A Letter from The Pit

Heartbreak still, depression, and another piece where I mostly end up talking to myself

I have struggled to publish these last two weeks, not because I wasn’t writing, but because even though everything I wrote was true, it all felt like a hollow lie. None of it contained the sadness that I am wearing everywhere like a heavy coat.

Still feeling so sad right now feels repetitive. It feels pathetic. It feels like there’s something wrong with me that I can’t move on. It feels like a burden I am passing onto other people by saying it out loud. I feel ridiculous for still being on a ferris wheel that drags me over and over through hope, loneliness, determination, anger, desire, rumination, and always always dips me into despair at the end. I feel ridiculous continuing to pay for therapy sessions that I want to spend on coaching and end up spending on grief.

It feels embarrassing.

It also feels true.

I don’t hear a lot about heartbreak. Maybe it’s because most of my friends are in committed relationships and marriages or happily single. Maybe it’s because people don’t talk about heartbreak very loudly (though some sure do sing about it). Maybe it’s because heartbreak doesn’t always feel like this. Or maybe it does and other people are embarrassed too.

So, at the risk of being repetitive, this one is for the people who are still sad.

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Last week, my therapist asked me why I was smiling so much while talking about hard things.

“I’m trying not to cry.”

“Someone told me once that grief is like a flu. It affects your whole self and you have to let it run its course. You have to cry all of those tears.”

I feel like my grief should have run its course by now. Well, a part of me feels that way at least.

Another part feels ashamed because of it. The part of me that is still deeply sad keeps hearing “that’s enough - you’ve had enough time” so she wonders if she’s broken. She’s romantic. She remembers all of the best parts. Even the hard parts are through a lens of “worth it”. She felt a kind of love she had never felt before and she still wants it. She loved more openly, with more vulnerability and with less reactivity and attachment. She felt deeply cared for, calm, happy, and a whole new kind of alive when he touched her and whispered in her ear. She dreamed. She was spellbound. She imagined. She was generous of soul and heart. She felt safe and good. She felt like she found who she was looking for. She is sad that those things are gone. And she might be sad about it for a little while. She knows there is meaning here and she doesn’t want us to miss it.

Another part feels like maybe we’re just a person who gets this sad. Who gets destroyed. Who is not resilient. Who ruminates too much. Who will always find her way back into the pit.

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When you’ve lived a life alongside depression, sadness is just a little more terrifying. Climbing out of my personal pit was hard and it was recent. I know that triggers can push me back in. I want to let myself feel the fullness of my feelings, but I’m scared that if I don’t tell myself “that’s enough of this sadness”, it will consume me. I’m scared that I don’t know the difference between sadness and depression. My particular flavor creeps in slow. This is starting to feel like the latter.

The pit feels like emptiness. It feels like I know what to do but I just can’t this time. It feels like craving the TV or a drink or anything that will let sitting here without thoughts or feelings be okay. It feels like days and nights that blur together because I stay in the same clothes, on the couch covered in a blanket and the sound from the tv. My eyes are perpetually puffy. I feel lost, unmoored. It saps me of motivation. It piles on all of the heaviest things until I lose sight of any reason to continue trying, continue being. It makes me tired enough for a nap when I’ve done nothing but cry, but when my eyes start to close, I force them open again so I don’t have to see what waits behind them. I don’t eat because nothing sounds appealing or because I’m too heavy to get off of the couch. I don’t take my meds because I don’t eat. It feels like terror and despair and then oh-its-safe-and-dark-in-here-i-think-ill-stay-awhile.

I know I have new rungs to build a ladder out. I know they’re in here somewhere. The fact that I have pulled myself out before is supposed to make me feel better, but it mostly doesn’t. Because what is the point in getting out if I’m just going to end up back in here every time something is hard?

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t know if I can hold all of this. I’m not sure I can make myself climb out again.

We can.

Oh how I love when italics show up here.*

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Why is it so hard to stop hurting?

Because you’re sad. You lost something you wanted. It’s hard when you let hope in and it goes away.

But why does sadness have to lead to the pit?

We built your pit to keep you safe in a world you’ve seen as unsafe for you ever since you were little. You climbed out because you finally learned how to start feeling safe in the world. And now you feel unsafe again.

I had just learned about safety as a pillar of mental health when I met him. I was trying to build safety in the world for myself. I told him on our second date that I had never been in a relationship that made me feel safe. Wrapped around me on my couch, he whispered, “you’re safe.” Part of me rolled my eyes and part of me fell in love with him that night.

He repeated it over and over until I believed it. Until every part of me leaned in.

I didn’t want to put my safety in someone else’s hands. It sounded too risky to me. I didn’t want to be taken care of, I didn’t want to rely on someone else, I didn’t want to be totally vulnerable, I didn’t want to “humble myself.” I didn’t want to let my guard down.

And then I wanted and did all of those things. For the first time.

Safety opened up doors for me.

