Going Too Far- My Stress Recovery Story

Eleven years ago, I was a broke single mother, constantly on the verge of a breakdown. Though I appeared to be “handling” my life to the outside world, I was so mentally unwell. Without having financial resources to hire childcare or support for myself, I found that journaling was something I could easily access. There were times that I wrote until my hands cramped, my journal supporting me through sadness, desperation and the monstrous behavior patterns that were typical of those dark times.

And despite my journals being a lifeline through that chaotic period, and I did eventually "come out the other side," I never wanted to look back at them. It was too painful.  

Now on my continued social media hiatus, I’m finding myself doing things I never thought I would do, like looking back. One entry I found interesting (and sad) was from 2014, when my daughter (Bea) was 5 years old.

I'd been feeling bad for years but dedicated to getting better, I had started to collect real data- tracking my behavior and substance use. What I’m sharing is a snapshot of one of my entries and though it's incredibly vulnerable, I'm not ashamed. I've had the privilege of knowing the stories of so many others, I know that sadly- the behavior I expressed when under such intense stress, really isn't that unusual. 

 Friday: 

• Consumed ⅔ bottle of red wine, went to bed at 9:30PM

Saturday:

• 6AM: Woke up. Felt run down and sneezy
• 8-10AM: Anxious, irritable, tired
• 10AM: Smoked 3 hits of weed, felt uplifted for 30 minutes then tired and listless, crabby
• 1-3PM: Napped
• 3PM: Cried talking to another parent about my daughter spitting on their daughter
• 9PM: Smoked 3 hits of weed
• 11:30PM: Took 1 Klonopin and went to bed

Sunday

• 6:20AM: Woke up feeling calm and pleasant
• 10:30AM: Grabbed Bea’s arm forcefully after she moved a wet pumpkin we had just painted and refused to come near me when I asked her
• 12:45PM: Bea refuses to leave the Pilates studio. I take away the ipad and her Beado craft. I scream at her, grab her arm hard and force her to write a statement about her behavior 10 times as punishment. I lose my mind when she argues with me about the writing and I throw the notebook, spitting as I scream. It takes 25 minutes for me to calm down. 
• 1:45PM: Gave up on my punishment, Bea went to her room instead. We apologized and hugged after. 
• 2-3:20PM Napped
• 3:45PM: Screamed about socks, Bea was fucking with me and defying me about her socks. I’m tired the rest of the day
• 4:30-7:30PM: Consumed 1 bottle of wine
• 10PM: Bedtime

Monday

• 4-6:15AM: Awake with anxiety
• 12PM: Cried about (Bea’s) school behavior to a friend
• 7PM: Smoked 3 hits of weed
• 9:30PM: Asleep

 Tuesday:

• 1:15-3:45AM: Awake with anxiety, take a Xanax
• 6:10AM: Rise, Bea woke up defiant and crabby. I’m agitated.
• 12PM: Screamed at Bea for lying. I meanly tugged her hair. THIS IS NOT OK. I should be put in jail. 

Ooof, that was a lot.

I remember starting talk therapy and telling my therapist that I couldn’t make a thought. That I waffled between rages and catatonic depression. I told her that my brain felt like scrambled eggs with a brushful of tangled hair mixed throughout. 

At the time of this entry, it was becoming painfully clear to me that dating while mentally ill with a young child was not working out in my favor. No man was coming to save me. I had to face the cruel reality that me, the dumbest and meanest mom ever, was going to have to raise my daughter alone.

I had no money. (Actually, I was in debt.) I was so angry, so unsupported, so consumed by fear.

On the rare occasions that I had childcare help, I did other stressful things like hang out at the state disbursement office, waiting to be approved for financial relief, or head over to the Daley Center, researching how to sue my financially abusive ex for child support without paying a lawyer.

I had a terrible job too. The kind of job where I sued them for parental discrimination and sexual harassment and though I did end up clearing about half a year's pay, that stressful monster of a 2 year project only served to fill the gaps of missing child support for about 18 months. 

FIGHT. All I did was fight fight fight during this time. I became so strong, but not in the healthy sense of the word. My heart became a rock: cold, dense.

At that time, I lived in a very high crime neighborhood of Chicago because it was the only place I could afford on my waitress pay. I woke up to gunshots multiple times per week, witnessed four people get shot right from my front window and had two people get murdered on my block. Taxis wouldn’t come to my place, and neither would most of my family.

Yet strangely, I was never afraid. Ever. The violence just felt more sad to me. 

I became used to the feelings of a broken heart. I was sad all the time. 

I was heartbroken for these families, these young gang members, my daughter and myself too. 

