't come easily. For an entire year, I've prayed to God for help on figuring out LGBTQ+ issues, on faith, on the church, and everything in between. I can't explain to you the hours I've spent crying and pleading to understand what was happening. I've asked what my real purpose is in life, why I'm bisexual, if it was okay for me to leave, and if there would still be a chance that I could make it to live with Him again. I have expressed so much anger and frustration, so much hurt to Him. In the middle of many nights I sobbed in my bed, asking Him to take it all away so I could just believe once more. I made deals. I tried reading my scriptures and praying and participating in church and going to the temple. I'd stare at photos from my mission and think, "What happened to me?" There have been countless sacred moments where He has wrapped His arms around me and told me I am okay, I am loved, and I am His daughter.
In a poem I wrote on one of these many sleepless nights in the last few weeks, I wrote this:
Like I said at the end of my coming out post , there is too much evidence in a God that I cannot deny Him, nor His Son, or the Spirit. As I closed with in my final assignment for my Eternal Families class, "My relationship with Them is the only thing that keeps me going." It's what I hold onto. Elder Holland had me in tears as I reread his talk from this conference, "A Perfect Brightness of Hope." Despite the pain I've felt and the roller coaster of a year I've had, I still have hope.
I have hope that someday this whole thing will work itself out, that my sexuality and those of the LGBTQ+ community will find their rightful home in society and in religion. I have hope that, despite what seems like an "inactive" returned missionary, I will return to live with God and my Savior again. I have hope that I will still be able to stand before Him and say that I loved Him, I served Him, and I loved and served my neighbor.
I can't be put in a place that has felt like it's trapping and hurting me. And honestly, that's okay. This is where I have to be. For me. And it's a decision I've made with God. Which, honestly, probably sounds weird, but it's my journey, my plan. Just like you have your own plan and journey.
I share this all with you today for a couple reasons. One is really because I don't want to feel like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. Like that one day at that new member meeting, I can't keep it up. The other reason, and honestly the main reason, is because I want people to know they can step away if they need to. From anything. If it doesn't feel right, if it's hurting you too much, if it's not making you better, or whatever else, it's okay to stop and say, "This isn't for me." I've been afraid of saying that to anyone because telling people I hated BYU-I and had to get out of there is awkward enough. They don't get it, and I don't expect them to. But, it's okay to say it and do it. And you don't really have to explain those decisions to anyone if you don't want to. I just want people to know they're not alone. Also, I feel like I should note that I'm not encouraging anyone to leave the church. This stands as a general statement for stepping away from something, or even someone (this one is huge). We just don't need to feel guilty for our decisions. Like I said, and will always continue to say, we all have different paths. And God loves us through all of them and walks by our side if we let Him. He also knows us way better than we know ourselves, and that is why I definitely trust Him, because let me tell you, I've tried walking this path all on my own and it did not work out. I tried leaving behind my entire religion and gave up on my relationship with God. I was always confused. But as I've allowed Him back in, I know He holds my hand through this. I saw this little quote that said, "He left the 99 to find me." I'm a bisexual, Christian woman, living in Salt Lake, trying to graduate from BYU-I, dealing with COVID-19, mental health, and overall learning what my new life is. I cannot in anyway shape or form do this on my own. With Him I have faith things are going to be a-okay. Maybe I "left" an organization, but I didn't leave Him. And that's what's working for me.
My testimony is in Jesus Christ. He knows the pain, the tears shed, the anger. He knows it all. He hears it all. I am so incredibly grateful for that. And if you don't believe in God (or feel you don't have a strong relationship with Him), I hope you feel there is someone who listens. I hope you still feel you aren't alone. That you can find your path and your journey and good people to support you. I'm so grateful that when I told a friend (a couple of them, actually) that I wasn't really doing the whole "church thing" they said they would support me, and I could feel their love regardless. I'm still me and loved ones will understand that.
We are not less than because we step back. This relates to anything. Like I said, this could be with people. As a teenager I realized there were people in my life who weren't making me better. I found myself constantly worried about what they would think of me, and I became someone I didn't like. So, I stepped away. And it was hard. Don't think these kinds of choices are ever easy. I cried to my mom that I was losing these friends. We both knew it was actually for the better, but it hurt because I still shared part of my life with them. And I think that's why it was hard for me to see this Worldwide Fast at first- I've had to find new footing in stepping away from organized religion. But sometimes it all needs to be done. So, don't worry about judgement (easier said than done, but we can at least try). Do the things in life that will make you healthier and happier.
Thank you, as always, for reading this. I love sharing my journey with you, I love hearing your thoughts, and I am deeply grateful for this outlet.
Stay safe, wash your hands, allow yourself to feel when you need to, and remember to have hope.
---Maggie
When watching General Conference last weekend, I recognized a large shift in what my life was like not that long ago. Flashes of my last conference, just last October, crossed my mind, because shortly before that conference, as I was pushing myself to stay active in the church, I wrote a post about struggling with my testimony. So, a few weeks later, when that conference arrived, I felt like I was coming back, like I was going to make it. Really slowly, but I was making my way.
The thing is, so much of myself wanted to believe what I was writing at the end of that post from September 2019, because I believed that to be the only path I could take. Living within the church was pretty much all I'd known. It was semi-comfortable for me to just stay with what I knew, even though it was causing me a lot of heartache. I went on a date shortly after moving to SLC, and this person asked if I still went to church and I told them, "Not often. But I go sometimes just because it's all I've ever known." It was hard, though. I sat in the back of my ward, I listened to talks, and still felt like I was out of place. I tried so hard to make it back and feel like I could really participate in church. I tried so hard to focus on Christ and nothing and no one else. Being a member was my only real choice at the end of the day. How else would I make it to live with God once more? How else would I ever be happy? The guilt, the feeling that I'm losing my salvation, was the only thing that kept me going. I wasn't happy living that way. At all.
As I was forcing myself to go to church shortly after moving to SLC, I decided to move my records. I was (very kindly) bombarded with new information and invites from auxiliary leaders in a "new member meeting". I smiled so much in this meeting and tried so hard to act as though I would try to make it to some ward activity and that I was all into the whole church thing, that I was like, "Nah. I can't come back after this." But, right after that meeting, the Relief Society President invited me to go to class. I felt bad saying I "needed" to go because she was honestly so nice, so I went, but was really waiting for class to be over so I could leave... and as soon as it ended, I just smiled at everyone and said, "See ya!", knowing very well I wouldn't.
To be quite honest, I've felt a huge burden lifted off me as I've decided I wasn't going to participate in anything I didn't want to. I was consumed by feeling like I wasn't a good member, that I had to choose between finding love or being an active member, and I hated always wishing that things would change. It wasn't good for my own mental and spiritual health.
