It's Time to Share What's Going on in My Life with You.

Today I exhaled a sigh of relief. I don't know when I decided it was time, but all of a sudden, I did, and it was like a switch flipped in me.

Ever since I was an 88 pound teenager, bruised from IV's, bare faced, teary eyed, alone and confused in a hospital room as I faced my new life with a chronic illness, a life I had to decide was still worth living, I have learned and believed one firm truth: 

To own my truth is power. To own my truth is to be vulnerable. And it will free me. And that it was this post intends to do. 

I need you to know some very important things before we begin. Firstly: this post only comes from a place of love for the people mentioned in it. And second, I write it not from a vindictive place. I write it not to get attention. I write it to heal. I write it because I deserve to live my life and feel free to live in my truth about what my life is and looks like right now. And to do that, I must write this.

Deep exhale.

My husband left me in May.

It is not fully his fault, and it is not fully my fault. It is the fault of two triggered people with communication faults and the need for a great deal of counseling to work through our individual traumas. I will never sit here and write about how horrible (x) is, or how it is all his fault, or how I was done wrong and I have nothing to be blamed for. The truth is, the past few years I don't think I've really known who I am. I think I lost track of who I wanted to be, I think I refused to acknowledge my trauma and hurt hadn't been fully resolved, and I accept that it made me, at many times, someone that is hard to love. I am honest and open about my faults, therefore if you have questions, I'm happy to answer them privately. But the purpose of this post is really to walk through my healing journey. 

I did ask him not to leave. Actually, I begged. On my hands and knees. I poured out my heart, and acknowledged that I had made a mistake. Even though I was the one that first instigated it. He left and he requested complete radio silence and space, we agreed to an open ended separation, and I did a poor job of honoring that, because through many months of counseling for codependency issues, this is actually akin to going through withdrawals... and it's extremely painful. I could not eat. I lost several pounds. I could not sleep. All I could do was wallow. I didn't know what to do with my life. I wanted to harm myself. I couldn't see a life beyond what was in front of me. 

Because I did a poor job of honoring that, he texted me that he would no longer communicate with me unless it was in regards to divorce proceedings. And I had a mental breakdown. I remember that day so clearly. I was about to take my bike out for a ride. I had done the wrong thing - I'd left a hammer drill he'd let me borrow off at his front door with a couple of pastries I thought he'd like and his absentee ballot. The hammer drill would have been heavy and expensive to mail. I wanted to give it back, to show I wasn't petty. It was an invasion of space, though. That I'll acknowledge. 

I felt shock when I saw he'd texted me, and then I felt numb, and then I slumped down. "No, no, no, no, no" I whispered, louder each time. I watched my world crumble in a second, and it hit me like a brick wall. I called him. No answer. I texted him, pleading. "Please, don't make this kind of decision over text. Please. Talk to me. I can't handle this pain. Not over a text." 

I managed to make it inside with my bike. I fell down in a fetal position, tears streaming down my face. I didn't know what to do. I must have called 30 times. I left one voicemail, begging him to at least tell me in a face to face conversation.

But he did not respond. 

This was the worst night of my life, with one hundred percent certainty. Sleep was out of the question. I was alone. My panic attacks were so severe I couldn't stop hyperventilating. I had never felt so badly in my life. I wanted, I needed, to make it stop. I wanted to go to the hospital. But the bill would be expensive. I didn't know how to cope. I crawled under the covers after crying for hours, trying to plead him to answer the phone. I shivered. I tried to sleep, but hours later, I still couldn't, and the pain in my chest was so bad I could hardly move, hardly breathe, I thought it would tear me in two. I was so close to going to the hospital. I called Grady's crisis line instead. It was 3 am. I couldn't stop hyperventilating. "Please help me," I cried to the woman on the phone. "I don't know how to make it stop hurting. I'm alone and I've never hurt this bad in my life," I cried to her, tears like I had never experienced in my life. My heart felt like it was being ripped apart with fire. In between my hyperventilating,  I cried to her that I felt like I needed to go to the hospital. I needed to make the pain stop. The night was still so long. When I got off the phone with her, I curled up, pulling the covers over my head. I willed myself into a fitful round of several naps until 7 am. I called my supervisor. She knew, vaguely, what had happened. I told her I was not mentally stable enough to come in. She found someone to cover me and she understood. And then I called the urgent care down the street. I needed something to make me calm down, Valium, something. My panic attacks hadn't stopped since 6 pm the night before. I had had them, without relent, all night. I talked to a very kind woman on the phone about what had happened. "Oh honey," she said. "It's going to be okay. I'm going to help you. Listen. We don't do that kind of thing here. But I know an urgent care that may be able to help. And I'm going to call you back later and make sure you're okay. Is that okay, Lacy?" I cried and told her it was. I didn't know if I could drive. I was still hyperventilating. I could hardly breathe. But I had to. I couldn't sit in my condo, alone, with these horrible and unrelenting panic attacks. I wasn't sure if I could make it to the place in Buckhead. But I had to try. I didn't have anyone else to help me. Our mutual friends had blocked me after what had happened the night before. I had very few other local friends. So I packed my medication in my purse in case I ended up going to the hospital. I put on a pair of gym shorts. I put my hair up in a pony tail. Bare faced with my glasses, shaking, I stepped outside and I got into my car. I couldn't stop shaking. The pain was so immense. I plugged in the address of the urgent care. And then I called my mom.

