Liberating half-liberated love

The year is ending and I am feeling shitty. When I feel shitty, I write because that’s what I do best. I wanted to talk about my vulnerability because it has been on a thousand this past year. I began 2022 alone for the first time in 5 years, I went into the new year, single. I was with a man I was in love with at one point in my life. Love lasted very shortly after his emotional abuse. Gaslighting was his natural talent, and saying, “this is the way I know how to love” was his second natural talent. But we stayed together because he really did love me in his own weird way and I stayed because I thought I wanted to be married at the time and it was comfortable. Besides, he had a good job, he was handsome and he was sometimes nice to me. The sex was okay, more for him than for me. Because sex was a fun chore not a moment for connection and vulnerability. But I was very desperately not in love with him and hungry for something different. I wanted a mindblowing, inevitable connection. I wanted to love someone so good that they’d describe my love as liberating and soft. I want my love to revolutionize a heart. Nevertheless that “something different” hit me like a ton of bricks on a morning in September.

A woman who I truly found beautiful swept me off my feet with a gorgeous smile and a beautiful gap and squinty eyes. She was absolutely stunning. I knew it. I felt it. I wanted it. I tried so hard not to do so because I was still with this man who was trying to progress for “us”. While he tried to progress for the sake of our relationship, I couldn’t convince myself to bring him into my personal space to meet my loved ones. Meanwhile, I am in bed thinking of how to ask this woman on a date. I wanted to speak to her, to be near her. I wanted to know her. He would talk about his day, his shitty coworkers, and the shitty bar he would drink at with his friends and the whole time I’m thinking about her. I see you.

The last time I had sex with my former partner, I thought of her… I thought of the way she had spoken to me that day when we began interacting more. Her aura and mine moved together quicker than she and I did. That made me shake in ways I hadn’t before and he absolutely knew that I wasn’t shaking for him. That prompted our break-up argument. He went his way, and I went my way. Five years of stability, are gone. I felt free and ready to figure out who the hell this woman was. However, I saw some behavior from her that I didn’t like. I felt like she was hard on me without getting to know me. It made me rough on her. But my attraction and curiosity about her were stronger which made me cave. I wanted to know everything about her. She became my favorite book without even reading the story. I asked her what made her vulnerable and her answer is what made me feel deeper intrigue. She struggled with softness and I wanted to softly take care of her. Softly brush her hair, softly kiss her, softly hug her, softly argue with her, softly make love to her. I wanted to give her so much softness but the softness makes her withdraw at times. Withdrawal from one another is hard to deal with when you want this person as much as I wanted her. I wanted her in every way possible. I wanted her and all her levels of intimacy. I want her on the good days, on the days she can’t move from the bed, on the days she can’t stand the world, I want her when she’s mad, I want her when she’s happy. I simply and softly want her. I feel you.

Her. Such a simple pronoun but with thoughts attached to a woman who has never been mine and I have never been hers. I was told that love feels like the feeling after you eat your favorite meal. The love I have developed for a woman who refuses to be vulnerable looks like a lot of things. But the love I feel for her cannot be compared to a favorite meal, a favorite smell, or a favorite memory. My love and likeness towards her look like liberation, freedom and pleasure. Her love is liberating. Her heart is full of freedom. Her hands are full of pleasure that transitions into love. Her hands are very good at love and pleasure. I thank God for those hands because they have made me cry tears of pure body-shocking pleasure. I am very connected to my body therefore I know how good our pleasure feels. This woman who became the Juliet to my Romeo [we also are very much star-crossed lovers, I believe it, right person just at the wrong time] gave me a softness that I have never felt before. Her softness was safe, her softness was warm. But her softness was seasonal. I taste you.

