Tag Archives: Encouragement

Life Sentence : Life After Sexual Trauma

Life Sentence Life After Sexual Trauma headerI usually try to limit my exposure to things about sexual trauma and assault because it just makes me relive my own. But trying to avoid rape culture is like trying to avoid the wind– it’s impossible. Articles, even when they are trying to be empathetic to the survivor, generally frame everything around the aggressor. Their narrative is the narrative because they haven’t been shamed into silence. Funny how that works.

I tried to avoid reading too much about the Stanford case. It didn’t stray far from the usual:  man rapes woman, woman is revictimized in court, he might get convicted but probably not justly, we forget about it until another case comes up by the end of the year, rinse, and repeat.  But when I saw that she wrote something in HER words I knew I had to read it. It was hard not to cry, hard not to want to go and hold her and tell her she was not alone, hard to reconcile the flood of emotions about my own experience but it was worth reading. It made me realize that in most of our conversations about rape, it’s on the act itself. We talk about the 20 minutes, but what about the 20 years after it? What about the life sentences we are resigned to? Where is our justice?

I was sexually assaulted by another student in elementary school. I was ten. I didn’t tell anyone until I was 21. I remember sitting my dad down to tell him first. I waited for him to yell at me, that’s how scared I was, but he just listened. He asked me what I needed. I needed the nightmares and flashbacks to stop. I needed the cramps I’d get after a flashback in my thighs and lower abdomen to go away .  I needed my desire to end it to stop. I needed to want to live. I needed to heal.

I’ve made great strides but even still there’s a lot to unpack in the fifteen years since it happened. It changed everything.

  • The way I automatically distrust men until they prove otherwise. Even my own father was put under the same scrutiny. I don’t just look at a man and see a man, I see someone who could do me harm.
  • The anxiety I have not just about being seen but about people seeing the shame of victimhood. It’s not the fear of others’ knowing I was molested, it’s the fear of the look of pity they’ll give me when they do. That look has killed parts of me, knocked the wind right out of my lungs, and made curl up in bed for days.
  • The constant blame I carried for not wondering why at 10 years-old I didn’t realize he was grooming me, didn’t tell someone I felt uncomfortable, and wasn’t strong enough to defend myself.
  • The hate I feel for him because I even had to struggle with the mental acrobatics of believing any of it was my fault.
  • The fear I have of being in a functional relationship because at some point I’ll have to sit him down and tell him why I’m not ready, why it doesn’t just hurt it terrifies me, why I cried, why I need the lights on so I can clearly see his face, why I need him to tell me what he’s doing so I can mentally prepare for it. The fear that he’ll leave when he realizes he was to work to show me he won’t hurt me like I expect him to.
  • The quiet rage that sits just below the surface, waiting to erupt because I will never forget him , his face, or his hands, while he probably doesn’t even remember my name. He was an indelible experience I never elected to have.
  • The resentment of living with undeserved shame. Knowing that you did nothing wrong but knowing that no matter my age, disposition, or honesty, as a woman someone will always see me at fault.
  • The sadness I feel when I still flinch at hugs from loved ones not because I don’t love them but because sometimes being touched literally hurts.
  • The uncontrollable emotion I feel when suddenly my amazing day is interrupted by the memory of what happened to me. My mind doesn’t just relive it, my entire body does as well.
  • The exhaustion that comes from trying to just get to the end of the day while forcing smiles, conversations, and tasks all while knowing NONE of it can make you who you were the moment before it happened.
  • The downward spiral you can take at any point in time when depression, anxiety, and flashbacks overwhelm you.
  • The fatigue of fighting all of them while clawing your way back to the light.
  • The isolation of suffering silently so you don’t disrupt the lives of the people you care about most.
  • The desperation to cling to anything that can take you away: church, alcohol, sex, drugs, cutting, anything for those few seconds that you are not constantly bombarded with the mental image of you being helpless.
  • The times I feel the urge to run out into the street and scream because it’s just too much. Because I just want the scared little girl inside of me to feel safe and the 25-year-old woman to believe that can ever be an option again.
  • The constant terror I carry that it might happen again.

