Little Miss Perfect

Perfection is the only option. You need to have the perfect pictures, the perfect captions, the perfect relationship, be the perfect parent with the perfect kids and have the perfect family. You’re supposed to always keep the perfect smile in your back pocket at all times, even when your life is crumbling apart around you. Nobody wants to hear when that perfect smile has no place in your pocket because work has kept you on your toes for the last year. Nobody wants to hear that you’re an insomniac that has turned to sleeping pills for 3 hours sleep peace every night. Nobody wants to hear that your teenager has driven a wedge between your marriage because as a parent “I just can’t get this shit right.” Regardless of all your struggles, the world can only see the smiles and not the shame.

My entire life has been a long distance sprint towards perfection. I was raised to feel like if I wasn’t perfect, I would be a problem and problems get thrown out on the street for being disobedient. I always had the best grades and would practice my piano until my legs would bruise from me slapping my legs when I made a mistake. I never wanted to be a problem because perfection was the only option. The first time I got a C in 3rd grade I cried myself to bed and the shame I felt was so crippling as I child I still remember that moment vividly.

Shame - a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior. What’s funny is we’ve been groomed to feel shame even when the problems aren’t wrong or foolish. We’ve been programmed to feel shame even when life just isn’t what you planned it to be; the life we’ve dreamt of having when we were 5 years old. Successfully manifesting a beautiful family by the age of 25 didn’t come in my timeline so here comes the shame that tells me that I have to overcompensate for my emotions and prove to the world that I’m okay being single with no kids at 35 years old. My dream was to go to college and experience life without worry with top honors GPA, scholarships galore and a career that would jumpstart my life at 22 years old. By the time I was 22, I was making $7.25 an hour working a 45 hour work week at a smoke shop with a 4 year old son. Society tells me this was failing. I was a failure statistic who did not live up to my potential and my shame told me to pursue my dreams as an artist to overcompensate for my lack of schooling. I’ve worked my life to tell people that “experience is just as valuable as a diploma” when deep down inside I’ve always wanted that piece of paper to validate that little 8 year old girl who cried herself to sleep for getting an “average” grade for the very first time.

Depression has lived in me as long as I can remember and that strive for perfection has held a padlock stronghold on my existence ever since. Would all of my problems have disappeared had I went to college and got that signed document? Could I have achieved that “perfect” life if I had just practiced what I preach now to my son and “focus on my schoolwork?” That was the world that I lived in 5 years ago, an ever evolving door of shame. With that shame came regret, anxiety, insomnia, pessimism, chaos and increasingly bad decisions. Therapy has helped me to organize my chaos and force me to ask the questions that matter, including the most important, “What is the key to happiness?” My research has lead me to believe that happiness has nothing to do with achievements and awards and everything to do with the appreciation of life. I’m currently reading a book by Viktor Frankl called “Mans Search for Meaning” which follows his years that he spent in Auschwitz during World War II. He describes in detail how men and women were stripped of everything they owned, their diplomas and professional licenses burned in front of their faces, and fed a single loaf of bread to share between 1200 prisoners. Although the average person today would not be able to handle such torture and mental distress, the art of practicing gratitude helped him find his will to live. Even under the worst circumstances during one of the deadliest wars in history, he found optimism in every single day and lived to tell his story. The strongest person isn’t who can lift the most weight or do the most pushups, it’s the underdog who remembers that even during our toughest times there is always something to be thankful for.