My final religion course I needed to graduate was my Eternal Families class. I tried faking my way through the semester with tear-filled eyes and a hurting heart, until certain questions were asked, or students would say things like being LGBTQ+ was similar to dealing with an addiction or eating disorder. I felt I had to be careful with what I said because I knew that if I fully admitted my thoughts or how I was living, I could get a nice little chat with the Honor Code Office. And that was frustrating. I'm not a bad person because of my choices, and I still believe in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I honestly feel the Spirit guiding me all the time. I feel Their presence in my life, through all those really good moments, and in those dark moments where I feel I'm completely alone. I've thanked my Father in Heaven for an opportunity to leave a toxic place, for helping me find myself, for His divine plan for me. I've felt His hand as I've embraced my sexuality and been on this new adventure in Salt Lake.
This decision didn't come easily. For an entire year, I've prayed to God for help on figuring out LGBTQ+ issues, on faith, on the church, and everything in between. I can't explain to you the hours I've spent crying and pleading to understand what was happening. I've asked what my real purpose is in life, why I'm bisexual, if it was okay for me to leave, and if there would still be a chance that I could make it to live with Him again. I have expressed so much anger and frustration, so much hurt to Him. In the middle of many nights I sobbed in my bed, asking Him to take it all away so I could just believe once more. I made deals. I tried reading my scriptures and praying and participating in church and going to the temple. I'd stare at photos from my mission and think, "What happened to me?" There have been countless sacred moments where He has wrapped His arms around me and told me I am okay, I am loved, and I am His daughter.
In a poem I wrote on one of these many sleepless nights in the last few weeks, I wrote this:
like youI woke up yesterday morning (let's be real... afternoon) remembering it was Good Friday. I reflected on what Easter really was about as I got ready for the rest of my day. As I made a necessary venture to the grocery store, I prayed to Heavenly Father. I told Him I wasn't sure if He would really accept the offer I was giving Him, but that I felt like I needed to participate in this event. I had to look past myself; this wasn't about an organization. I felt a lot of peace in that and am glad I participated, even if my participation looked a little different.
i just want a place in this world
to not be afraid
to have a home
a place where i sleep at night
knowing i am loved
where God holds me in His arms
and says
'I have always accepted you.'
Like I said at the end of my coming out post , there is too much evidence in a God that I cannot deny Him, nor His Son, or the Spirit. As I closed with in my final assignment for my Eternal Families class, "My relationship with Them is the only thing that keeps me going." It's what I hold onto. Elder Holland had me in tears as I reread his talk from this conference, "A Perfect Brightness of Hope." Despite the pain I've felt and the roller coaster of a year I've had, I still have hope.
I have hope that someday this whole thing will work itself out, that my sexuality and those of the LGBTQ+ community will find their rightful home in society and in religion. I have hope that, despite what seems like an "inactive" returned missionary, I will return to live with God and my Savior again. I have hope that I will still be able to stand before Him and say that I loved Him, I served Him, and I loved and served my neighbor.
I share this all with you today for a couple reasons. One is really because I don't want to feel like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. Like that one day at that new member meeting, I can't keep it up. The other reason, and honestly the main reason, is because I want people to know they can step away if they need to. From anything. If it doesn't feel right, if it's hurting you too much, if it's not making you better, or whatever else, it's okay to stop and say, "This isn't for me." I've been afraid of saying that to anyone because telling people I hated BYU-I and had to get out of there is awkward enough. They don't get it, and I don't expect them to. But, it's okay to say it and do it. And you don't really have to explain those decisions to anyone if you don't want to. I just want people to know they're not alone. Also, I feel like I should note that I'm not encouraging anyone to leave the church. This stands as a general statement for stepping away from something, or even someone (this one is huge). We just don't need to feel guilty for our decisions. Like I said, and will always continue to say, we all have different paths. And God loves us through all of them and walks by our side if we let Him. He also knows us way better than we know ourselves, and that is why I definitely trust Him, because let me tell you, I've tried walking this path all on my own and it did not work out. I tried leaving behind my entire religion and gave up on my relationship with God. I was always confused. But as I've allowed Him back in, I know He holds my hand through this. I saw this little quote that said, "He left the 99 to find me." I'm a bisexual, Christian woman, living in Salt Lake, trying to graduate from BYU-I, dealing with COVID-19, mental health, and overall learning what my new life is. I cannot in anyway shape or form do this on my own. With Him I have faith things are going to be a-okay. Maybe I "left" an organization, but I didn't leave Him. And that's what's working for me.
We are not less than because we step back. This relates to anything. Like I said, this could be with people. As a teenager I realized there were people in my life who weren't making me better. I found myself constantly worried about what they would think of me, and I became someone I didn't like. So, I stepped away. And it was hard. Don't think these kinds of choices are ever easy. I cried to my mom that I was losing these friends. We both knew it was actually for the better, but it hurt because I still shared part of my life with them. And I think that's why it was hard for me to see this Worldwide Fast at first- I've had to find new footing in stepping away from organized religion. But sometimes it all needs to be done. So, don't worry about judgement (easier said than done, but we can at least try). Do the things in life that will make you healthier and happier.
Thank you, as always, for reading this. I love sharing my journey with you, I love hearing your thoughts, and I am deeply grateful for this outlet.
Stay safe, wash your hands, allow yourself to feel when you need to, and remember to have hope.
---Maggie
Sticky Note Lessons
Every night, I take some time to read poems from some of my favorite poetry books I have. I've been marking some that particularly stick out to me with sticky notes. My books end up looking pretty worn and messy, especially with bent edges of various colored sticky notes adorning their pages. One night, I sat staring at the book in front of me, and found beauty in the messiness I held. It was an unusual feeling, because anytime things are out of order or not perfect, I feel uneasy, frustrated, like the world is closing in around me. My mind is unable to focus on anything else until I feel settled. I wrote down several thoughts I had about my OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) and how these sticky notes were some sort of symbol to me about overcoming my obsession with perfection. It rules pretty much every aspect of my life, but at the end of my notes I wrote, "OCD doesn't have to rule my love for poetry." I then wrote a poem with the opening line being, "Poetry heals-"
With everything that's been going on, life has felt completely out of control. One of the things I've been struggling with the most is my OCD. In trying to ease anxiety and find control, my obsessions and compulsions have felt stronger. In the 7-8 months that I've been working on overcoming my OCD, many of the things I had worked through came back with a vengeance. I recognized new habits forming as well. I can't tell you how many times I've done my breathing exercises in the last few weeks, how hard I've tried to do exposure therapy, but mostly end up clenching my fists and rationalizing my way out of letting things go.
"It's a stressful time, so it's okay to give into all those compulsions and obsessions. No big deal." *throws up peace sign*
As I said in a previous blog post, giving into those things isn't the end all be all of trying to overcome my OCD (and mental illnesses in general). I've been trying to not beat myself up for all the intrusive thoughts, the incessant checking of things, constant tidying, reorganizing, and several other symptoms I experience in living with OCD. Despite not trying to put so much pressure on myself to be "perfect" in relation to my mental health, it is still very frustrating to live with OCD. My medication has helped to alleviate some symptoms I experience, but it's obviously not perfect. Because of my OCD, I often have a hard time focusing on the things in front of me. Things have to be done a certain way. If I don't check something, or I don't do it a specific way, or enough times, or everything isn't exactly how I need it to be, my anxiety feels overwhelming and I feel a sense of impending doom. It's nearly impossible for me to move on to the next thing unless I do something exact and perfect.