Her lack of vulnerability was always at the front line and that is hard. Not talking, choosing to hide feelings, denial, and frustration is hard. Staying up at night wondering if our fuse will fizzle out is hard. Watching her love someone else is hard. Watching her in front of me and not being able to claim the smile that I fell for when I landed my eyes on her is hard. Not being able to tell her how I really feel is hard. Watching her inner child fight with her adult self is hard. Watching her eyes gloomy when she’s hurt is hard. When she hurts, she reverts back to being a little girl. Her eyes look like those of an innocent child being scolded which reminds me how she is a half-liberated woman. I hear you.
Why half liberated? Because she only pinpoints her arousal in her hands, not the rest of her body. Half liberated because she is trapped in a cycle of mistrust and self-abuse. Half liberated because a liberated woman allows herself to feel unapologetic. Half liberated because her inner conflicts are on liberating herself and her desires yet thinking about the importance of commonality and monotony. Both things are not hers. I recognize a half-liberated woman because I am a half-liberated woman. The chained part of her screams for softness, vulnerability, and understanding. I am the one searching for the key while she covers my eyes in the process, making it that much harder. This leaves me with the question, “how do we become fully liberated?”.

Being Mentally Ill Is Political.

Being mentally ill is political. Being Puerto Rican is political. Having and suffering through any form of chronic illness is inherently political but before I get into politics I am gonna step back really quick. I think I should begin by giving you some background on what it feels like to live with OCD and what it can look like. First and foremost, if you are a nerd like me, information matters to you so let me begin with defining OCD in my own words because medical terms can be scary.

OCD stands for “Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder”  and I bet the FIRST thing that comes to your mind is a person frantically cleaning, flipping a switch, or anything the media has told you OCD “looks” like. In most instances, they show you the compulsions and not so much the obsessive parts of it. The obsessive part of the illness has to do with fearful thoughts like a fear of dying, fear of the dark, fear of getting sick and the list goes on. These thoughts then stick, meaning they go on a loop or interfere with your day to day life. In my case, my “loop”  is a fear of hurting myself or losing control of my well-being. Now, compulsions are the result of the obsession part. A compulsion is something the person does to feel better, at ease, and to alleviate the stress and anxiety that the obsessive thoughts cause. Compulsions can look like constant cleaning, switching the lights on and off, organizing things a particular way, tapping, phrases and more. MY particular compulsion is “avoidance” more specifically, harm reduction. I want to reduce ALL harm possible because my fear is that I will be triggered into losing my mind or hurting myself even though that is not something I want to do or will realistically happen. Now, OCD does not cause suicide, OCD does not and will not make you “go crazy”, OCD does not cause self-harm, no matter how REAL these thoughts might feel and no matter how uncomfortable you might feel. Again, if you are self-harming and you have thoughts of suicide, please reach out for help. It is scarier to go through it alone than to go on recovery.

Let’s get into it now, let me be as illustrative as possible. I want you to think about chocolate cake. I don’t care if you don’t like it, I just want you to think about it. Picture it. 

Okay cool, now DON’T think about chocolate cake. Just stop thinking about it. Think about your day, not the chocolate cake. Did you cook today? DON’T THINK ABOUT THE CHOCOLATE CAKE. Did you go to work today? Chocolate cake? Did you have your morning (chocolate cake) coffee? What are (chocolate) doing tomorrow (cake)? What time do you usually (chocolate cake) go to bed? What do you have (chocolate cake) on? What is with you? Why can’t you stop thinking of the damn chocolate cake? Chocolate cake. Chocolate cake. Chocolate cake. 