Yesterday I posted a TikTok on my background story. It blew me away how many people reached out to me because they didn’t know at all. I spent the last 13 years building around the shame that haunted me because of what I experienced. I was afraid that people would think less of me because of the horrible moments I had to endure. That thought of being a victim haunted me harder than the act itself. At what point is my shame of who I was, holding me back from what I can become? Living in the shadows of my own shame is only immobilizing my ability to be honest with myself. I showed such a strong and solid front for so many years, giving the perfect life and the most perfect circumstances. That perfection was built off pain yes but vulnerability keeps me alive. It keeps me vibrant and real. It gives people a chance to see that perfection is only an idea it isn’t a lifestyle. An idea that is completely different from every single person in this world so you literally CANNOT please everyone. I don’t want to be the perfect version of me that society wants me to be, I want to be Xoch who has bad days and looks like a bum off the street 99.9% of the time. I don’t want the validation of feeling beautiful because I’ve got on the best clothes with the nicest makeup, I want to feel beautiful because my back didn’t hurt when I woke up in the morning. I don’t want to feel ashamed about being a girl with a past, I want to feel good about the right here and right now. The sound of thunder that rattles my ears as I write this, the curiosity of life that surrounds me knowing there’s a rainbow nearby, the sound of geese flying south for the winter, the security I feel with my 70 pound pitbull best friend sitting at my side, and the peace of feeling comfortable in my own home. My future cannot be predicted, I can plan out as much as I would like but at the end of the day, I don’t have control and that’s okay. What I can control is my reaction to the small inconveniences that could ruin a happy day. That switch that tells us “not today, satan” because our attitude is as stank as our booty hole (yes I said booty hole). We have to call ourselves out for our bad moments and bad days that trickle down to those around us like rain falling off a leaf. Your shame can trick you to believe that your asshole tendencies are justified because you spilled your coffee over your brand new shirt earlier in the morning. Your shame is lying, don’t be a dick.

In closing, I don’t want to be a dick anymore. I haven’t been a dick to people on purpose for some time now but I’ve been a total dick to myself. I’ve been protecting myself from myself for a long time now. I don’t want to be a strong figure for anyone else because I do have bad days, I am struggling with keeping it together and I have a lot I still have to work through but I do want to be a vessel for others who may be trying to break away from their shame like I am. I don’t want people to look up to me, I want people to look me in my eyes. I don’t want to be your guidance, I want to be your friend.

We got this.

God loves you and so do I,

XO

Just another day.

I woke up this morning with the sun shining bright through my blinds. My 3 year old wrapped up in a comfy ball to my right, still getting in his beauty sleep. I get up, grab my phone and head to the bathroom where I can comfortably watch my sleeping angel and catch up on my morning news. Just another day.

He wakes up, runs to meet me in the washroom, gives me the biggest hug as he comfortably snuggles in my lap. His first words of the day come out, “mommy I farted.” As I feel a tremble against my legs. I chuckle, of course, because his humor makes my morning that much better. Just another day.

We stay in bed a bit watching learning shows and I get us ready for the day. Me in my workout gear and him in his sweatpants and Star Wars shirt. We put on his brand new Northface jacket and go back and forth about wearing a hat for the day. He wins and I throw his hood over his head. It’s a beautiful and sunny but cool fall morning. Just another day.

In the car on the way to daycare he says, “Mommy I have to pee” as I chastise myself for not putting him on the toilet before we left. We make it to the daycare just in time, after telling him to “hold it in” 20 different funny ways in what seemed like miles but was only a few blocks. We run in and pass him along to his teacher as I relay his emergency and she continues the run to the closest toilet. Just another day.

I take a short ride for my first trip back to the gym in weeks, a new location that just opened up that was pleasantly clean, small and quiet. Get in my cardio on the stairs for 15 minutes of my interval routine training and head to the pulley machine to work my upper body. I’m feeling good and send my husband a text about how good it feels to be back in the gym after too many tortas and tacos screwed up my tummy in Mexico. We go back and forth with adoration and love. Asking about doctors appointments and sending a reminder to him for me to call my doc for blood work. We’re getting older now, health has to be a priority. Just another day.