OCD is so much more than the need for things to be perfect or clean. And for some that's not necessarily a manifesting symptom. Though we share common symptoms and similar experiences, OCD can look different on those who struggle with it. That's why I wanted to share this post with you today, because I've given you a look into my life with anxiety, depression, and my eating disorder, but I haven't focused a lot on my OCD. I've really only mentioned it in passing, but I think it's important to bring awareness to because, like I said, it's really misunderstood. *It's important to note that just like everything else I write about, this is strictly from my perspective.
I had no idea OCD was overruling my life. When I was younger, I used to check to make sure my windows were locked multiple times each night, everything had a place and if it was moved, I got upset. Things were coordinated, and I fully believed my intrusive thoughts, obsessions and compulsions were a part of life. I had this idea that if I didn't pray for the safety of my family each night, they would surely die. I lived in fear my actions would cause harm to someone else, I feared losing control, often felt guilty for my thoughts, and believed if everything wasn't absolutely perfect, something terrible was going to happen. The list of obsessions and compulsions could go on. Some had gone away over the years, many still linger. In fact, the whole, "My family is going to die unless I ask God to keep them safe," was an issue up until mid-last year. I was 21 years old and under the belief the safety of my family was in my hands all the time. If I nearly forgot to say someone's name, they would die, and I couldn't sleep until I prayed for them.
For years, we had people come to our house to clean, and whenever they moved something even an inch, I couldn't focus on anything until things were exactly how I had them before. I knew the days they would come, and throughout my school day wouldn't be able to focus because I knew when I got home, things would be rearranged and I would have to put them all back. Nothing else could be done until I checked everything I owned.
Hoarding is often a symptom of OCD or a type of OCD, and let me tell you, I kept a lot of stuff that was super unnecessary. I kept birthday cards from when I was like, ten years old. I felt guilty throwing them away. I associated them as being valuable and a connection to that individual who gave it to me, so if I threw it away, I was essentially throwing away my relationship with them. Stuffed animals were even worse. I kept a lot of things despite the clutter it created and the stress it actually brought. Every so often my room felt so out of control despite how organized it was, that I would get upset walking into my own room. But the guilt I felt in getting rid of things outweighed the frustration I felt.
When I was little I got this huge PlayMobile castle set. It was one of the greatest gifts I ever received as a kid. I loved that thing so much. I couldn't let it get dirty, so I had paper towels I used to place all over it so it wouldn't get dirty and dusty. To this day I can't handle dust and touching it or seeing it makes me so anxious and disgusts me. I stop breathing by anything dusty because I can't handle the thought of it in my lungs and contaminating my entire body.
When I went to college, roommates always commented how clean I was. Many didn't know that I couldn't leave the apartment until things were perfect. I was often late to class because of it (even missed class a few times). I checked the floors repetitively for things to pick up, even a tiny shred of paper or thing of fuzz. The kitchen area was always the hardest for me. My food had a place and it was hard to share that space with others who obviously weren't going to have things put the same way I did. And if they moved something of mine in the fridge, they had no idea it honestly messed with my entire day. It threw me off and I had to fight with myself to not always put it back where it was. Or, sometimes I wouldn't stop myself and I would probably seem petty by moving it back, but it (temporarily) relieved the anxiety I felt by having my things out of place. Moving it meant I could go to the next thing.
I still have this need to check if I locked the front door before I leave, because if I don't, someone will break in and steal everything we own, and it will be my fault. There's a need to put my deodorant on a certain number of times under each arm or else no one will want to go near me and I'll feel like this disgusting human being until I go back and put the right number on. So when I say it impacts every part of my life, it impacts even the tiniest, daily things we all do.
I honestly couldn't tell you how my OCD diagnosis began. I spent about 20 minutes looking through old journal entries and all I really mentioned was, "Working on my ED and OCD. Help meeee." That was sometime in September. So, it's a relatively new diagnosis for me. But, anyway, all I really remember was how we were probably talking about my perfectionism issues, and then my therapist asked me about some other stuff and then said, "You probably have OCD." I talked to my psychiatrist friend about it and then I realized I really do have OCD. I think I started laughing a little when I talked about it with them both and was diagnosed, because I had this attitude of, "Of course I would have OCD," and just couldn't believe I'd missed that my entire life.
Exposure therapy is probably one of the worst things in the world. My counselor on campus-the worst counselor I've ever interacted with-tried to do exposure therapy with me, but he was like, "Yeah, just don't pray for your family and see what happens." And when I told him I didn't and that my family didn't actually die, he went, "See? So you don't have to pray for your family each time and do it by name. Next." Totally unhelpful because the anxiety was still there and I only did it once, but went straight back to that habit for a while longer. Anyway, my new therapist was so helpful and encouraged me a ton to keep pushing through exposure therapy. When I told her I didn't follow through with something, she didn't make me feel bad and reminded me of how freeing it would be to not have to live like I was. When I did my "homework," she was so excited for me that I actually nearly cried once because I felt so good. She'd tell me, "This is so exciting. I am so happy for you I feel like crying."
When she first brought exposure therapy up, though, I got all rigid and then started laughing when she was done speaking because I was so anxious and uncomfortable with the idea of not giving into my OCD, that I had no other expression for it. But I was also tired of missing out on a lot of things in life and feeling like I had no control. I hated living in fear, I hated never feeling fully comfortable with my surroundings. I hated feeling dirty and guilty and obsessed with things that didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things. I was so blessed to have two roommates who helped me a ton. They were probably a little too happy to help me with exposure therapy (y'all know it), but I was able to overcome some major obstacles with their help (even though it caused me physical pain). Like, my closet is color coordinated, arranged by sleeve length, pattern, shirt type, you name it. I could not leave my room if a shirt was misplaced. I would try so many times but physically could not do it. If I did, the image of the misplaced item haunted me during class and I couldn't wait until I could get back home to put it where it was supposed to be. I once walked into my room and my shoes were all over the place and clothes off hangers or in different places. I had to re-enter my room multiple times and sit with my anxiety until eventually it was bearable and it didn't bother me as much. These days I'm proud to say I often leave shirts inside out and on my floor without too much of a problem (9 times out of 10). I also had a huge problem with my bed being unmade and being dirty. One time one of my roommate's was eating on my bed and dropped like, two crumbs, and I almost had a straight up panic attack. My first thought was, "Throw it away. Get rid of the entire cover because now it's contaminated and will never be clean again." She felt really bad but I calmed down. I still have the cover, and she was a real champ in dealing with me in that moment because I was lowkey losing it.