I felt like I had a warm, safe place to come home to at night. And it felt good. It was motivating. It made it easier to do hard things. It made it easier to dream.

It was pretty magic.

Yeah. It’s gone. This is a fun rehashing. Thanks!

We learned a lot.

What did you learn?

We learned we value peace and calm, that conflict does not equal passion, that safety is something we want out of a relationship, that we can be gentle and vulnerable and seen and still safe. That it feels good to be taken care of without guilt. That we can handle doing something risky and it not working out.

But doesn’t this all mean that I am in fact not safe? That people still leave?

He doesn’t hold your safety.

What does that mean?

You were able to feel safe with him because he is good, sure. But you were also able to feel safe with him because you are good. You have done the work. You trusted yourself. You loved yourself. And also because you built safe relationships with your friends that showed you how to love and receive love before and during that relationship. They are still here. You are still here.

Part of the reason it’s so hard to move through is I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I keep asking myself if I am supposed to fight for this. When you find love like this, you’re supposed to fight for it. Right? Or you wait. Or you label the bad guy and shut yourself off and turn away. But none of those things feel right. So I sit in this grief I don’t want anymore, unsure what to do with all of this love.

He’s great and your relationship was mostly great too. Though it does seem like maybe we need to take off the rosy retrospective glasses and remember the challenges. It’s also a complicated situation. It’s understandable that you’re sad and confused. What else?

What?

Why else don’t you want to move on?

… Because part of me thinks we’re supposed to be together. Part of me thinks that if we both move on, we lost an opportunity to grow together and have this deep connection forever. Part of me thinks it would have been the most magical thing in the world. And I’m worried if he changes his mind, guilt will stop him from telling me.

Maybe it would have. But part of you thinks you’re more right about the situation than he is, which isn’t useful or particularly fair. We can fight for someone, but not against them.

I’m worried if he changes his mind, guilt will stop him from telling me unless I’m still standing outside his window with a boom box.

You can’t control what he does. And boom boxes are heavy.

💪🏻

You’ve also deeply internalized cultural myths about the way life is supposed to be.

What the FUCK does that mean? Who is this goosfraba super wise part?

You’re at war with yourself because you think love means it has to work out. You think love means forever. You think if a love feels this good you have to fight for it or wait for it or that it is once in a lifetime. You think that love can overcome, that people in love will do anything if the person is special enough. You think breaking up means you have to cut ties or it will hurt too much. You think breaking up means that one of your best friends is gone, has abandoned you. You think being in a couple is the goal, the norm even. That romantic love and partnership is the be-all and end-all meaning of life. You think being alone means something is wrong with you and you better get back out there as quickly as possible even though the idea of it makes you want to puke.

It makes sense that you think those things. They’re stories you have been told, but those stories were written by scriptwriters and passed down through generations. They are the lore of our culture, but they’re built on dichotomies and absolutes, and binaries. Turning things black and white makes them easier to understand and easier to assign one emotion to instead of the 400 you really feel. But that’s the stuff of overly simplistic storytelling and of an activated trauma brain. Human stuff is rarely black and white. It’s so much messier than that.

Without absolutes, I can choose to love him as a friend and still feel pain and loss for it not being more. It can hurt without it being anyone’s fault. It can be love and still be over. I can be sad and still grateful.

Yes, and, outside of him…

I can find partnership in other ways. I can wait to date if I want to. I am not alone with my friends. All the things I feel can be true even if they seem like they contradict each other. I am not broken, just living a human life.

I imagine when you open yourself up to the possibilities instead of the false dichotomies, the truth will resonate more easily. Maybe what’s “right” won’t be so difficult to find.

It’s harder to live outside these dichotomies. My ego is eager to jump in the driver seat and take us in a direction that will protect us — usually a direction that avoids connection. The realities of a being a human are a lot more complicated than binaries and stories passed down let them be. I’ve never taken a very soft approach to being hurt. And I’ve never taken a very gentle approach with the person who hurt me. I’ve never continued to be vulnerable. I’ve never let love drive when love was hurt. Where might she take us?

Where indeed.

What a beautiful thing it would be to be able to keep all the good stuff. I’ve been so determined to do that, but only through the lens of a serious romantic relationship. Maybe there are other conditions where we can both feel safe.

I don’t know. It makes me feel lighter to think about it like that. It makes me feel hopeful.

I genuinely don’t know if I can do it. Or if it’s a real option. Or if it will feel as good as I’m hoping. I don’t know if these feelings can transform into friendship without me feeling hurt or jealous that it’s not more. If I do feel hurt or jealous, I don’t know if those are things I should work to overcome. I don’t know what the right thing to do is. But it feels like a loss or at least like societal programming not to consider it.

It’s just another possibility.

I like being and having a partner. I don’t want to be alone.

You’re not alone.

You know what I mean.

I know what you mean. What’s left when you accept that you are uncoupled?

The pit.

