Have you ever heard or read the quote from Brené Brown, “The less you talk about it, the more you got it. Shame needs three things to grow exponentially in our lives: secrecy, silence, and judgment.”?
I had those on lockdown & a mask strong enough to disguise my pain.

My Mask

Growing up I was taught to weigh every decision I made on what others would think of me as a result of my actions. I had to be perfect all the time & that was exhausting. Judgment from others was a genuine fear of mine. Failure wasn’t an option in my book. So I worked hard & from the outside, everything looked “picture-perfect.” Was it? Not in any way, shape, or form. Yet over the years I had created an elaborate “mask” & I wore it well.

My mask was truly a work of art. At first glance, my life seemed like a fairytale, but that was nothing more than an extravagant illusion, for not only those around me, but for myself. They say if you claim something is true long enough, eventually you’ll believe it as well. That’s where I was. Living my own make-believe story. I was a mess & the cracks were starting to show, but I didn’t realize just how far I had fallen until July 2019.

My Move

Let’s back up for a minute to February of 2019. Neither mama nor I felt comfortable in the house after dad passed. We constantly felt like we were living in a bad dream. It was hard enough losing Erik & now dad. It was like another chunk of our hearts was ripped out & thrown into that bottomless abyss we knew so well. So, we did what we knew best, we ran, not literally, but we ran away from the pain by packing up our stuff & moving. Just like we moved after we lost Erik.

I dedicated myself to setting up my new office while mama stayed busy organizing & decorating our new home. I spent the weekends breaking down the empty boxes & reorganizing the things mama had unpacked. We compromised on the main floor organization & our bedrooms became our own responsibility. Before we knew it, we were no longer crazy busy from the move. The initial distractions we clung to, were gone.

My work travel picked up & so I left mama in charge of the house while I was away. It worked for us. She stayed busy by talking to everyone she met while running her errands. I threw myself into work because that’s what I did.

My Breakdown

Before we knew it, Spring Break arrived & my son flew down. Mama, my son, & I spent the week exploring the area, from the zoo, to museums, & we even spent an afternoon in the trees at Go Ape. For clarification, mama stayed put on the ground & got some great pictures because she said she was too old & not interested in climbing. It was a much-needed break for all of us & we were sad to see him go.

I got in a few more work trips before summer & we welcomed my boy back with open arms. We spent weekends visiting local farmer’s markets, going on bike rides, hikes, etc. Everything seemed to really be falling into place, I was getting comfortable. Then July came, knocked me on my ass, & added another crack to my mask.

It had been exactly one year since I reached out to an organization called Boulder Crest Foundation after a concerned friend of mine suggested I apply for their Warrior PATHH (Progressive Alternative Training for Helping Heroes) program. At that time, I didn’t think I was “that bad”, whatever that meant in my mind, I believed it. I thought there were definitely others who needed the program more. After I lost my dad, I was offered a slot in January of 2019, but it didn’t work with my schedule & I turned it down. I was offered a slot in October of that year, but I didn’t commit, I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. Again, I convinced myself that I was ok. I had a great job, my mama, my son, etc. so I had to be ok, right?

My Acceptance

On July 25^th of 2019 I sent a desperate email to a man I didn’t know at Boulder Crest in Virginia. I had no plan, I was safe, I wanted to live, but I also didn’t know where else to turn. I explained that I was listening to “Struggle Well” on Audible on my work trips (I usually drove) & even during my short commute. Every time I turned it on, I cried. That book was forcing me to rip off scabs that had hidden my past, my shame, & my pain. I was tired of people telling me I was the happiest person they knew because deep down, I was miserable. Completely lost.

I poured my soul out in that email. Fixated on the fact that I only had 2 people (not counting mama) who I could turn to in a time of need & I was deathly afraid of being a burden. Even though I knew in my heart I needed help, I hesitated to actually write it out in black & white. There’s something scary about that, it becomes permanent when you do. I didn’t know what to expect after I hit send, but I had decided at that moment in time, I was ready for anything & so I finally admitted I needed help. That I couldn’t keep this up without external help, my mask was disintegrating & I was terrified. I was always the rock & I knew nothing else.

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