The list could go on for all the times my OCD comes and interrupts my daily life. All the times I've compulsively cleaned, rearranged, all the intrusive thoughts, everything symptom I deal with, but it'd be boring and I think you get the point. It's so hard, because it's more than being neat and tidy. It's way more than watching those "satisfying" videos of things being put in order or being a little bothered by an image of something being out of place. It's a living hell and something I wouldn't wish on anyone It's a feeling of everything being life or death, panic attacks, losing control, impulsiveness, and fear. It's terribly time consuming and often against my will. I know it doesn't make sense to do a lot of the things I do, or to think about them. I'm well aware that my OCD is not "normal" but it often feels like the only way I can control my surroundings and alleviate my anxiety. And like I said, it's often life or death. So, when you say something like, "Oh, I'm so OCD," or when your professor misses a tiny spot on the white board when erasing things and you say, "Ugh, my OCD is so bothered right now," or whatever way you say you "have" OCD, please think about what you say, because OCD isn't a small matter. It's quite often disabling. As I've sat in my apartment as this pandemic occurs, as I've made my way back to work, my OCD is attacking me from every front and it's the worst feeling. But I found a lot of power in those tiny sticky notes the other day. It gave me a sense of hope, weirdly enough. So, today's quote is simply, "Keep going." Hopefully a reminder for us all, especially during these times. Take time to do the things you love, realize you don't have to be productive at every second (let's be real- it can be hard to work from home and find motivation to get all those things done on your to-do list), take a breath, and allow yourself to feel all the emotions that are coming. Remember to reach out and keep connecting with your loved ones! Really, just take it all one day at a time and do what works best and is healthiest for you. We can make it!
As always, thanks for reading!
---Maggie
PS: Some basic info on what OCD is. Education is key to understanding!
The Brown Skin I Wear
I planned to upload a very different blog post today, but at the last minute, decided I had to write about the recent events on police brutality. As one of my goals for this blog is to create a supportive, welcoming community for all, I want to express to you the heaviness many of you are feeling- but from my perspective as a person of color*. My news feed has been filled with white people posting about police brutality and being "white allies," and while I appreciate the support, I was reminded of a poem I wrote a few months ago on the frustration I often carry in situations like this.
i don't need a white person
trying to fight for me
i don't need
your white savior complex
to rescue me
or your guilt
from the way you've
treated my people
to finally move you
to take action
where were you when
i sat on the bus
and a girl told her friends
to not sit next to me
because i am brown?
where were you
when i was followed in a store
because a worker
thought i looked suspicious?
you were never there
i have always
had to stand up for myselfand do so every day of my life
For many years I went to a painfully white school in a very white town, attended church where more often than not, I was the only brown person in the congregation, and in my age group. I've spent years feeling less than and always second guessing my opportunities, myself, because of the color of my skin. I've been objectified- considered 'exotic' because I am brown and from a different country. People have spoken down to me, seen me for only my skin. I've watched as the white, blonde girls get praised, want tans and are considered beautiful when their skin is a little darker in the summer. But that barely brown skin fades. And mine stays forever, only to get darker when the sun comes in, only for me to continue to be viewed as not as beautiful, not as important. Shouldn't the reality be we are all beautiful and valuable? Because we are.
I remember I was pulled over by a police officer in Rexburg. He approached my car like I was dangerous, staying to the side and peering over to my window as he told me to put my hands on the wheel, and not make any sudden movements. I was privileged (and how terrible it is that I have to use that word when simply being pulled over) to get a warning and continue on with my day. But I still wondered; Was he scared of me because of my skin color? No white person would ever have to second guess themselves for that.
Brown people, people of color in general, have had to fight for equality for so long and I just don't get it. Why do we have to prove ourselves? And why do we always have to have white people to be around us to try and show the other white people we aren't all that bad?
Our voices will not be silenced. We will continue to march. To protest. Nothing has stopped us before and nothing will stop us now.
To all my POCs, remember we are filled with
Keep fighting. And for all my non-POC friends and family, continue to educate yourselves, continue to recognize your privilege, and allow us to speak. Fight beside us, not for us.
Thank you for reading.
---Maggie
*Note: This is written from my personal views and experiences
Home
Since leaving my home in Massachusetts to go to my first semester at BYU-Idaho in 2016, I've managed to move/have new roommates every few months (and on a mission a new area and a new companion every so often). Though I like to plan out my life, I've grown accustomed to knowing no place is ever permanent for me. My move to Utah, though, would be different. I planned on being here for a while to get state residency, and hopefully apply to grad schools close by. That meant Salt Lake would (most likely) be the longest I've ever stayed in one place since high school.
I've come to realize that the inconsistencies of where I live and who I'm living with has been harder than I've led myself to believe. I used to tell people I loved the change of never being "still" for too long. In some ways, the change is nice. Moving and living with new people every so often has allowed me to meet my closest friends, and have some incredible memories/experiences. On the other hand, I've also longed for a place that didn't just come and go, a place where I could create, play music whenever I want, live by my own rules, and just fully belong in. A safe space that was bigger than a room I crammed my belongings into. I've just wanted a place to live in for longer than a few months.
About a month ago, I moved into my first real apartment on my own. It's been an adventure; I spent the first week and a half without a single chair to sit on, or table to eat at. I still don't have a couch so when I want to relax I just lie on the floor or go to bed. I just got a desk chair the other day, which was exciting because it meant I could use my kitchen table for eating instead of literally everything else. The first morning was eerily silent and sometimes the quiet still feels overwhelming, but I've grown used to living on my own and generally enjoy it. I can decorate things how I want it. Organize it the way I like. Do whatever I want. I have a cat now and she's made my apartment feel less lonely (she literally wakes me up before my alarm every morning to climb on top of me and insist I pet her). As I've gradually brought in mismatched furniture and decorated the beige and boring walls of my apartment, I realized, for the first time in a long time, I'm starting to feel a little bit of that permanency and belonging I've ached for. Just the other day I walked into my room and smiled because it was finally full and homey.
I'm starting a new chapter as I've really settled into my apartment and new routine. I'm not going to lie -those first couple of weeks were rough. There was a lot going on and I felt like I'd taken on too much too soon. Just the other week I had a long conversation with my parents about how I'd been feeling lately and I started bawling. I'm eternally grateful for them because after that conversation, I felt hope for the first time in a long time. It was after that I believed Utah could be where I find I belong.
You know, at first Utah was just an escape for me. A place to rid myself of BYU-Idaho and break free of the chains of my religion. I believed coming here would solve all my problems from before. It definitely hasn't and some have gotten worse (all despite my good intentions), but at the end of the day I'm glad I'm here. Even though everything isn't perfect and how I imagined, I wouldn't change it. It's becoming more than just a place I ran to now. I also know that no matter what happens, I have people I can turn to and everything will work out as it should. I've made it this far despite everything that's happened since January.
In honor of this new phase I'm in, I wanted to share this:
Here's to Utah, my new home.
---Maggie
Lessons in Courage and Vulnerability
It's been a while since I've posted here. Quite frankly I've been in some very dark spots over the last little bit and my motivation to write has been almost non-existent. I've spent more days crying on the floor and more hours sleeping than I would like to admit. But, for the first time in a very long time, I felt a burst of inspiration. I'm reading "The Gifts of Imperfection" by Brené Brown. I'm currently on a "vulnerability/courage journey" so that I learn to stop hiding and running from my emotions, share those emotions with others, and also learn how to be more present when I am feeling good (I often find myself on edge, waiting for the next "bad" thing to happen to ruin the happiness I have). It's been very eye opening, terrifying, and uplifting. Once again, for the first time in a while, I'm getting new ideas and writing more. I take notes constantly. I also cry a lot still, and throw my own pity parties because I wonder why I am the way I am, but I'm alive and working on myself, which is a really really really good thing.