I need a nail appointment and check my calendar to see how many weeks it’s been. They look like crap and my nail guy is not there tomorrow. I gotta get in. It’s October 5th. My heart drops and my breathing starts to heighten. I feel a strong pressure on my chest and my eyes droop and welt with the feeling of heat from what I know need to be tears to feel better. I feel pain around my heart my mind takes me to 2008. A beautiful and sunny but cool fall morning, just like today. I take a strong breathe in and pull down my calendar. It’s three weeks tomorrow. I probably would have held off another week but today I need a mani and pedi. Today everything changes. It’s not just another day. It’s THAT day.

It’s been so many years now that there have been October 5th days that have passed without me noticing. Where my routine stays normal and these beautiful days are just another day. When I do realize it passed, I pain and feel selfish for not remembering. How dare I live on without acknowledging his death, not realizing then that I just did myself a solid. Trauma is unique, it has individual traits that are so distinct in nature that it appears impossible to understand. There’s no words for it and even though I suffer every day, I understand that I can never judge a persons trauma based on my own. I can’t tell a person how to feel about their history but I can offer knowledge on how to accept it.

I text Toddie and tell him what day it is. “Wow. 12 years. You should go to the cemetery. Take Frank “ My days at the cemetery are always serene, a moment for myself to be in solitude to talk to Alex and my cousin Mike. The first anniversary of his death I went with Frank and a friend to visit his grave and was bombarded with friends and foe for a look at my child. At that moment I knew I never wanted to put my son through that scrutiny again, so I replied “I’ll probably go tomorrow. Today is usually a lot of people.”

Toddie knows that today is a hard one for me and my heart can’t help but feel for him. To know your wife pains for a man in a way that you could never understand. He accepts me and has heard my sighs and wiped my tears on many occasions. He’s held me so tight my pain subsides and I’m able to sleep at night, even if it’s for a short period. He has encouraged me over the years even when I tell him how I wish I didn’t feel anymore. “You loved him momma. Your heart should hurt. He was a big part of your life.” How do I even deserve him? How is my life so incredibly blessed that I am able to have him by my side reminding me of the amazing love that still exists on earth? I don’t get it. I still don’t understand how he could love me so hard the last 11 years of my life and understand my pain better than ANYONE offered me this day 12 years ago.

My trauma brings me guilt in many ways, a feeling I felt automatically from people I thought loved me. I was mourning a loss most people didn’t care about and STILL don’t care about. How could I feel pain for a man that dodged his parental responsibilities? We weren’t together, he talked shit about you. Are you stupid? You must be a dumb bitch to feel for him. People hated him, he did bad things. He deserved it in their eyes. Another 2 gang bangers dead and it was just another fucking day.

I’ve felt selfish these last few years, to be in a situation in which my child has been able to be raised by an exemplary father just a shy 8 months after losing his own. I’ve heard and experienced horror stories of “baby daddy” drama within my circle. I didn’t have to “deal” with that because he was at peace and I selfishly didn’t have the problems of child custody court or worrying about his whereabouts. I was “lucky” because he wasn’t around anymore. My amazing life was the product of the loss of a 22 year old kid who had no opportunity to grow up and learn from his mistakes. I still live with the guilt of living, a lifelong shame I may never be able to shake.

Today isn’t just another day. It’s a day to remember and reflect. To cry and giggle. To hug my boys a little harder. To listen to Tupac and Kanye West and remember your retarded love for The Who. To appreciate the life I have because I need to live to make sure my kids never have to endure the lack of love you experienced in your short time of life. To support them in ways to make them feel comfortable coming to mom, even when they push my last buttons. To remember our love, our friendship and our connection, whether anyone else understands or not. Most of all, to appreciate my love, my friendship and the incredible connection I have now.

Today is a reminder for me that I am different. I do struggle in different ways than others. My trauma is alive but it is no longer consuming me. I just have some not so easy days. Today, is just another not so easy day.

God loves you and so do I.

-XO

Triggered.