It isn’t something I get to forget so it’s not something I will ever be silent about again. I know not everyone is at the place or will ever be at the place where they can speak about their own sexual trauma. Many of our mothers and grandmothers and great-grandmothers never did. They never thought they had the option to but we do. We don’t just have to survive trauma, we can live again. You WILL live again.

I’m always here if you need to talk lovelies.

Life Sentence Sincerely Miss

Sabotage Rehab: Unlearning Self-Doubt

Sabotage Rehab

Sabotage’s Sweet Relief

I remember the first day I decided to fail. I just stopped. The anxiety and pressure that nearly sent me spiraling into a panic attack just…went away. I didn’t have to be stretched and find new muscles. I didn’t have to develop or be embarrassed. I could just be. It was comforting at first. But then I began to get restless. Not growing is dying. It’s slow asphyxiation. It’s creative immolation disguised as comfort. I felt like I was being left behind because I was. But the comfort of doing something where I never could possibly make a mistake was too inviting. That’s sabotage’s allure. You feel safe if you never step outside of the small box you lock yourself in. Sabotage is comfort and fear whispering in your ear. It is the enemy of effort. Sabotage is something we learn as children and carry as adults. But with some effort, anything can be unlearned.

Your Anti 

How did I get there? I listened to my anti. My anti-me, hates myself. My anti-me will always tell me that I look worthless. That I’m ugly. My anti-me will remind me that no one wants me. My anti-me will tell me that I need give up and die.

We all have one unfortunately. It usually takes on the voices of the people who were most critical of us at some point in our lives. These can be parents, church figures, teachers, bullies, you name it. We start confusing their voices for our own and start believing the shit that they tell us. An unchecked anti is deadly. It means you very often feel inadequate, incapable, and unchangeable. You begin to sink into a pit of your own self-doubt.

Growth vs. Fixed Mindset

As a preacher’s kid I became obsessed with perfection at a very early age. If I wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t anything. I had to be on because it wasn’t just my reputation at stake. I hid in that. Eventually though, I would have to be my own person. How can you go through the growing pains of developing as a person when you’re too afraid to even make a mistake? Anxiety interpreted criticism as a death wish. I was paralyzed by my fear to succeed and crippled by my ability to constantly feel the need to sabotage everything. I could hide in that too. When you’re not known, people won’t bother you, and they definitely won’t criticize you.

According to Dr. Carol Dweck there are two mindsets. A growth mindset is that of a person who knows failure is just a learning opportunity. A fixed mindset is when they believe you have a fixed amount of talent and that’s it. Nothing can be acquired or learned. That’s me. Or at least it has been. I’ve made talent the ultimate metric when it means very little in reality.

When I first came to college I was used to being the big fish in a small pond. But my school was huge and I started to feel average. I never felt less capable in my life an often times I would give up before ever beginning. When you’re praised to often, it can feel like pressure. I didn’t have a working knowledge of what failure actually meant. I just knew how to keep up airs and play the part. I pretended until the pretending got exhausting. I would have panic attacks in parking lots, two minutes into my walk to class, late at night in my room. I thought that is was a sign that I couldn’t be better, I just was what I was. If my mind was fertile soil I had just added poison to it. I started to believe that there was nothing more that I could be, not without ridicule, not with criticism. I would rather go on silently, isolated from others than try, fail, and learn. I completely quit on myself.

Are You Addicted?