I spent about a month spending too many hours alone in my apartment isolating myself. I was anxious for purpose and just wanted to feel like my life was in control again (@ my OCD because I re-cleaned and redecorated my apartment so many times to find control it was actually very unhealthy). I feared my mental health would prevent me from ever finding a job and being good at something. It was so hard to leave the house and take care of myself-how would I be able to help others?
With more caution and awareness of myself and what I felt I was capable of handling more long term, I found a new position that was part time, paid much better, and had better hours. I now work as a registered behavior technician and work with kids with autism. I still nanny part time, which I love because those kids brighten my life. My job is hard at times, but I love it and just spending my days working with kids, playing, teaching, and pretending all over again is so fun. I celebrate their successes and enjoy seeing their potential. I come home very tired, and am learning more about self care than ever before. I've talked about it so much in school, but now that I'm actually doing more social work-y stuff, it's been taking on a whole new meaning.
I've found purpose and feel less pressure to have everything perfect in my life. Though my days are spent constantly moving and I spend more time smiling than I have all year, I still have those days that I struggle to get out of bed. I still cry myself to sleep every so often, still wonder when the dark clouds over me will disappear. Once again-and I wish I could tell you why my brain keeps thinking this-, I had this expectation that once I got a job, my mental health issues would just dissipate. I would have everything I needed. I'd be happy and busy working.
Before I delve into my thoughts and share a new idea, here's the update:
I graduated from BYU-Idaho in July. I received my diploma and a copy of my transcript in the mail, which means I can no longer get kicked out of school for violating the Honor Code, and I can literally do whatever I want with my life without worrying about aforementioned Honor Code. There's no more hiding, no more pretending to be anything I'm not. It's quite freeing. Though I ended my time at BYU-Idaho with a scathing review of the last year of my life at this university (basically how if you're straight white cis and an 'active' LDS member it's probably a great school but other than that it's a living Hell :) ) in a student survey for graduating students, I am grateful for the Social Work program, good peers, and some quality roommates over the years. I grew up feeling like an outcast and didn't have any close friends growing up, except for a few at the schools I went to over the years, and other than a degree I love, BYU-Idaho did provide me some of the best friendships I've ever had. From watching hours of Glee and One Tree Hill, and watching movies on sketchy websites (for legal purposes this is a joke) to cutting my hair at 12am, wheezing constantly, and playing Super Smash Bros., some of my greatest memories have taken place in Rexburg. My professors were truly incredible and showed confidence in us as "junior baby social workers" and are some of the greatest men this world has to offer. Along with graduating, I also completed my internship, which I also loved and will forever be grateful for.
Post-graduation has been weird. Of course, I enjoy the freedom, but my mental health has been suffering for months now (thanks 2020), and the idea of being on my own more has been terrifying. I've made a lot of massive changes in my life since January (moving to UT, coming out, moving to my own apartment, graduating, etc.,) and my anxiety levels have been rising at an exponential rate. There was a lot I felt I had to take on once I got my degree. I had accepted a job offer back in March to be a Youth Mentor at a residential treatment center for girls who have severe mental health struggles. At the time I was excited for this job (despite the mediocre pay and kind of terrible work hours), because I am passionate about mental health and felt good about having something secured right out of college (I'd literally have less than a week off before I finished school and started this job). The closer the time came for me to start, the more panic attacks I started having. I worried about trying to help these young girls when I felt I could barely help myself. Of course, I would be able to really sympathize/empathize with them, but at the same time, I was worried about being triggered. I am still in recovery from an eating disorder, I have struggled with all motivation to keep going in the last 6 months, and my whole life just felt like an absolute train wreck. The work hours stressed me out because I would be working late nights and weekends. There was just a lot going on and I felt overwhelmed. I talked to my therapist about it, and cried on the phone to my parents about being utterly lost and regretting all my life choices.
I graduated from BYU-Idaho in July. I received my diploma and a copy of my transcript in the mail, which means I can no longer get kicked out of school for violating the Honor Code, and I can literally do whatever I want with my life without worrying about aforementioned Honor Code. There's no more hiding, no more pretending to be anything I'm not. It's quite freeing. Though I ended my time at BYU-Idaho with a scathing review of the last year of my life at this university (basically how if you're straight white cis and an 'active' LDS member it's probably a great school but other than that it's a living Hell :) ) in a student survey for graduating students, I am grateful for the Social Work program, good peers, and some quality roommates over the years. I grew up feeling like an outcast and didn't have any close friends growing up, except for a few at the schools I went to over the years, and other than a degree I love, BYU-Idaho did provide me some of the best friendships I've ever had. From watching hours of Glee and One Tree Hill, and watching movies on sketchy websites (for legal purposes this is a joke) to cutting my hair at 12am, wheezing constantly, and playing Super Smash Bros., some of my greatest memories have taken place in Rexburg. My professors were truly incredible and showed confidence in us as "junior baby social workers" and are some of the greatest men this world has to offer. Along with graduating, I also completed my internship, which I also loved and will forever be grateful for.
Post-graduation has been weird. Of course, I enjoy the freedom, but my mental health has been suffering for months now (thanks 2020), and the idea of being on my own more has been terrifying. I've made a lot of massive changes in my life since January (moving to UT, coming out, moving to my own apartment, graduating, etc.,) and my anxiety levels have been rising at an exponential rate. There was a lot I felt I had to take on once I got my degree. I had accepted a job offer back in March to be a Youth Mentor at a residential treatment center for girls who have severe mental health struggles. At the time I was excited for this job (despite the mediocre pay and kind of terrible work hours), because I am passionate about mental health and felt good about having something secured right out of college (I'd literally have less than a week off before I finished school and started this job). The closer the time came for me to start, the more panic attacks I started having. I worried about trying to help these young girls when I felt I could barely help myself. Of course, I would be able to really sympathize/empathize with them, but at the same time, I was worried about being triggered. I am still in recovery from an eating disorder, I have struggled with all motivation to keep going in the last 6 months, and my whole life just felt like an absolute train wreck. The work hours stressed me out because I would be working late nights and weekends. There was just a lot going on and I felt overwhelmed. I talked to my therapist about it, and cried on the phone to my parents about being utterly lost and regretting all my life choices.
When I say my parents are the greatest people on this f-ing planet, I truly mean it. These people were like, "Maggie, just tell the job it's not going to work. You found another opportunity. Have fun. Make mistakes. Learn from this experience. Finding something that won't give you panic attacks." Basically. So, I did just that. I started the job search again with support from my parents, who assured me they wouldn't let me be homeless and that I wasn't a terrible person for not taking this job I had agreed to back in March.
I spent about a month spending too many hours alone in my apartment isolating myself. I was anxious for purpose and just wanted to feel like my life was in control again (@ my OCD because I re-cleaned and redecorated my apartment so many times to find control it was actually very unhealthy). I feared my mental health would prevent me from ever finding a job and being good at something. It was so hard to leave the house and take care of myself-how would I be able to help others?