"Mommy," I cried, tears pouring down my face again, hyperventilating still. "Mommy. I need you. Please." 

I told her what happened. I told her I needed something to make my anxiety stop. I told her I needed her. My mom listened, and she booked a flight for that afternoon. I cried in between waves of panic attacks until I made it to the parking lot of the urgent care, having summoned all my strength to keep going and make it there. I had hung up the phone by now. I walked inside, tears streaming down my face. I knew I looked insane. I felt insane. I told them what happened. I was hyperventilating still. I asked them if someone could see me. If there was anything they could give me for the anxiety. It had been 15 hours now. How could panic attacks last this long? I waited in the lobby for 30 minutes while they whispered in the back. A young lady came out and knelt down. The tears and my mask made my glasses fog up. "Honey," she said. "I'm sorry. We don't do anything like that... the only other place is the ER. Just go to the ER," she told me. 

"It's so expensive," I told her. $3000, at least. "I know it's hard. But I need you to breathe," she told me gently. "Please," I cried. "I don't know what to do." She saw me out, and I sat in my car, another dead end. I tried calling a few psychiatrists, asking for  a same day appointment. "It's an emergency," I told them. 

But no one took same day appointments. "You'll have to try Peachford," One of the secretaries told me. "They'll see you same day." 

Peachford was the mental hospital. I had truly hit rock bottom. I didn't know what else to do. It was Peachford, or the ER. I called my mom to tell her I was going. "Do not go." she said. I explained to her that I was having a mental breakdown, I couldn't stop having panic attacks, and that I needed help, and I knew this. I needed help. And I was utterly alone. She wouldn't be in for a few more hours. "Don't sign anything, then..." she warned me. I was so nervous as I pulled into the parking lot. I hesitantly gave them my ID and insurance. They led me to a door. "You're not going to keep me here, are you?" I asked the nurse, scared and hesitant, worried this was a bad idea. "Only if we think you're a harm to yourself, honey. Do you still want to go in?" I'd come all this way, and I had no other options. I nodded and I was led into a room. She locked my purse, my phone, and all my belongings in a cabinet. I waited an hour for a nurse to come in. She interviewed me. I told her what happened. I told her I desperately needed to see a psychiatrist, to get my anxiety under control. She was very kind. She deemed I wasn't a harm to myself, and she wrote me a referral to see someone the next day. I felt better just knowing I had options. I blinked in the bright sunlight when I was let out, thankful to be outside again. I called the doctor's office and got an appointment scheduled for the next day. And then I drove home and crawled into bed, fitfully napping, until my mom called me and told me she'd arrived. I sat on the couch with her, resting my eyes, trying to make the pain subside. Breathe in, breathe out. I only had to survive until tomorrow, and then I could get some help, I could get stable, I could get through this. I only had three patients I needed to see the next day, thanks to COVID having cut my caseload down. I did my telehealth appointment. I had scheduled an appointment with my old counselor, since the counseling app wasn't really doing much for me or giving me the support I needed. 