Okay… Can you see how that can get annoying and stressful? That’s what my OCD is like except I’d much rather obsess over chocolate cake than the morbid crap that goes through my mind. But this is the thing, sometimes I convince myself that obsessing and dealing with my OCD on my own is easier than me texting my therapist or letting my loved ones help me because being vulnerable, mentally ill, Puerto Rican and a woman is political. Living in an individualist society and being raised in a very religious, patriarchal culture mental illness is not a priority. Instead, you should “pray” the illness away or “push through it.” In my culture being mentally ill is “cosas de locos” meaning “crazy people things.” We are not locks, we are normal folx who need to give our brain a little bit more attention and love than others. On the other hand, you’ll hear that being mentally ill is “cosas del diablo” meaning “devilish things”. Not nice, right? These undertones of judgment have been embedded in me and it has been very hard to be compassionate with myself especially when I was first diagnosed. I kept thinking of how I was a failure, a failure because the one part of my body that controls everything is what is sick. It’s not a fractured bone that I know will heal in X amount of months but instead, the one thing I need the most to function properly is what I need help with and that to me was annoyingly unbelievable. Of course, with therapy, I have come to realize that that is not the case even though I play the in denial card but I am so far from being my most mental health enlightened self. But I am way closer than I was before and that is a FACT. Throughout my mental health recovery journey, I have taken it upon myself to research my illness and how to cope with it along with coping skills my therapist provides for me. One thing I came across super quickly was that most of the blogs and mental health advocates are white women. Yes, their stories have some similarities with mine but it just didn’t quite hit home for me. White folx in general have an easier time in every aspect of society (particularly white men). They have access to therapy, money for professional care, and their feelings are validated. While Black and Latina women have to hide our mental illness because we, in a literal sense, cannot afford to be mentally ill, have a family to take care of, and or society already has a target on us. Imagine being Black and struggling with mental health or Latina and struggling with mental health. We experience the judgment in our own cultures and communities to experience racism, judgment and resentment from those outside our communities. Our anxieties, our depression, our mental illnesses are political. They are political starting from our own communities and even more so to those outside our communities. We are expected to tolerate more abuse. We are expected to have a higher pain tolerance. We are expected to give to others and not to ourselves. We are expected to be neutral even when we are our saddest and our most anxious. Vulnerability for Black and Puerto Rican women is revolutionary. Black and Puerto Rican women expressing vulnerability is a decolonial, anti-racist and an anti-patriarchal practice. Yeah, it’s tiring, being mentally ill is exhausting, but being a non-white woman and mentally ill? That is a different level of exhaustion.