With more caution and awareness of myself and what I felt I was capable of handling more long term, I found a new position that was part time, paid much better, and had better hours. I now work as a registered behavior technician and work with kids with autism. I still nanny part time, which I love because those kids brighten my life. My job is hard at times, but I love it and just spending my days working with kids, playing, teaching, and pretending all over again is so fun. I celebrate their successes and enjoy seeing their potential. I come home very tired, and am learning more about self care than ever before. I've talked about it so much in school, but now that I'm actually doing more social work-y stuff, it's been taking on a whole new meaning.
I've found purpose and feel less pressure to have everything perfect in my life. Though my days are spent constantly moving and I spend more time smiling than I have all year, I still have those days that I struggle to get out of bed. I still cry myself to sleep every so often, still wonder when the dark clouds over me will disappear. Once again-and I wish I could tell you why my brain keeps thinking this-, I had this expectation that once I got a job, my mental health issues would just dissipate. I would have everything I needed. I'd be happy and busy working.
Like I said, my therapist and I have been focusing on truly allowing myself to feel and being more open in my relationships (being vulnerable), and that just because I do have the things I need, doesn't mean my life is perfect, and that I can't be sad. I have a mental illness that isn't just going to disappear. I try to make it go- when I feel negative thoughts coming I tell myself, "I don't have time for that." I push them away and just keep moving. I always think emotion is the enemy. Anything else but happiness is the villain. People like happy, so I try to be happy. One day I'll just explode. That's why on those days I feel incredibly dark, I try to acknowledge it, and then let it be.
The other day I felt a sadness within me, a feeling of heaviness that followed me around wherever I went. I acknowledged that feeling, tried not to judge it as bad or unproductive, or whatever other labels I give my "negative" emotions, and just let myself feel. I read "The Gifts of Imperfection", laid down with Chloe, went for a drive, and reminded myself it would pass in time, that I wasn't weak, and it was okay.
I've been doing a lot of healing. It's exhausting. Because I push so many things away unless I find it helpful/convenient to my life/aspirations/goals/situation, I haven't taken much time to really reflect on how the last year and a half has changed and affected me (for better and worse). I'm processing a lot of stuff and I feel a gradual change happening inside me. Who knew allowing yourself to feel and emote was actually a good thing? (That was sarcasm. Pls don't come at me.) My therapist keeps telling me that emotions aren't bad and when I start to make jokes about how uncomfy I am being vulnerable and showing my/allowing feelings she goes, "You know you're making your life harder, right?" Every session I go, "Logically, I get exactly what you're saying, but my brain has some issues so emotionally I don't like what you're telling me. I've made it this far in life anyway by pushing everything away." I'm a real treat to have as a client.
I've had this realization that this round of therapy feels more difficult than when I was in Rexburg. I was working primarily on my eating disorder and later, my diagnosis of OCD. Without having another word to explain what that felt like, therapy and the skills I was learning then felt more concrete. Like, eat three meals a day and 2 snacks, then track it in our app. Or, have your roommates move stuff in your closet. With my depression it's like, "OPEN UP", and I'm like, "How? I literally cannot." I might seem pretty vulnerable because I post on this blog and my Instagram, but also, I very much struggle with being honest with myself about how I actually feel, and that translates into a lot of aspects of relationships I have. It's also very easy to hide behind a screen. I can upload something and be done with it. I definitely have a tendency to be like, "I felt that emotion today and worked through it, that's enough for like, the rest of my life because that was exhausting." I slip back into my old habits of self-deprecating humor and believing ignorance truly is bliss. My therapist will not let me get away with any of it and so we are working on creating consistency.
Anyway, there's a lot going on right now. I'm trying to take it one day at a time. So many people think I have my life together but I'm like, jokes. I have so many problems. The conversations always go something like this:
The other day I felt a sadness within me, a feeling of heaviness that followed me around wherever I went. I acknowledged that feeling, tried not to judge it as bad or unproductive, or whatever other labels I give my "negative" emotions, and just let myself feel. I read "The Gifts of Imperfection", laid down with Chloe, went for a drive, and reminded myself it would pass in time, that I wasn't weak, and it was okay.
I've been doing a lot of healing. It's exhausting. Because I push so many things away unless I find it helpful/convenient to my life/aspirations/goals/situation, I haven't taken much time to really reflect on how the last year and a half has changed and affected me (for better and worse). I'm processing a lot of stuff and I feel a gradual change happening inside me. Who knew allowing yourself to feel and emote was actually a good thing? (That was sarcasm. Pls don't come at me.) My therapist keeps telling me that emotions aren't bad and when I start to make jokes about how uncomfy I am being vulnerable and showing my/allowing feelings she goes, "You know you're making your life harder, right?" Every session I go, "Logically, I get exactly what you're saying, but my brain has some issues so emotionally I don't like what you're telling me. I've made it this far in life anyway by pushing everything away." I'm a real treat to have as a client.
I've had this realization that this round of therapy feels more difficult than when I was in Rexburg. I was working primarily on my eating disorder and later, my diagnosis of OCD. Without having another word to explain what that felt like, therapy and the skills I was learning then felt more concrete. Like, eat three meals a day and 2 snacks, then track it in our app. Or, have your roommates move stuff in your closet. With my depression it's like, "OPEN UP", and I'm like, "How? I literally cannot." I might seem pretty vulnerable because I post on this blog and my Instagram, but also, I very much struggle with being honest with myself about how I actually feel, and that translates into a lot of aspects of relationships I have. It's also very easy to hide behind a screen. I can upload something and be done with it. I definitely have a tendency to be like, "I felt that emotion today and worked through it, that's enough for like, the rest of my life because that was exhausting." I slip back into my old habits of self-deprecating humor and believing ignorance truly is bliss. My therapist will not let me get away with any of it and so we are working on creating consistency.
Anyway, there's a lot going on right now. I'm trying to take it one day at a time. So many people think I have my life together but I'm like, jokes. I have so many problems. The conversations always go something like this:
Kind Individual: "How are you?"
Me: "Oh, I'm really great! Just working in a job I love, don't have homework anymore. Life is so good." *Screams internally.*
The idea of being a burden also kills me. I'm so used to being a strong, stubborn, push-through-it-all type of person. Unfortunately, the social worker in me is the one who helps, but rarely asks for help, because that would mean I have to show my vulnerabilities. Brené Brown has taught me how connection needs energy from both sides, and grows stronger when we "recognize our shared humanity." I seriously love her and this book, but she's attack me from all sides. It's exciting though (don't get me wrong, it's also definitely daunting), to see that I can change, and that vulnerability is strength. So, I'm working hard, finding the courage in each day to face all of my emotions, thoughts, and feelings as best as I can. I get credit for trying. I'm seeing a psychiatrist now and at the end of our session this past week she told me that every inch in the right direction is a success. I was very emotional that day and I almost cried in her office, because it was a great reminder that everything counts. I have honestly hated my life so much for the last few months. I've been miserable. It's been hard to admit, even to my therapist who is literally there to help me and give zero judgement, but even being willing to take this journey is a step forward. And even when I find it hard to be vulnerable (like when friends ask how I am and I respond that I'm "great"), I'm still trying, I haven't failed.