Have you ever “gotten sick” before an event that could help you in order to not be seen? Ever not entered a contest because you didn’t believe you could win? Procrastinate so badly on something for fear of producing something terrible? Been there, living it. In fact, last month I waited until the very last minute to apply to a venture challenge contest. I mean that too. I submitted it at 11:59 pm. It got accepted. Then I found out about the challenges we had a month to submit. So much of the terminology went far over my head. I felt uneasy, inadequate, and embarrassed in the company of my competitors. I had no fucking clue what I was doing. My brain went straight to panic. I told myself that my idea was silly. I told myself that I just didn’t have what it took this year. Let’s try next year (which means never again). My insecurities kicked into hyper-drive. I looked at what my other competitors were doing. I felt stupid,  foolish even. I started at the last possible minute because I needed an excuse for not finishing…because I couldn’t live with the idea that I wasn’t enough or didn’t have what it takes.

Then the deadline got extended.

I had to turn it in now. So again I waited til the last minute, hoping I could bank on not finishing as an excuse for not trying. But no, I got it in exactly at midnight. Damnit. Then came the announcement of the finalists. I was in. The joy came first. I hadn’t given my best effort but still exceeded their expectations. It made me feel good. Then the sinking realization came to mind. I couldn’t just give up. I had told people. I had to go in front of an audience. I needed to actually prepare. Wtf. WTF? WTF?!

For years I’ve allowed that saboteur to raid my brain and spirit. I even had a professor tell me that he couldn’t understand how someone so talented could be so afraid of themselves. “Don’t let this immobilize you.” I always hear him say that right before something does. I’ve convinced myself that I’m ok with living in this tension of knowing what I can be and being unhappy with who I am now but I know better. If you’re not growing, you’re dying.

So What Now? 

How do you reconcile yourself? How do you usurp the narrative in your brain with a new one? It’s not easy. It took 15 years for these ideas to get cemented in my brain. It’s going to take some time to chisel them out. I try to remind myself everyday that I’m making steps. Even the smallest one counts for something. Here are the two  things that have helped me the most:

Journaling

I’m sure you hear it all the time but trust me it works. It’s a mind dump. All the little unconscious things I tried to hide come to light. All the small moments of my day that I thought meant nothing start to mean a lot more. I’m able to express myself fully without fear of judgment and look at my life objectively at the same time. It gets my emotions out in a healthy way and let’s me let go of them.  I really like writing at the end of the day. It helps me sleep so much better. Seriously grab one. This is the one I use. 

Meditation

If you know anything about me, you know my ass is loud as hell. GIRL. I’m always talking, always thinking, and if you think it’s exhausting to hear me, it’s worse to have a constant flood of words come out ALL.THE.TIME. Meditating is not fun for me. I fidget. My mind flies to one thing and then the next. It’s difficult.  I never realized just how much. But each day I try to get in just five minutes of listening to my breath. If a thought comes up (and it does), I let it go. I just focus on my breathing. The days where I can do this are usually the most productive and calm days of the month. When I don’t…eh.

These are stupid simple steps that are feasible for anyone. Life change doesn’t require a $200 purchase of a book or course (although I’m sure one day I might be asking y’all to check mine out lol), it ends and begins with you. You don’t have to be held hostage to your shadow. You control it, not the other way around.

So how do you handle your saboteurs? Leave your comment and don’t forget to share and subscribe!

Preacher’s Kid to CME Christian

Preacher's Kid Title

 Trouble in the Water

    As a preacher’s kid I remember my baptism fondly. I was wearing this floral print dress, shower cap, and long white choir robe. I saw my father in the water speaking to the church on the symbolism of baptism. The opportunity for possibility. The promise of not being alone ever again. There were a few people who went before me who were much older. I thought about what made them take so long to come to such an obvious conclusion. What made them wait? I never asked myself why I was rushing. Maybe it was because I wanted to make my parents proud. My older sisters had been baptized around this age. Maybe it was for the attention. Maybe it was for the bright and shining “possibility.” Maybe it was because it was easier to believe in God when I hadn’t been introduced to the circumstances of sin. Maybe it was because the order it offered looked better than the chaos of life.

