Through the Cracks

If you're reading this blog you probably know me at least a little bit and if you know me literally AT ALL you know that over the past three years, recovery and discovering self love has definitely become my #brand.  It's hilarious now looking back at my very first blog posts, where I would very vaguely hint at the fact that I was maybe taking time off to fix something about myself, when now I will talk about my recovery at the drop of a hat.  Even though I am incredibly candid about my journey and how far I have come, I try to make it very clear that I have bad days.  I have clinical depression.  I have OCD (and no, not the kind you think you joke about having).  These are all things that I have not recovered from, but I have become pretty good at managing them in my day to day life.

My depression has evolved over the past few years.  When I was still deeply entrenched in my disorder and during most of my recovery it was pretty classic sadness.  It was messy and tear filled.  It was hours spent in bed and crying over my reflection and mascara running down my face and snot in my throat.  It was calling my mom three times a day because I was just so sad and having breakdowns over virtually everything and everyone.  

Lately, it's a little different.  It's dry and apathetic.  It's going through the motions and vacant stares and disassociation and watching sad movies in an effort to feel anything at all.  I had a spell of this lately, and let me tell you, I think I might even prefer the mess of a girl from a few years ago compared to the zombie who sits in her room and can't get excited about almost anything.  It's just...kind of terrifying to be honest. 

I wish that the whole point of this post was to tell you how I get over these periods of time, these depression valleys I have to traverse every so often.  But, it's (unfortunately) not that easy. I have a huge list of coping mechanisms and tricks I use to make it more bearable, but sometimes it's just a stay in bed all day kind of day.  But if this crazy thing called life has taught me anything it is that there is always...always hope. I use "cracking" imagery a lot in my writing and when I talk about stuff.  I say that when I'm inspired to write, something cracks open and it rushes out of me.  I say that my disorder chipped away at me until I was full of cracks, and that recovery was about putting the pieces together.  Depression doesn't feel different to me.  I feel like no matter how bad I get, there is always a moment where it cracks.  There's no other way I know how to describe it.  Something cracks open and slowly the light seeps back in.  I know that when I'm in the thick of it, I feel like it will never end.  And you have to work hard and take care of yourself, but something will always crack the steely finish of your sadness.  Whether it's a song or your friend's laughter or a blue sky or the hope of spring.  The light will inevitably always find it's way back in.  

Peace, Love, and Burnt Part Boys references,
KT

Cracks

Happy Monday, world!!  I would like to share with you a piece I wrote a few days ago. Let's not even pretend like this isn't a recovery blog...I started it very vaguely hoping that when I was ready I could morph it into a safe place where I could put my feelings about recovery, share my journey, and hopefully inspire and help people who are struggling with similar demons.  Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for allowing me to do that. Taking control of my recovery process has given me a high unlike any brain buzz my disorder ever allowed me. 

A picture of me. 100% Katie Berger. 2008.


 

Cracks.

You attempt to draw road maps back to the inciting action of your self-destruction, your therapist handing you the necessary sketching tools.  Surely there must be one great moment of trauma.  One villain forcing your hand and starving your mind.

You meticulously unpack suitcase after suitcase of emotional baggage.  Sorting through memories instead of sleeping.  Searching desperately for a cause.  Because if there’s a cause, there’s an enemy to fight against.  If there’s a cause, this will make sense.  If there’s a cause, you are once again in control…the very addiction you are trying to break.

After months of trading one obsession for the other, you start to realize the ugly, horrifying, truth.  There is no one moment.  There is no one plot twist, one gaping hole in the wall.  There are millions…millions of miniscule moments, looks, words, questions, feelings…each one contributing to tiny, microscopic cracks in your confident finish.  They span years.  The sight of the foreign language scrawled across your father’s neck from his radiation treatment, which you are unable to decipher but constantly reminds you that there are things unknown. The buzz in your brain the first time you throw away your uneaten home-made sandwich after working through your lunch period, opting instead to perfect your music theory assignments.  The look of shame and panic on your friend’s face as she shoves spoonful after spoonful of peanut butter into her mouth, the words “gym tomorrow, gym tomorrow, gym tomorrow” practically vibrating off of her skin.  The feeling of directors undressing you with their eyes, anxiously wondering how old you really look, even though you can’t order a glass of Merlot without being questioned (not that you would anyway).  The dozens of times you walked down the halls, hearing “frail” as the highest of compliments and “sickly” as the ultimate goal.  You steel yourself against it, having been raised to love yourself, exuding with worth, never falling prey to peer pressure.  But like any successful brainwashing, repetition is key, and before you know it you are the unspoken example of emaciation.  A demi-god of deprivation.  You hear whispers and shoot back dirty looks, high on the strange power you’ve cultivated, forming an addiction to the fact that you are the only one capable of the self-control they all so desperately yearn for.  Forming an addiction to loneliness.

These cracks are countless and overwhelming.  The task of piecing the broken shards back together seems absolutely impossible.  There’s no way you can find them all, let alone glue them into some semblance of normality.  You obsess (because that’s the only thing you know how to do anymore) over how to perfectly plaster over all of these pesky cracks, and just like when you discovered the seemingly neverending moments of destruction, you begin to uncover moments of creation as well.  Shockingly, the process is similar because they are so infinitesimal.  The feeling of your voice soaring above the same notes you were once too weak to sing.  The look a stranger gives you when you smile while passing, their focus on the hope in your eyes, their gaze never wandering down to your collarbone.  The sound of your coworker casually telling you how pretty you look, after spending and hour agonizing over the fact that surely your face has swollen to three times its normal size.  The mornings you wake up free of guilt, your brain buzzing – not from hunger fog, but with ideas.  These moments are the dabs of glue making the process of putting this puzzle back together possible.  Piece by piece the shell that was weak enough to break in the first place is cobbled together to form something that is so magnificent, so imperfect, so strong.  The bits of broken glass are slowly soldered back together, and when you step back, you don’t see a wall, a shell, a battlement.  You see a glorious stained glass window, and the light is unabashedly streaming through.

 

Getting there. Piece by piece.

"Through the cracks our voices rise..."