I swear this year's theme was more applicable than I could've possibly imagined when I wrote my first post of 2020. It's also a lot more exhausting and challenging than I thought, but how could I ever grow without it? (Side note: I can thank the good Lord for my trials and be like *growth, yay* but still think it all sucks, because it does sometimes. Or a lot of the times.)
Anyway, I'm sure this is a lot more than you've asked for, but thanks for sticking with me. I have one last thing to update y'all on, and then we can go forward and hopefully take this message with us into the rest of our day.
Because I've been M.I.A on social media (for the most part), I decided to start something new and bring something old back. At the end of last year I started doing weekly gratitude posts on Sunday. I want to get back into that, 1.) because my friend Depression lacks all gratitude (I find myself wishing I had never left MA or my parents way too much and I'm not a fan of it), and 2.) I want to be more active on my blog again. Along with that, I'll be starting a new installment called... something more creative than "Courageous Wednesdays," but that's all my brain can think of right now. In hopes to be an uplifting mid-week post, I want to share what courage is. In reading Brené Brown's "The Gifts of Imperfection" for therapy, I've started learning a lot about courage and vulnerability, and, as we're already in month NINE, of 2020, for this year's theme of "Courage" I want to really instill this idea in myself and you, my dear reader.
We'll see how it goes, but I'm ready to try. And I hope you are too as you follow along my journey, and hopefully start your own.
Much love and as always, thank you for reading!
---Maggie
The Shame of Leaving and Owning My Story
For a long time, I believed my religion was enough; it was all I needed in life. If all else failed, I had God. I had this organization I so devoutly believed in and followed. What I didn't realize was that the day would come I would feel this wasn't enough for me, that I was feeling isolated, resentful, and overall unhappy with where I was, and religion played a rather large part in that. And though I am much happier with where I am now, happy to be leading my life as an openly bisexual woman, leaving wasn't necessarily an easy choice.
My therapist pointed out that I spent my entire life within this organization, and have only spent less than a year out of it. That meant my thinking wouldn't change over night, and it would take time. I expressed to her the guilt I often felt when I did the things I was always taught not to do-date women, for one, get tattoos, pierce my ears more than once, drink coffee, and a lot of other things, a lot of which are relatively small in the grand scheme of things. In the moment, I would feel liberated, like I was finally living my life, but somewhere along the way, shame would come creeping in.
My reality is this:
I was happy in my religion. Happy when I pretended my sexuality didn't exist, happy when I ignored other things I personally "struggled" with. I served the Lord faithfully and gave everything I had and then some. Like a missionary does, I woke up at 6:30am when I didn't always want to, talked to strangers even though it was hard at times, wore some ugly outfits that made me feel like a true sister missionary, and cherished the name I wore on my chest for nearly 19 months. I came home and was devastated. I couldn't cope for a while, crying myself to sleep, regretting ever going because then I had to come home, and if I had never gone, I would've never known. But I pressed forward. I was faithful. But somewhere, deep down, I knew I couldn't hide forever, couldn't keep limiting myself the way I was, that I needed to leave.
I prayed long and hard on several occasions. I prayed in the temple, I prayed walking to class, I prayed while talking on the phone to my mom. At every second of the day I was asking God where the Christ-centered person I was had gone, and why He made me the way I am, if it was all even worth it to stay, and what would happen to me in the end. Could I leave and still receive salvation?
I believe I've shared this before as part of a previous post, but I remember there being a distinct moment when I knew I had to walk away. In that moment, a sense of peace washed over me, and I began to cry (mores o than I already was). God was telling me it was okay, that I didn't have to keep going any longer. I had done what I could, gave every last piece of me, and now it was time to go. I was in a toxic place, and though I know this, I also recognize it will take a while longer to realize that my life is my own, and I am not a bad person, that judgement of others and myself is just a waste of time, and God loves me just the same as He did when I wore Christ's name on my chest every single day. I made this decision with Him, and even if I didn't, I shouldn't have to feel bad about it.
Today courage is sharing more of my journey with you, a part of my life regarding religion I often keep inside out of fear of what others will say, or fear of offending people. It often feels shameful (there's that word again), because it's like I have to hide what I do because I don't want people to know. I deserve to be able to live my life, though, just like anyone else.
Since my last post about leaving the church, I have continued to grow into my own thoughts, my own belief system, and live my life based on different morals. It's been an interesting spot to be in, but I've seen a lot of growth in who I am as a person. My identity is expanding. And though that guilt still gets to me every so often (21 years vs. 10 months is a big difference), I've never been happier. I look in the mirror and feel a sense of belonging, and I'm no longer worried I'll never make it back. At the end of the day, I know who watches over me, and that is all that matters for me.
I want to share this with you; it's a poem I wrote as I had just started living in Salt Lake and decided I was no longer going to church.
Many times, I have wondered where I stand;Would salvation come?The only wayTo find hope was to leaveThe toxicity of everything I knew.Salvation will come.
There is a lot of healing I must do, and this is a part of that-owning my story and sharing it. Healing is admitting I might (and most likely will not) ever "return" to my previous organization. And that's okay. I hear people say to me that they hope I come back, which, in all honesty, makes me feel as though my decision is invalid, a wrong one, and one I will come to regret. But when I look in the mirror I see the person I've always wanted to be. This is my journey. We all must take our own paths. I respect those who stay, who have great faith, and recognize that is perfectly fine for them, and I would never try to dissuade. Like I said, this is just for me to heal. It is not meant to bash my religion, as without it, and without having served a mission, I wouldn't be where I am today.
I'll leave with this quote, a special reminder to me that I am not less than now than I was before, and there is so much in store for me. The same goes for you, in whatever stage of life you are in, and in whatever your journey is.
As always, thanks for reading and coming to understand more.
---Maggie
Overcoming
*TRIGGER WARNING REGARDING SEXUAL ASSAULT. 18+ LANGUAGE.
It's taken me so long to finally type this. It's hard to get the words to say what this all means to me. The truth is, it's taken over a year to even realize that I was affected by such an event. Not to mention I didn't even realize what had happened until I was sitting in my room, at the beginning of being in lockdown from COVID, utterly alone. Scrolling on through an Instagram feed I stumbled upon, looking at images of individuals sharing why they never reported, wondering how such terrible things could happen to innocent people who never asked for it, when I realized how it could happen. Because it happened to me; I was sexually assaulted.
The words are more or less still terrifying to write (I can't say them out loud), and the fear of my ex-boyfriend finding this and calling me a liar is very real. Maybe because I once agreed with him that I was a liar, and called myself one in poems written about and for him. After all, didn't I say I would have sex with him someday?
Well, this is my story. A story I've shied away from and hidden in poems and therapy sessions. My story I could barely share sitting in my bishop's office. Here we are, for all the world (or those who bother to come this way and read) to see and hear.