I dipped my foot in the water. My mom held on to me as stepped down into the pool. My dad was happy. She was happy. I was happy. But happiness is fleeting. Many things that are terrible for me make me happy. That shouldn’t be the sole reason a decision is made. But as a child, I had not yet learned to put away childish things. Jesus was the cute cartoon in all of my Sunday school booklets, he was the good guy. I understood him in theory but not in practice. I confused an emotional impulse as rationale to make this decision. As I held on to my dad’s forearm and listened to him speak I couldn’t have realized that what I was really doing was choosing God’s promises, not God. He dipped me and I faltered for a bit. I remember wondering if I could even come back up. Surfacing was painful. I gasped and flailed but my dad helped me up and onto the other side.

Learning Church

Those were good times. But after formally passing on church in 2012, my experience was fraught with more pain than happiness. As a preacher’s child you are looked to as an example. But how can you expect a child to be an example without experience? I struggled with that identity. A part of me liked the attention but not the isolation the position came with. In the very place I was supposed to be vulnerable and transparent, I never could be. Everything was a reflection of the family, not of my own personal walk. I didn’t learn how to be a congregant until college. My religion was religion.

My whole family was left with the burns that only a toxic church can leave. People didn’t want to change. Many of them showed up to serve themselves, to serve some dilapidated ego, but rarely was the occasion for God. It was a broken place filled with broken people pretending that they weren’t. Truth did not live in the pews. It was a living graveyard. In my own journey I wanted something that felt alive and vibrant, I wanted that possibility again. Like a junkie looking for a fix I wanted that spiritual high again. I visited several churches with my best friend before finding one I liked. But still, I felt the isolation. It was predominantly college students and predominantly white. It was advertised as non-denominational but had very deep Southern Baptist roots. Questions about the dearth of female leadership got dodged somehow. Questions in general got treated as hostilities. I made friends but something about it felt inauthentic. Something about me in that church felt inauthentic.

I was still putting on the show I learned as preacher’s child. Smile, nod, repeat verses, smile again. When I was younger I wasn’t myself because no one asked me to be Jordan, they expected the pastor’s daughter. Here I was doing it again, unwilling to fully participate and unable to fully connect. I was observing church, not participating in it. There was one place that I loved that I found a few years later. One place that had the love and light I was looking for. It felt real, I could tell that it was real and something beautiful was happening there but the problem wasn’t the church. It had everything I said I wanted. The problem was me.

I was unwilling to connect with a church and I was unwilling to connect with God. The burns I have run deep and are still healing. I could have chose to do that while in church but I didn’t want to go through the motions. I didn’t want to pretend. I had an anger in me, a resentment that I thought was completely uncommon and found out wasn’t. As a Christian woman I was expected to be demure, delicate. There was little written about women being human, being able to feel things other than joy, being able to do more than building a happy home. The conversations I needed to have about surviving sex abuse, about shame, about guilt, about dead things, I had to find those things outside of church. Those topics made people uncomfortable. Those topics made the same people who told me about the beauty of confession and openness hush me and advise me to seek God’s face on my own. I needed a community but I couldn’t find it inside the community I’d grown up in.

Communion, Elsewhere

I remember the female pastor of one church taking a group of the women to drop off toiletries and cookies to the local strip club. As awkward as you might think it’d be it was actually nice just to talk with the ladies there. We were in the front when a man burst through the door. He was well dressed but his eyes had a certain glaze to them. He seemed sad inside. It was only noon so I definitely had my judgments. How dare he? Doesn’t he have a job? What about his family? Abby, the pastor told me gently, “A lot of the people who come here are looking for community. Sure, it’s sexy, it’s racy. But these men eat dinner here, these men find friends here. They’re getting something here that they couldn’t find in a church.”

That always stuck with me. By no fault of our own some churches fail us miserably. Some churches forget about things as simple as making people feel comfortable. Some churches forget about people. I’ve visited plenty so I know them all too well.