The stress of true poverty is like nothing else. It turns us into animals. I saw how I behaved to my child and I hated myself for it. And that made me even more unhinged.

I understood how people became addicts, became abusers; it made perfect sense. Sometimes, good people hurt their kids…they lose themselves in the stress and go too far. I know firsthand that you don’t have to be a bad person for that to happen; you just need a few devastating ingredients.

Knowing this, I had nothing but compassion for the people in my neighborhood who had it even worse than me; the dysregulated mothers hitting their kids on the bus, the ones who were drunk on their stoops at 5pm. Those good people who tried their actual best to raise good kids in an environment that kept a boot on their neck while they gasped to survive every single day. 

The only way there could be a different outcome is if this whole damn world was different. I am eternally grateful for the privilege of being humbled at ground zero with other good people who were doing their absolute best for their families and using what tools they had to deal with the stress and heartbreak of continuing to fail miserably, every single day. 

In those days, I was desperate like a starving animal—in fear, ready to bite or fight. Some days were so bad that I took medication to knock me out so I wouldn’t rage at my kid. I figured unconscious neglect was probably the safer option than violent consciousness.

Some people reading this blog might have known me at this time and they might be confused because they didn’t see me acting like an animal at all. I looked pretty. I laughed at parties. I smiled while I taught you Pilates.

You see, I lived this dual life. At the same time that all of this devastating shit was happening on the inside, I was still doing pretty damn well on the outside—being hilarious on Facebook, getting invited to every party, delighting friends with the seriously funny re-tells of my life. It seemed like the crazier I felt, the more entertained everyone was around me. And I mean, that was some good medicine.

Ironically, this is the time where I was starting my career in wellness, working as a Pilates teacher on my hours off from the restaurant. At the studio, I didn't feel like the same failure that I was everywhere else. People looked up to me. My wealthy clients assumed I was so fit-looking from being really good at Pilates, and I didn’t bother correcting them that my skinny secret was actually disordered eating due to stress.

I couldn’t really change my life that much. I had no money and no time so I leaned into substances to help me manage. Walking around in a smiley skin suit pretending to be alive, I was propped up by Lexapro, Adderal, Xanax, Trazadone, crisp white wine, coffee, American Spirits, marijuana…and on special occasions, maybe a little cocaine, a little mushrooms.

I was doing whatever I needed to do to keep grinding and I looked pretty damn good while I was doing it. I never intended to give up my chemical therapy team, but I did see a brighter future. One where I could feel like I felt at the Pilates studio in other areas of my life. 

I knew it was possible to change my experience with stress because just a few years earlier I started practicing Pilates and for days after my workouts I didn’t rage out at all. And nothing situationally had changed. I'd have the same stressors—just less rage. 

Why?

My nervous system.

My Pilates practice was the only time that I breathed consciously, deeply. I also started to build relationships with my peers in the studio. People who took care of themselves, people who were calm. We attune with healthy nervous systems which just means our bodies will start to parrot the nervous systems of those around us and there were some quality nervous systems in that Pilates studio.

Physical exertion, accomplishment, progression, increased flexibility—these Pilates benefits are some all-natural anti-anxiety medications. With the breathwork, the good neurochemicals, and the new relationships, I started to feel better. I started to take bigger risks, to increase my income, to have healthier relationships, to stop raging.

I’m so proud of the young woman I was: that even in the midst of experiencing and inflicting so much pain into the world, she was trying her actual best. Working with what she had and working so hard. 

Was it easy to get healthy?
No, but it was possible.

All of this change had to begin somewhere. And paying attention is how it started for me. The hardest part of starting is looking, noticing. But by putting pen to paper in the privacy of my own home and mind, I could acknowledge what was happening and feel I was making a productive step forward. It truly started to ease the aches in my heart and I started to get a little tiny bit clearer.

"How do you eat an elephant?", my dad would say. "One bite at a time."

Join me for a bite next week, a 90-minute stress management workshop on Wednesday, February 19th. I called it Brain Wash because firstly, I thought that was a cute name. But also because as our minds are truly malleable, so are our nervous systems (our stress response). Although we tend to associate being brainwashed as a bad thing, we can also use our very influential minds to change how we're feeling for good! 

We are more in command of our experiences than we’re conditioned to believe. 

You can change how you feel.
You can change what you believe.
And that changes who you are.

It was possible for me. It is possible for you.

Get started now. You can start feeling better and more hopeful without changing anything about your life. 

Join me on Wednesday 2/19 for Brain Wash, an informative and interactive workshop that’s designed to help you create your own path. Sign up here.

Thank you for reading to the end of this blog. It’s a good sign you’re already on your way. Just keep walking forward.