Sometime in the end of Spring 2019, I matched with a boy on a dating app. We began talking-like legitimate conversations that lasted days. I thought I had found this amazing guy. And he was for a time being.
I hated BYU-Idaho. I was dealing with a lot internally, and the thought of dating someone on campus honestly just sounded terrible. I wanted to rebel. I hated going to church as it was, and there was a part of me that wanted to show God I didn't need Him. This guy wasn't LDS. He also wasn't pressuring me to have sex with him (at the time) like the 20 or so other guys who's first lines were, "DTF?" (Down To Fuck for those who might not be familiar with the lingo of Millennials and Gen-Z's). The bar was already pretty low, I suppose.
Anyway, we met in person (I convinced him to drive from Montana, where he lived, to Idaho, where I was). We got sushi and he went along with my inability to eat in front of anyone (meaning he looked away once when I asked him to because I was too self-conscious to eat a bite in front of him), and he opened the door for me. We talked pretty comfortably and I was excited about the idea of having him as my boyfriend... Except that I hadn't kissed anyone since I was 16, a fact he later found out that night. Needless to say, we drove for a little, had our first kiss, he dropped me off at my door, and I went in to an apartment full of girls asking what had happened.
It seemed perfect. I portrayed a happy picture to everyone. On the inside, all I felt was loneliness. He bashed on my religion almost constantly. I was already in a bad spot, something he knew, and hearing what he had to say didn't make my life any easier. When I told him to stop, he just kept going. I was already angry at God, so eventually I just gave up and thought, "Maybe he's right. Maybe this is stupid and controlling. Who is anyone to tell me what to do with my life and my body?" He'd broken me down after essentially threatening that he was going to leave unless I committed to having sex with him. ("I can't be in a long distance relationship unless I know I'm getting something. That's how you create a bond. My love language is physical touch. I need that.") That led me to stare at the temple from a parking lot across the way and say to him, "I'll have sex with you." But I told him it wouldn't be then. It wouldn't be tomorrow. In fact, it probably wouldn't be until months down the road because I had no clue what to do about my religion and my trauma from it convinced me I'd go to Hell just because I had sex before marriage. I told him it would take me a while, but I'd figure it out. His response was essentially, "I'm not going to wait forever." Part of me wanted to scream, the other part wanted to cry. Why did he always have to pressure me? Why was it always "sex or I'm out"? Wasn't I more than my body? I was beginning to think I was no more than a hallow shell, a toy to be played with. He would always say to me, "Maggie, I'm a dog without a bone." And I was the bone he wanted. He always made these comments that made me feel like I was his property, always left his "mark."
Every time he touched me somewhere, I flinched. I didn't like the way he touched me and how many times I had to tell him no, or move his hands off me, but I was afraid of being alone, despite the fact I loathed when he called me a prude (which happened every time I said no to having sex or moved his hand from parts of my body), or blamed my religion for being the reason we weren't having sex. I hated it all, yet I couldn't leave. I pushed out all the bad, all the times I moved his hand and he moved it back, all the times he told me his love language was physical touch so we had to have sex eventually for us to last... I pushed it all away because I wanted to be wanted. And where else would I go? My religion offered no refuge. It brought nothing but anger and hurt. My roommates had no idea what was going on at the time and I was embarrassed to even bring it up for fear of rejection (I've heard enough conversations about "less actives" and how to help them). I definitely couldn't tell my friends because I had heard enough subtle (and not-so-subtle) complaints about me dating him. No one knew my struggle with depression, my religion, with him. At the end of the day, I was trapped. I couldn't find my way out, and most of the time I didn't really think there was a way out. I lived that period of time painfully ashamed of everything I was, so low I wondered if my life was worth living.
Every time we were together, he would say we were getting closer to having sex. "Not before long, you'll give in." I felt incredibly weak. My church had taught me that I was never to put myself in those situations, that I was to put off the natural man, that I had to resist that "temptation." So, the night it all happened-though I was sexually assaulted more than once-, I thought it was my fault because I was supposed to know better than to show up in his room at 10pm at night. I was supposed to know better than to be alone with him and kiss him laying down on his bed. I was taught to never do any of those things and that if I did I needed to repent. Therefore, it was my fault for letting him touch me the way he did, and I deserved to have that long drive from Montana to Idaho to plead for forgiveness from God.
Once he did what he did, and I finally found my voice that was stuck in the pit of my stomach, I told him I couldn't do it, couldn't go any further. And you know what happened? He broke up with me. And my heart broke. Not only did he legitimately violate me, cross every boundary I had set, he kicked me to the curb right then and there and I had no one to tell. No one to go to to say, "This is what happened. Is it my fault?" I had absolutely. No. One. So I cried on my way home and told God I was sorry. And I convinced myself I had to tell my Bishop because I had sinned.
I walked into his door and said, "I know I know better than this... but this is what happened." And I explained it. And what I got was, "Yes, you do know better." And then all the ways I should give myself to a fucking man before I give myself to him sexually.
I wonder if I had left the church then when I really wanted to, would it have all happened differently? That question haunts me. A year and a half later I still lie in bed and wonder. But when I talk to my therapist, when I told my parents, I said, "I think he would've done the same even if I had sex with him and I consented." Because physical touch was his "love language" and "that was the only way to create a true bond". That was his excuse. He would've always wanted more. No matter what, it would always be his fault. Because even if I had consented and then in the moment told him no, it still means no. No will always mean no. Silence or moving a hand, or anything else that I did or didn't say will always mean no. And (this one took me even longer to realize), I am not a liar. Just because I said I would have sex with him someday, doesn't mean I lied. I was coerced, mentally shoved in the direction of saying 'yes.' I was afraid. Even if that was the night I told him I was ready, and decided at the last moment I didn't want to, he would need to stop (the same goes both ways). But he would call me a liar and tell me I had said I would. Except, I never agreed to anything in that moment, never said yes as he moved his hands down my stomach to the top of my jeans. In fact, I moved his hand once and said, "No", but the second time was too afraid. I hated being called names.
It will never be my fault and I am not a liar. It took me so long to realize that. I carried guilt with me for so long. It was a burden and when I finally found the courage to share it with my therapist, with my parents, I felt courageous in a way I'd never felt before. Like this could finally have an end and I didn't have to be a victim forever. Of course, I'll always remember this. And it effects my relationships and how I date to this day, but it doesn't always have to rule over me. He doesn't always have to have control over my life.
This is my story. A somewhat jumbled retelling, but I think it's important to share because everyone, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, deserves to know they are not alone, and it is never their fault: It is NOT your fault. It is always the perpetrator. Never you.
I thought having said I would meant that when it nearly happened it was my fault. It never will be. That is vital to know. I am so grateful for my God-given love to write poetry because that is what saved me when I was first scrolling on Why I Didn't Report. I am grateful for a therapist who listens, for parents who heard me and felt my pain with me. I want to be that support for someone too. I am here for any stories, any experiences, anything. Adjusting Focus is a blog of hope and of understanding, listening, and creating a home for everyone. We never have to be alone.
Here is a poem from Alex Elle, a poet who's writing I have come to love.
---Maggie
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