Exhaustion Falls Short

I am exhausted. I think the word “exhausted” still falls short of how I have been feeling. For the last two weeks, I have been feeling my anxiety increase but thought it was manageable (once again) but unfortunately, it was more unmanageable than I could imagine. I don’t know if you can recall a moment in your life where your body has tensed up with fear. Your body feels rock hard and your brain just flashes images before your eyes? Imagine having that but it goes on for hours, days and weeks. That has been me these last two weeks. This last Tuesday, I experienced a panic attack that had me thinking that I needed to go back to the hospital. I woke up that morning feeling extremely OFF but I mean OFF. I was fidgety, had a cloudy mind, I couldn’t think or concentrate, sound bothered me, silence bothered me, I couldn’t eat but I was starving. Then boom by mid-day, I was shaking, my thoughts loud and persistent “you’re losing your mind” repeating over and over again and I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. My therapist told me to go outside and let the cold wind hit me and so, I did. To be quite honest every time someone tells me that I think it’s bogus but I always stand corrected once I just do it. After I got kissed by the cold weather and did some deep breaths my bodily panic alarms calmed down but I was still exhausted.  I kind of laugh now because, after my panic attack, my therapist called me, I said, “yeah I think that was a panic attack” and she said, “Uh yeah, I think so too!” One thing about my therapist is that she is very witty without even trying to be. That is one thing I love about her because it reminds me of myself. After that day, my days have gotten somewhat better, no matter how hard it is to see that when my brain and body are in panic mode still. My mom always says, “a little better is a litter better. That’s a win.” I admire that from her, the way she keeps telling me everything is good even when I feel like my world is falling apart. So now, let me get to the real rough stuff. The things I need to discuss and get off my chest. There are real reasons behind my flare-up that I just don’t feel like getting into but one thing is my intrusive thoughts. In another blog post, I discussed what intrusive thoughts are but I will quickly explain them once more to refresh your memory. Intrusive thoughts can come as images (my therapist describes them as commercials) that pop into your head about something that is very “concerning” or out of character for you and they cause a high level of distress and fear. MY intrusive thoughts are always self-harm and losing my mind. And because I have characteristics of OCD, when my stress is unmanageable then my intrusive thoughts are on a never-ending loop that becomes very hard to deal with and in many cases like this week, is crippling. The difference between intrusive and suicidal thoughts is that intrusive thoughts cause you stress because you do not want to do them, they are extremely out of character so you stay stuck on the “why am I thinking this?”, “Is this a hidden desire?”, “Why me?” and so on. While suicidal thoughts are those thoughts about self-harm and ending your life in a way that does not distress you, you accept them, you believe that is the only way out. If you suffer from any of these thought processes it is important to look for professional help. I promise, therapy is not as scary as movies and shows make it seem. If I could go have a beer with my therapist, I so would. It’s like having a neutral best friend that you tell all your secrets to and instead of judging you, she has some cool tips and coping skills. Anyway, because I have been experiencing more levels of stress than normal, shit has been hard. Extremely hard. Some days I feel like I can do this, other days I’m like I can’t do this. While I was feeling better than Tuesday, on Thursday, I had to write to my therapist for help. I want you all to know that it took me like four minutes to actually type the word “help” but I did it. Thankfully, my therapist fit me in and watched me cry out of frustration, and really had me reflect on why I was feeling anxious. WHAT was the root? When did it begin? And WHY. She helped me connect the dots and it made sense. A lot of sense, actually. One time my therapist told me, “therapy is not here to fix you but it is here to help you see things clearly”. I think of that from time to time because I think I have been seeing things a little more clearly since I began therapy two years ago. Now that I think of it, my healing journey didn’t begin last year the day I got out of the hospital after my episode but it started two years ago, the first time I sat across from my therapist and she said, “Hi, my name is Alana.” I have had highs and lows since then. Some lows were lower than low. Nina before therapy still had an anxiety disorder and OCD tendencies but it was not as flared up and I was in complete denial. I want you to know that denial makes things worse and it even kills, to be frank. No, I am not saying I am the most enlightened because that is a big ass lie. I definitely still have moments of pure denial of my anxiety, I also have moments that I deny when my body and emotional side needs rest. I am not perfect. I will never be perfect but my goal is to get better, to let my body go through the motions, and coexist with my anxiety and flare-ups. They make me feel lonely, they scare me and they make me feel like I am the biggest lost cause there is. I also am extremely hard on myself which is another layer that I need to work through. But I am definitely not alone. I am going through a rough ass flare-up that knocked me down, once, twice, or even three times this week but I have hope. Patience? Eh, I’m working on it. But hope? Yes.

“What Brings You In Today?”

“What brings you in today?” are the only words I remember clearly from December 19th of 2019. Everything from the last two months of 2019 was a complete blur. I only remember bits and pieces and those memories make me feel fragile and small. On December 19th of 2019, I admitted myself into the hospital because I was struggling mentally and emotionally. When the woman at the front desk asked me, “What brings you in today?” I said, “I’m having thoughts about hurting myself.” It was by far one of the worst days of my life, but it was the one day where I was forced to reflect on myself. I finally had to face many of my demons…some of which I voluntarily tried avoiding. Some of my demons were made from abusive romances, work obsession, my sexual preference, being away from the island, starting grad school, and just feeling behind in life. I felt alone, afraid, angry, suppressed, and trapped, to say the least.

After I was hospitalized it took me a long time to come to terms with my illness. I did not want to admit that my brain worked differently and needed more self-care than others. Thankfully, I have the privilege of having an amazing therapist who has helped me throughout my healing process. She has been such a rock in my life. Alana, if you ever read this, you are truly an amazing woman and I am happy to have a therapist like you. Alana has been my toughest and greatest critique. She has taught me that healing cannot happen without self-love, support, and acceptance. All things that I have deprived myself of. Throughout my journey, I have learned that I didn’t love myself as much as I thought I did. I’m pretty sure I hated myself more than I loved myself, but a lot has changed in the last year and let me tell you how. I have finally accepted myself as the bisexual Puerto Rican woman that I am and always have been. I am a proud person on the LGBT+ spectrum. This acceptance was more difficult than it was festive since I had internalized a lot of homophobia from my culture, society and religion therefore I would project harmful ideas onto me. With my self-denial I hurt a lot of women in the process who have shown interest in me and for that, I am eternally regretful. However, I also had to break away from some women who constantly measured my bisexuality, making me feel like a “fake bisexual” because I am too girly or because I spent a long portion of my life “closeted.”  Self-acceptance comes with a lot of brutal realizations, some are beautiful, and some are hurtful.