I wasn't feeling better, but I was... more stable after that day. I took a Klonopin when I needed it for the anxiety attacks. My mom took me to wash my car and made me eat what I could. She cleaned up around the condo, cleaning things only moms think to clean, like the fridge grate and the trash can. I went on bike rides after she left. She reminded me, "the little things are important." That stuck with me. I didn't know how to live on. It would take the antidepressants a few weeks to work. But the next weekend, I drove to Charleston to help my best friend go wedding dress shopping. I was happy to share in her joy. Every free moment... I was preoccupied with my sadness. With what I could do to change things. To get him back. I read dozens of books on cognitive behavioural therapy. An amazing one, called facing love addiction. I read books on childhood emotional neglect. I read an incredible marriage book and started a program designed to help get my marriage back on track. I sent him a few, hoping perhaps he'd read them, hoping he'd gleam useful information like I had. Praying. I prayed every night. I delved into church services. I prayed for him. I had sent him a text two days after what had happened, to tell him I'd always be there to help him no matter what. That he'd always be the love and light of my life. That I'd give him the space he desired until he sent me divorce papers as he said he would do. That I treasured all of our 5 years together, and would love him, forever and always. 

Because it hurt, and I was angry. But it felt so, so much better to love. I have learned that: It is always better to love. And this is what I intend to do, in spite of my own mistakes and flaws.

And that was what I was going to do. I did counseling weekly. I took the antidepressants. After a time, I needed less Klonopin. My daily bike rides were helping. The sunshine warmed me down to my very soul, it felt. I'd sit out at my favourite park in the grass, soaking in the sun, trying to delight in the little things. I felt like an alien in my own body. I was losing weight, still unable to eat, physically sick most mornings. I couldn’t eat breakfast. I saw my psychiatrist on the phone two weeks later. I told her I couldn't sleep, I awoke at 3:30 every morning and fitfully turned until daybreak, and was then so exhausted I could barely work. She prescribed me sleeping pills. They helped me sleep, helped me get on a schedule. I wasn't ashamed. I had healthcare, and I acknowledged I needed help, otherwise I'd scarcely be able to get myself off of the couch, let alone function or work. There is no shame in that. I feel strong for seeking help. I truly do, and I know I am. The first 1.5 months, I came home depressed every day. I didn't know how to live alone. 5 years. I could hardly eat. My anniversary had been that May. Ha. I pet my cat. I had bought a guitar - I did start to try to learn that.

One weekend, I went on a hike in Roswell. I soaked in the sun, I smelled the freshness of the air, and then I went to one of my favourite coffee shops up there - Crazy Love. I sat on the patio for hours and read my books about codependency, jotting down notes. I was learning so much about how to communicate and my toxic patterns. How my dad not being in my life left me with a void I unfairly looked to others to fill. I wrote my husband a ten page letter - an apology letter. I acknowledged everything I had done wrong, and everything I had done wrong alone. I wanted to own my mistakes, and own how I had hurt him. Only then could I accept my flaws and work to be better. I mailed it off. It is hard to not do something. That is how my mind works. But I was learning.

One afternoon, I was lying in the park listening to the new Phoebe Bridgers album and a monk came and gave me a stack of books on spirituality. He was kind. Another day, I stopped to pick wildflowers on the side of the trail, and I put them in a vase when I got home. The little things. I washed my car monthly. I learned How He Loves Us on guitar. One weekend, I went to home depot and bought $60 worth of plants, and then a plant stand, and then christmas lights for the patio, and I created an oasis out there, delighting in allowing my plants to flourish daily. I realized I loved checking on them every afternoon, lovingly watering them, picking off the dead leaves, smelling the fresh soil as I repotted them as they grew. I loved watching their green leaves grow, the stalks growing longer, the labors of my effort apparent. I loved tasting them in the food I cooked. I made fresh coffee in my french press or Chemex each morning and delighted in ordering from my favourite companies. I discovered a woman, Mad, left out free seedlings just down the road from me, and I'd ride my bike back from the beltline and grab as many little seedlings as I could carry. Okra, garden beans, Kale, basil, fennel, marigold. I planted them all. I smiled at strangers. I read books in the sun. I played guitar on the patio. My friends and I went to Asheville and I went on a spiritual hike up Mt. Mitchell in a 55 degree, utterly vicious rainstorm. I prayed the whole way up. "Faith cometh by hearing," I cried. One of my friends, also a therapist, had a patient who she told I was going on a spiritual hike, and she sent her with several verses for me to guide my journey. I recited them all. I wasn't sure how it worked, but I laid my heart at the foot of that mountain and I ascended, begging for God's guidance. I chanted “still my heart, so I can hear” the entire way. 