  • The “radical” church that markets itself as the place for outcasts while simultaneously excluding everyone else.
  • The “cool” church that had more apple products on display than actual scripture.
  • The “real” church where ministers never studied themselves to be approved and assumed their experience with and their enthusiasm for God was the same as education.
  • The “we don’t pick and choose” church that picked and chose what scriptures to pay attention to and what scriptures to ignore all the time (psst we all do this).
  • The “traditional” church that confused reason with insubordination.
  • The “social” church that was just a meetup for people who didn’t want to get their hands dirty.
  • The “intellectual” church that was desperate to prove the connection between the mind and faith but lacked heart.

     I sat in many pews convincing myself that I had to put up with a lot of bullshit in order to find God. We all can joke about the horrendous choir selections, bad sermons, and dreadful fashions we’ve witnessed in church. It’s almost a rallying cry for people who’ve “survived.” But where we’re quick to talk about what was funny, we’re all but mum to speak on the things that really messed with us. Teenagers made to stand and admit their sexual activity, preacher’s searching for congregants to open their bibles and their legs, church leadership justifying their own sordid agendas with the word, children being abused, women being sexualized and then demonized, funds turning up missing, the list could go on. Many people’s resistance or hesitation to church has very little to do with God and everything to do with God’s people. Yet the church does very little to remedy that fact. I can’t tell you how many times my Christian brothers and sisters thought I should just suck it up and come to church anyway. They couldn’t imagine a legitimate excuse for being angry at God or being pissed at the church and maybe that’s the problem. When people have to form a support group because of the things they endured at church, something is wrong.

Breaking Away

     So how does a preacher’s kid who loved church end up leaving it and why did this one? Incompetent pastors. Women’s ministries that emphasized my uselessness without a man. Church leadership that loved female congregants to work but never let them lead. Sexuality being treated as shame and as a sexual assault survivor, more shame was not what I needed. Churches using words but never taking action. Notions about having “hearts for Africa,” while being heartless to their own damn communities. Lukewarm messages about God dying for “all of us” but only seeing unicultural congregations.  Churches obsessed with production quality instead of the quality of their own hearts.

Naturally it’s easier to say what’s wrong than to try and fix it. But how can I shoulder the burden of change if a congregation doesn’t want to or flat out refuses to acknowledge they have problems?  I tried finding a congregation that cares about and appreciates women. I tried finding a church that’s ethnically and racially inclusive. I tried finding a congregation that realizes the same laws banning homosexuality banned tattoos and how the pathology of our inconsistencies is more important than laws we no longer follow. I tried finding a church that engages its community instead of raising thousands to send people across the globe. I tried finding a church where people see people and meet people where they are. I tried finding a church that admits when it’s fucked up. I tried finding a church that’s honest in its examination of the word and in its examination of itself. I tried finding a church that understands holding women accountable for men’s inability to control themselves is bullshit. I tried finding a church that doesn’t have to be marketed as something because it simply is. I exhausted myself from searching. Maybe the task was impossible. Maybe you’re thinking that I was looking for a perfect church. Nope. God might be looking for a church without spots or blemishes but I’m not. I just want one that’s brave enough to admit that it has any. I’m asking for a church to be safe. Safe for my female body, safe for my black skin, safe for my mind, and safe for my heart. I hate that my quest for God required me to go outside of the very place I should have been able to find Him.

MM-Sincerely

If you’re burnt-out or angry I would highly suggest, “Angry Conversations With God.” It’s a refreshing read. 

Miss After Dark: Nothing to Fear…

MM-MAD111115If you were trapped in a box and someone offered you the key, would you leave? The obvious answer is yes, right? But what if you were stuck at a job you hated, where your talents were wasting away but it put money on the table?  Would you leave? Probably not. Maybe just wait it out a bit longer, right? Do you know how many people have been trapped by their own complacency? Greatness requires movement. It can’t breathe without it.

My parent’s backyard is riddled with geckos. We have to open the door carefully just o they don’t fall in our hair. A few weeks ago, one of the poor bastards got stuck in the screen door. For two days I pleaded with this lizard to just move down and get out the way it came in. Of course the gecko didn’t understand what I was doing or why, it was just terrified. Too terrified to move, too terrified to find a way out. While I’m thinking this, beating the glass with my hand to help her, I get that eerie feeling of a life lesson crashing itself into an otherwise lovely day…

I’m just the same as this gecko. Uggggggh. 