My healing journey came with many bad days but for every bad day, I got three good ones. I came to learn that I can find balance in my life again and that love means nothing if I do not love myself. I have also learned to understand that therapy is not about “fixing” me, but it is about seeing things clearly. This year I have felt like I have 20/20 vision (haha, made a 2020 joke) because I have been able to listen to my body/mind and hear/see its needs and cater to them. Now, if I need a break, I take it. If I need more sleep, I take it. If I need an extension, I ask for it. I no longer push myself because as my therapist says, “the more you push, the worse you’ll feel.” In no way does this mean that I don’t have days that I repeat some old behavior because I am only human, and this is only year one of my healing journey, but I am doing one hell of a job. But some days are good, and some days are bad.

I have also learned that there is more to life than papers, competition, and work. There is laughter, there is sadness, there is friendship, there are pride parades, and good food with good company. There is so much more that I am dying to experience things that I would have never realized if I would have taken my life last year. In the last year, I have felt more shame than I have ever felt in my 23 years of life. I felt like benign mentally ill embarrassed my parents, my sister, and the rest of my family yet they have been my biggest supported there are days I can’t help but think that my moment of rock bottom is embarrassing and shameful even when I know it’s not. Some nights I close my eyes and think of the Black nurse who brushed my hair in the emergency room. “You have to promise me that you’re going to fight this and make it out of here. We are gonna make you feel better. I got you. You have a long life to live, do you understand?” I didn’t understand at the moment, but I do now. Her hands in my hair and her voice live in my head forever. I do have a long life ahead of me. Temporary pain is not worth a permanent decision.

P.S. my sexual preference is no one’s business but it might be *shock* to some. If this changes your love for me, then you never loved me to begin with. Reflect on that.

If you struggle with mental illness, you are not alone.

Mental Illness During A Pandemic

As we all know, I am currently in my recovery process after what happened to me last December. I have made big strides and was improving so much since I started medication and therapy. I have been very open with my mental illness because it helps me and I hope it helps someone else too. Progress is NOT linear and recovery has been so slow but now it seems even slower with the current pandemic.

The pandemic has completely put our lives upside down. In ways that we have only seen in films and read in books. It has caused panic, stress and anxiety for people who probably have never felt this type of emotions prior to this. It is important to emphasize that your feelings are absolutely valid and are normal to such an abnormal situation. However, a person like myself that has mental illness and is during their recovery phase. this pandemic has us OVERLY stressed, tense, anxious and sad. I have been trying to pinpoint my feelings because anxiety eases when you allow your emotions to be there instead of avoiding them. I also think that for me personally, I have been going through stages of denial and anxiety about this current situation. Let’s talk about it.

First of all, when I am under stressful situations my intrusive thoughts become more frequent. Prior to this last week, my intrusive thoughts were at a bare minimum but now with everything going on in the world, they have made their presence known. Although I am aware that its frequency is caused by the series of events we all have been living, it causes me distress and I feel terrible because I was doing so well during my recovery. SO WELL. Another thing that I have been going through is TENSION. My muscles are TENSE and by the end of the day my body hurts. Not only that but I end my days completely and utterly exhausted yet it takes me hours to be able to go to bed. I also get into these weird moods where I am irritated by the smallest thing which makes it hard to socialize because I am so irritated by everything around me.