…

A little gratitude. What a miracle it is that we found each other at all in such a big world and for a brief time got to make each other’s waters more still.

And me. I’m left. With extra space and extra love. With clarity around what I want. I know that he did not bring the safety or the healing all by himself. I know I was able to accept what he offered because of changes I had made in and for me.

:)

And all of the other things in my life are left too. The decisions and changes I wanted to make. Moving out of this apartment. Being in nature more. Building another career. Helping more people.

Now you can do those things.

In the pit, I don’t want to do any of it, I can’t.

Maybe part of the reason you’re in the pit is because you’re actually scared of those things.

I still don’t know what I want.

We’ll work on it.

I wanted to do those things with him.

But he doesn’t want to do them with you.

Ouch.

😬

It felt easier to do all of that stuff and make big changes with someone to do it with.

Or maybe it made it easier to not change those things at all.

I don’t know if I can get out of the pit this time. I don’t know how to. I don’t know if I want to.

You want to. We’ve been watching you.

Oh, yeah? Y’all must be strong swimmers in there.

We’ve got full diving gear on, don’t worry.

Hardy-har.

We’ve seen you trying - doing all kinds of things you haven’t done in the pit before.**

But it doesn’t change anything. I make meals and I cry. I see friends who tell me I seem like I’m doing great and I cry when they leave. I write and I cry. I take the dog outside and there’s pressure behind my eyes.

It makes a difference. It will help.

How do you know?

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Annoying.

Finding your way out is maybe what you’re on this earth to do. Maybe not just for you. But for someone else who can’t see the light. You know how to make light.

I feel like a broken record that is stuck on the last line of a shitty love song, “I am still fucking sad.”

Heartbreak is quite the flu.

Achoo.

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* For anyone new to this space, I write in italics to notate conversations between different parts of me. They often show up without me planning for them to, like today. For more context, check out this piece. And welcome!

**Addendum: Rungs on the Ladder:

Things I am doing that help, just in case you are looking for help too.

1. Not drinking alcohol: I am trial by firing a 15 year old coping mechanism and trying to actually feel all the things I feel. It’s only been a few days, but I have cried for hours at a time without alcohol to numb me. All the tears also have me drinking more water so… that’s a win?

2. Reaching out: I have never leaned on my friends without guilt before. I leaned hard on my friends and family this week. And they showed up. They sent words of encouragement. They sent lunch buddies. They sent videos of very un-vetted jokes they recorded themselves laughing over. They asked questions. They checked in. They listened. They just kept letting me text and text and text. They called. They came over and made dinner. And I didn’t feel guilty because I would do the same for them in a heartbeat. Why shouldn’t I allow my friends to love me? I am so full of gratitude for their love. Our nervous systems need other nervous systems to regulate. We need each other. What a gift my friends gave me this week. If you need a friend and aren’t sure you have one you can reach out to, you can reach out to me.

3. Doing things I want to even when I don’t really want to: I have gotten lunch with friends I haven’t seen in awhile, I get up from the couch and make meals, I took my meds most days, I wrote this piece, I sought out work and showed up to it, I went to the rock climbing gym again for the first time in years.

4. Surprising my brain: When I was climbing my first route of the day it was hard and my arms shook and I said to myself, it’s okay, you can let go of the wall, you don’t have to push yourself here. But then, I reached up and grabbed the next hold that I thought was just out of reach, and I kept doing that until I finished the route. It felt so. good. I felt like I showed up for myself. I felt like I surprised myself.

5. Using my brain: I have found ease when I have gotten distracted in a good way - by a hard or new task at work, by researching something and trying to distill it, by learning something.

6. Exploring resources: Facebook targeted me with an ad for an online course for “Uncoupling” and instead of scrolling on by, I paid $19 and downloaded it.

   A friend of mine said, “That is the most Stephanie thing I’ve ever heard of lol” which I thought to mean “ridiculous,” but actually meant “you always take the initiative to seek out the resources that can help you get through something.”

7. Putting down my screens and playing with my dog.

8. Listening to and understanding the parts of me that are sad and what they need. Feeling the feelings to process them. This piece did not look like this yesterday or even an hour ago. It started as a research piece on uncoupling and then one on c-ptsd on safety. There were no italics, there was no conversation.

9. Gently reminding myself not to make up stories and to move on from thoughts that aren’t serving us.

10. Acknowledging out loud or in writing that I am doing these things ^^ to make sure my brain knows that we are doing a good job.

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I woke up lighter this morning. Like maybe I’m sitting on the edge of the pit with my feet dangling inside. I reread this and wanted to edit out some of the pain because it feels like more than I have on my heart today, it feels messy, it feels naked. But I won’t. It helped me to write it. Maybe it’ll help someone to read it. I hope it finds that person. It is shared in that spirit and without desire for advice or sympathy. ❤️

Maybe I’ll add acceptance, talking to myself, and sending extremely vulnerable paper planes out into the world to the list of rungs on the ladder out of the pit.