I moved to my parents’ last December, convinced it would be a boon to my mind, my finances, and my career. It has not. I’m not ungrateful but I’ve allowed myself, just like that gangly insurance sales-reptile,  to get stuck and to STAY stuck. I have no one else to blame for that but myself.

I wrote an article for For Harriet and did nothing when it got 5,000+ likes on Facebook. I didn’t leverage it at all. I wrote, starred, and had friends shoot an awesome web series in January and did nothing with it. I can write my ass off  and yet this blog goes severely underpopulated for about 18 months. I can list example after example from this year alone but I don’t want to further depress myself.

I could blame laziness, lack of motivation, hell, even depression and anxiety but I know myself too well to take that route. After awhile even those don’t work as valid excuses anymore. I could call this a quarter life crisis but it’s not. When you have greatness in you, boiling just below the surface, and yet you do nothing to harness it, you die a little. When you’re a creative person who ceases to create, you die a little. When you are a writer who stops writing, you die each time a story is not let out of your brain.

I get and stay in my way because I am afraid. Being miserable and letting my potential and past achievements remain just that, has gotten comfortable. When fear reigns supreme in your life, no amount of of good possibilities will eclipse it. It’s not enough that I have an embarrassing amount of people who recognize something in me and call me out on it. You can have all the cheerleaders in the world but if you don’t get your ass on the court and PLAY, it means nothing. I’ve had people banging on the glass of my figurative screen door for years. I’ve had friends, mentors, and professionals tell me they don’t understand how I’m not where I need to be. I’ve done a lot of talking but not a lot of doing.

I lost my grandmother, nearly lost my dad, and my mind this year. I don’t want to die with potential. I don’t want to die with my greatness inside of me and not out in the world helping people. I don’t want to be remembered for nothing. I’m tired of being my own enemy.

It’s time to get off my ass, out of my feelings, to do the work I know I’m worthy of. 

So what’s holding you back? What’s something that you want to break free from? Sound off in the comments. Together I know we can make our dreams become our lives.

As always, do better, feel better, and be better!

MM-Signature

Your Breakup Survival Guide

MM-SurvivalGuideWARNING: This is not a post about how to get back together. This is a post about dealing with a breakup. I’m not going to torment you with some possibility that more than likely ain’t happenin’ boo. I’m here to give you the ass kicking I wish I got this time last year. It will be tough but necessary. You don’t deserve crumbs, scraps, or bullshit. You deserve and are worthy of love and happiness. This person is not the keeper at the gate. You are in control of your future. From this point on, your actions are yours and yours alone. Read on if you think you’re ready…

Disconnect: PUT DOWN THAT PHONE!  Cut off all communication with your ex. If a child is involved, put up proper boundaries to keep it as painless as possible.

How I learned this: I talked to my ex for weeks after the breakup. I found stupid excuses to get in touch and so did he. It made the eventual disconnect even harder. I was good at the beginning, I blocked his number and sent his texts to spam but I overestimated my resolve and broke down. You’ve become accustomed to this pattern in your life and no it no longer exists. In fact, you’ve become addicted. The “high” you get when he texts back or she nuzzles your neck is addictive and now you’ve got to quit cold turkey. You’re bound to slip up. That’s ok but don’t beat yourself up about it just make sure that you get back on track. If they couldn’t say what you needed them to say while you were together, they’re not going to find the words in the next days, months, or even years. It’s not fair to you or them to keep holding on when there’s nothing to hold onto. Let it go now not eventually.

Assess: Look at where you are now and determine where you want to be when this is over. Make a plan for how you’ll spend your time. How will you balance feeling out your emotions but not drowning in them? Or finding new activities but not using them as a means of avoidance? I know that’s not what you want to think about but if you don’t get out in front of the problem, you’ll just keep putting off…and causing yourself more trouble.