I wasn't magically fixed when reached the top. But he stilled my heart, just as I had asked. He stilled it, so that I could listen. And I did. I started into a rhythm. And I decided to open up to people. Strangers. Clients. My sister. My best friends. Online acquaintances. I shared my struggle and my vulnerabilities. I kept praying. I listened to Brenee Brown. I kept reading. I journaled. I wrote letters. I kept up with counseling. I reached out to old friends. I went kayaking. We got dinner together, shared beautiful conversations. We shared hour long conversations. I remembered how much I loved these things. My heart was starting to warm, bit by bit, in spite of me. 

The antidepressants and the antianxiety medications were a game changer. As I gained back an appetite, I started meal planning. I made meals a week in advance. I scrubbed the condo until it shone. I watered my plants, learning to celebrate having a view of the bridge I'd gotten engaged on years ago, instead of closing my eyes and trying to shove out the pain. Grateful for the joy I had had those 5 years. I paid bills. I organized and downsized and rearranged. I felt... good. I felt... not normal. But I felt on top of things. I visited friends. I watched more sermons. I opened my heart. I stilled it. I prayed, palms up, on my knees, on my patio, lush and green with plants, overlooking the city I'd fallen in love with 6 years ago, sometimes crying, sometimes smiling with joy. 

We all gaze up at the same moon. 

And then all of a sudden, one day, I was driving back from a (very rare these days) gig and I realized...

I'm happy. 

I'm happy. I'm not... devastated anymore. I'm not broken. Not even close. I was going home to a beautiful condo overlooking the city skyline. I had a beautiful patio I could relish in daily. A bike and a strong body to take me as far as I desired, despite a debilitating illness. I'd started hot yoga at a studio. My body looked beautiful. I looked beautiful. I was fit. I was strong. My clothes got bigger on me, but I was healthy. I was feeding myself good, healthy food. I delighted in cooking. I was nourishing my mind with books to help me grow, and church was nourishing my soul. My friends reminded me of who I was. Who I am. Why I am loved. I was now doing things freely because they brought me joy, when I wanted, how I wanted. I bought myself little gifts. Took baths. Did my nails. Learned more guitar. Wrote letters.

I realized, somehow between the devastation and rock bottom, and the copacetic, quiet and seemingly endless days to follow... I had found myself. I realized... 

I am not who I am with. I am so much more that that. 

I am strong. I am free. I am beautiful. Imaginative. Creative. Whimsical. I delight in the little things. I cheer people on. I dance with my whole heart. Laugh with my eyes until I cry. Marvel in the beauty around me with the heart of a child. There has never been a challenge I could not overcome. I am powerful. I have so many blessings and so much abundance. I have a beautiful roof over my head, I have a job I love, I have health insurance, I have ride or die friends, and even people I hardly know - even they have prayed over me, loved me, supported me in my struggle. I have learned the sound of my own voice, to make music. My hands create beautiful art. I heal patients with my knowledge and my touch. God does not want me, or any of us, to suffer. He cares deeply for us. He made me realize... it's okay to stop and breathe. 

I.Am.Me. And I am comfortable with that. No matter what.

I love who I am becoming.

It is okay.

To be okay with the unknown. 

It's okay to learn to be happy alone.

And it's okay to love... and to also accept you have done everything you can do and move on. To breathe and move forward. To stop looking back. To embrace new things. 

I have done all that I can within my control... and I am at so much peace with that now. I've mailed letters. Sent books. Prayed. I've searched my own heart and trekked down the journey of change. And now... I can only control myself. In this quiet, I am the only one in charge of where I go from here. What I choose to do. What will I do?

I will graciously enjoy my abundance and blessings. I will praise Him for his goodness. I will care for my strong body. I will love myself and internally validate myself because I don't need a human to do that for me... and I never did. My father left a void in my heart and I unfairly looked to others to fill it. No more: because I have filled it. I come home at the end of the day now and I'm proud of the work I've done. I come to my beautiful home and I create things and I care for myself in a way I haven't done in a long time. I pick flowers off the sidewalk and I relish in the rainstorms and I laugh at the joyous things and I cry to the new Taylor Swift album and I smile because I am beloved my God, as is he, as are we all. 

Life is full of so much purpose, and I am so strong. I thank God for making me so strong. I have a long way to go, but I have come so far I can no longer see the beginning when I turn around to look back.

This is my truth. And like a fire, I have been refined, and I know that I will prosper and be strong, no matter what. The darkest days of my life have still seen me through to some of the most light filled in this season we are living in. And for that I will always sing my thanks.

Peace and love to you all.