Second of all, I think I have been going through stages of denial. At first, I was not worried about anything at all. Then, I couldn’t believe everything was happening and all at once. The idea of isolation terrifies me because as a person with anxiety, who is constantly up and about doing something outside of the house, isolation really brings me to my most vulnerable point. Now with my university going online for the remainder of the semester, I have been coming to terms with the fact that things are real and this is not a really bad 80s movie anymore. Therefore, what did I do? I phoned my therapist. I phoned her in absolute and utter panic. She wrote back to me to say that she was also experiencing mood swings due to stress and for me to remember this is about prevention. Two small things that help me keep afloat. My anxiety makes me think the absolute worst like “We are all going to die”, “This will never end”, “We will live like this forever”, “Isolation will get the best of us” and more. Imagine those thoughts on repeat from the moment you wake up until you go back to sleep. IT IS EXHAUSTING. However, I am trying my hardest to keep calm and take care of myself. I think it’s important to remember that none of us are 100% ourselves right now and that’s okay. I also think that if you need to cry, cry. Times are tough and despite what my anxiety says to me, I know things will be okay and this will not be a forever thing. I am not sure what stage of anxiety of denial I am on but I am trying to plow through it for sure. I really want to say that if you suffer from mental illness please check in on yourself. Practice self-care and if you have access to therapy, schedule a Skype of phone call with your therapist. If you know anyone who struggles with mental illness, call them, write them, Skype them to check in on them because these moments are difficult for all of us but especially those who are suffering from mental illness.

Right now I feel like my recovery process has slowed down almost to a complete halt and I am angry and frustrated. However, all I know is that I am in a somewhat better place than I was because I don’t think I could have handled this where I was last December. Some days are better than others but I am going to keep pushing.

If you need to talk to someone TEXT ‘SHARE’ to 741741 (CRISIS TEXT LINE) I have texted them multiple times. They have helped me a lot.

Suicide Prevention Hotline

1-800-273-8255

A Letter To My Sister,

A letter to my sister,

Thank you. A month ago, I went public about my mental illness and you have been nothing but proud of me. However, I have been thinking about how hard this must be for you. How hard it has to be seeing your older sister fall apart and struggle. This week I have been thinking about the night where you stayed with me all night in my bed. I began to sob because of my intrusive thoughts and my crippling anxiety. Instead of leaving, you rubbed my head and told me I would be okay. I remember feeling so terrible because I am the one who is supposed to take care of you not the other way around. I have been journaling non-stop and wondering what my next post would entail but this one seems to be the right one. My recovery and healing process has been extremely difficult. The only days I can bring myself to write something of substance are during my low days. I promise one day will come where I will be taking care of you again and not the other way around.

Before you made it to the hospital that day, the nurse told me “Be happy that your sister is coming to see you” and I remember saying, “I don’t want her to see me like this”. I will forever have what the nurse told me recorded in my head, “She needs to see you like this so she knows that if she ever feels bad that she can seek help just like you did”. Still to this day those words fly around my head because one thing I am sure of is that I would do anything in this world to help you if you were ever in the situation I was in. You are the strongest 15-year-old I know and my favorite. I am sorry you have had to see me at my very worst, I am sorry you had to calm me down that night in my bed. I am sorry, I made you miss your recital that day I went to the hospital and I am sorry that I snap at you a lot on my bad days. But I am eternally grateful for you. I remember when I asked and begged for a little sister then I lucked out and got the best one. You have been one of my biggest supporters throughout this process. I have been having a very challenging week with my mental health but I have been pushing through. I don’t know when I will be the Nina before December or if I will ever be that Nina before December ever again. My therapist told me that when situations like that happen, it puts things into perspective and right now I am not sure what the perspective is? I am not sure I am meant to be the Nina prior to December ever again because that Nina did not love herself the way she thought she did and did not take care of herself the way she was supposed to. I don’t know if she still knows how to do those things but she sure is aware of things that she was not before. One of those things is, that I have the greatest sister on this Earth.

Aliyah, you are my keeper.