How I Learned This: I went through the motions. I didn’t plan on getting better, getting through it, getting anywhere and found myself in a nice old rut. I become increasingly impulsive and predictable. I hooked up when it wasn’t what I actually wanted or needed. I partied. I sat in my mourning too long. I felt powerless in a situation I had complete power in.

Support: Hold on to your support circle. If you were “that” person who completely ditched your friends for your ex, you’ve got some work cut out for you. Mend those abandoned bridges, not just because you need them but because you realize you shouldn’t have left them to begin with. It’s important to have people around you and not alienate yourself. Isolation is like adding fuel to the fire of depression. You want to be alone but you need to be around other people. Get out of your situation. Your ex isn’t in your life so why should they dictate how you spend your time? Go shopping, kayaking, antiquing, road-tripping, get out with your friends and refocus your attention on your life.  Make sure they are supportive but be respectful of their needs. Don’t use them as emotional dumps. A breakup isn’t an excuse to stop being a good friend.

How I Learned This: I got so into this guy I fell out of focus with my friends. Against character, I spent everyday with him. All my attention went to him so I didn’t make as much of an effort to connect with the people who mattered most to me. That’s not good and a sure sign of severe codependence in a relationship. There’s a difference between making people priorities and making them options.

Interact: Meet some new people! Head over to meetup.com and find a group that interests you. Take a skill based class and make new friends. Take up partner dancing. Paint a picture of a tree drunk. Do something creative, constructive, and fun! This can be with friends or on your own. Make new friends but most importantly make new, positive memories for yourself.

How I Learned This: I was a huge mope. I moped around the apartment. I moped in the car. I moped everywhere. I was annoyed with myself. I remembered all the things that I wanted to do with him and thought that (for whatever dumb reason) I could never do them now. *eye roll* I lost time and wasted precious opportunities to live my life. I used my sorrow as an excuse to stop enjoying myself. Don’t do that, it’s stupid.

Redirect: Love isn’t a switch you can just turn off. If you broke up on Tuesday, you’re probably going to love them on Wednesday, and the wednesday after that, and the wednesday after that, and the wednesday after that…That’s ok.  All of those feelings don’t have to be wasted. It’s not about destroying your feelings but redirecting them. Instead of spending time thinking about them, start to think of yourself. What are your needs? What did you learn? How can you grow from this? What do you want to do with your life?  Focus on loving yourself. Focus on being the partner you want and need. Give yourself some much needed TLC…just not the channel.

How I Learned This: I spent so much time thinking about what I would say if I saw him. How I would be super hot with a super hot date and make him feel like shit. The usual ultra mature revenge fantasy we all have. But what was I actually getting out of spending all my time dreaming of a moment’s pleasure? Nothing. I needed nourishing too and I should have just given it to myself.

Mourn + Celebrate: No timelines, no pressure. Give yourself the space you need to just be. If you need to cry, cry. If you need a kick in the ass, pick up the phone and call your friends. Don’t make yourself feel bad for where you aren’t yet. Don’t be an asshole and make other people or relationships a substitute. You need this time alone. There’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t be self-destructive either. Find a way to approach, feel, express, and deal with the pain. You’ll be better for it.

How I learned this: the first few entries on this blog were basically my journal. Writing was such a relief for me. I felt like I could approach the things I needed to. Find that for yourself.

Reflect: Look at how far you come. One day you’ll wake up and the pain won’t be there anymore. No seriously. He won’t be the first thing you think about. The birds will start to chirp again. You’ll be invigorated by a project you’re working on. You’ll be focused on your career or passions. That person will go from being the center of your universe to living in a galaxy far, far away. I promise.
Now what have you learned my pretties? Have you done something similar to this? How did your most recent breakup fare? Sound off in the comments below and don’t forget: do better, feel better, be better!

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Psst! Here’s the pinnable version of this. Pass it on to any friends who might need it!