Learning to love yourself

*long and personal post ahead*

When 2016 started, I was not myself. I haven't felt like myself in quite some time. I would typically describe myself as an upbeat, glass-half-full kind of person, but somewhere in my almost 2 years of real adulthood, I lost the Victoria I knew. I still found myself acting the same, but I just didn't feel like me. 

As I sat thinking about what I wanted to accomplish in 2016, the word persist came to mind. I give up easily- not so much on others (I am a teacher after all), but on myself. For years I've convinced myself that I can't do things or that I don't deserve them. I don't deserve to be happy; I don't deserve to love my body; I don't deserve love from other people. Cognitively, I know these things aren't true, but emotionally, they felt very real. So, as I sat thinking about how I would tangibly persist in things, my sister, Jackie, texted me about a half marathon (something I vowed I'd never be able to do). On a whim, with persistence in mind, I said I wanted to train with her. 

The experience was...brutal. Neither of us were runners, and we started out running 2.5 miles. The furthest I had ever run in my life was 2 miles. I *attempted* a 5k my senior year of college, and I couldn't run the whole thing. Our first long run was 4 miles, and I remember thinking, "If I can do these 4 miles, I might actually be able to do this." During the last half mile of that run, I cried. For the first time in probably most of my fitness life (even though I was a dancer, I let fear keep me from working to my potential), I pushed through a wall. The rest of training was rough- it was met with a minor hip injury. Jackie definitely had it worse- strep, runner's knee, stomach bug. And if it weren't for her, I would've given up after about 3 weeks. We crossed the half marathon finish line hand in hand in a full cheese-ball moment. We vowed we'd never do it again.

**We're already researching more half marathons and are thinking about a full. Crazy, I know.**

During this half marathon training process, my goal wasn't to lose weight, although I did lose a few pounds and noticed my clothes fitting differently. I just wanted to finish something that I'd started. It was as much a mental break through as it was a physical one.

I've shared my struggles and journey with anxiety before. When I went through the darkest days in 2012-2013 I was very open and honest on here. I had always said it started with a break up, but it didn't have as much to do with the boy and broken heart as it did things I hadn't dealt with. I never really felt like anyone had believed me, though. I'm not sure I even believed me. I spun out of control, contemplating suicide, and barely keeping it together. God did incredible things in the darkness, though, as He tends to do. 

This semester has been rough at work. January and February especially. I hated my job. I hated my kids. I hated teaching. Yes, working in public education is a constant uphill battle, but I can usually let the little victories outweigh the cons. I really started questioning if I could do this. I didn't feel like a good teacher. I didn't feel like a good person, really. I noticed some behaviors creeping back up again- eating my feelings, zero desire to do anything but stay in bed, and some dark and twisty thoughts. I cried on the phone to my mom just about every day. I told her this was ridiculous, "normal" people could handle this. I didn't feel normal anymore. My poor teammates witnessed more than one emotional break down in the afternoons. 

Finally, I decided I needed professional help. I chose a therapist who's helped my friend a lot the last few years. If you've never been to a counselor, the first session is typically a "tell me your struggles" type thing, and I felt I'd been letting anxiety dictate my life. I let it determine if I'd hang out with friends. I'd let it determine how I acted in social situations. I let it determine what I ate, how active I was, and what kind of teacher I was that day. Upon listening to me, my counselor stopped me. I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder when I was 13, but she had a different diagnosis for me- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or PTSD. After she said the words I felt a flood of relief. I could experience freedom from these thoughts and emotions that have dictated my life for almost 20 years. That dark time in my life? It really was more than just a break up. It was a trigger. G's death was a trigger. Maneuvering my way through adulthood was a trigger. My therapist explained that my PTSD has been manifesting itself as anxiety and depression because, as a child, I didn't have the emotional maturity or the life experience to verbalize anything else. 

It's only been about 3 weeks, but I have started to feel like me again. I've made some discoveries. I vowed I would NEVER teach middle school. I was offered jobs at both middle and high school. Something in me chose middle school and 8th grade. How old was I when Grandma died and I was diagnosed with GAD? 13 and in 8th grade. It was a weird "aha" moment, and explained my frustration with my students. I'd walked through hell and back at 6 and then again and 13, and my kids can't even remember to do their homework or take ownership of their mistakes. This week at work has been so much better now that I'm aware that a portion of it is me. Last week, my therapist kept asking me how I got through the grief and loss at 6 and 13. I kept talking about my support system- mom, sisters, grandparents, neighbors, family friends (I firmly believe it does, in fact, take a village to raise a child). She stopped me and asked me how I got through it, and I couldn't answer her. I didn't know. I'd never thought about it before.

I was talking about my students and my frustrations with them in general. Again, cognitively I know it's all relative- what is a big deal to them is a big deal. I think sometimes I cut them more slack based on what's going on at home, but I explained that it gets to a point where I want to shake them and tell them to get up, dust themselves off, and keep moving. I then was describing how I persisted through half marathon training. I knew that if I kept putting one foot in front of the other it meant I hadn't stopped, and that I was still moving, even if I was slow, even if my forward motion seemed imperceptible, I was moving, and that's what kept me going. My therapist stopped me right there. She said, "Those two things. Those answer my question. That's how you got through it." 

And isn't that how we all get through it? I'm sure it's how my mom did, alone with 4 girls to raise. I'm sure it's how my sisters did. Heck, two were in high school and one was in middle school. Their stories and their journeys carry just as much weight as mine does. Whatever any of us- not just my family- are going through- the forward motion is what keeps us going. We know the sun will rise and another day will come. We know work and demands will be there. We just. keep. moving.

I know my road ahead won't be easy. If I really do work through this PTSD, I know it will be ugly. I'll be forced to recall some things I've suppressed for almost 2 decades. But, I do know it'll be worth it. I'm learning to love myself- my body included. After I proved to myself I could finish the half marathon, I'm treating my body with the respect it deserves, and listening to it. I feel so much better when I treat it like the temple it is- imagine that! 

Here's to more persistence in 2016- to moving forward, to keeping our feet moving, and to breaking through walls and obstacles we were sure would stand taller than us. 

Smile, God loves you! (and thanks for sticking through this novel of a post)

And I tell you, ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and it will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives, and the one who seeks finds, and to the one who knocks it will be opened. - Luke 11:9-10