May. The month of flowers bloom and sunshine, transitioning from beautiful spring weather into Summer’s heat. The rejuvenation of life that happens after winters hibernation and the view of beautiful greenery takes your breath away, a sight you took for granted after autumn’s leaves withered to the ground. The boost of energy you get to deep clean your home and wake up a little earlier to look cute during the day, it’s a month of revitalization, a feeling that is powerful for the soul and energy that is meant to be used.

Coincidentally this month is also Mental Health Awareness Month and every year as I am soaking in the glory of God’s green earth, I am also struggling internally from my own battles with mental illness. I’ve realized that May is a trigger for me and the anxiety I’m having approaching the 10 year anniversary of my home invasion is REAL. Honesty has to be the forefront in my journey with post traumatic stress disorder. Ignoring my mood swings and masking my anxiety will only make it worse, realizing that alone gives me control. (That’s step one. Great job, Xoch.)

Every year around this time I’m quite off, as if my energy completely transforms into someone I once knew. This girl held her pain away from the world and worked herself to a nervous breakdown a few years back. She had some horrible sh*t happen to her, instead of allowing that instance to define her she worked hard to be anything but that statistic. That one act of evil in her mind didn’t swallow her in tears but swallowed her with pressure, to be and become the perfect image of herself to get far away from her trauma. She kept quiet when she should’ve spoke. She smiled when she should’ve cried.  

As the pressure returns every year so is the reminder of who that girl was, simply because of my emotions at that very moment. I’ve worked really hard to manifest my mind to bring positive affirmations to myself every single day. Praising myself for my hard work when I see or don’t see results. Walking away from bad energies that disturb my mindset. Pushing to realize how far I’ve come and thank God every moment I feel I need to, especially the little things. The problem is it’s really hard to be proud of who you are when your mind is taking you back to who you were. That broken person who was at war with herself yet at peace with the world. I honestly have no other choice but to be positive. If I’m not consistent I fall into a deep hole that swallows me whole. Not a finger, not a leg, my entire body. 

When I started therapy I learned a lot more about PTSD and how trauma can manifest inside of you. After my home invasion I never really dealt with what happened, I built a new life with this man who protected me and I was never looking back. So ashamed of the situation I pulled myself out of the only life and neighborhood I knew because subconsciously I was blaming myself.  I didn’t want to be a victim I wanted to be above all of it, not accepting this as a moment in my past because I simply wanted it to disappear. After years of holding on it finally came to a head, the loss of one of my closest cousins in life brought the worst out of me and a rage ensued. I let the hate I had for this situation manifest in me so long that I began to hate myself.  Hated myself for my inability to hold relationships, hated myself for not being happy in what would seem to be the “perfect” marriage, hated myself for the lack of support I’d been receiving from those I’ve been helping, and HATING MYSELF FOR HATING MYSELF. My attention span was minimal, my sleep even smaller, my patience nearly gone, my anxiety crippling, and my mindset toxic. I knew I needed help but was too far into this perception that I was embarrassed of my pain. 

It took a recommendation from my boss to his go to Clinical Therapist for me to take the step forward towards making myself better. I was embarrassed to cry to my boss and tell him how badly I was hurting but I knew I needed to keep him in the loop with my depression. I hit my breaking point and I didn’t know what was wrong with me. He gave me a week paid off of work and gave me the support I needed to find myself again. That man saved my life and I’ll always remember him for the compassion he gave me when I felt I deserved none. I opened my shell to the right person, instead of having someone tell me “you’ll be fine, you’re just overreacting.” 

I wasn’t overreacting, I was suffering from trauma. I spent my first hour with my therapist blaming myself for the hatred I built in my heart.  Having a professional explain to me that my struggles had stemmed from my past struck me differently.  She explained that PTSD symptoms are not just having nightmares or flashback episodes, it can cause social anxiety through avoidance and feeling disconnected from others (check), it can cause negative mood symptoms and distorted thoughts about the trauma leading to blame on the victim (check), and it can cause alterations in arousal symptoms which included irritability, hyper-vigilance, sleep problems and self destructive behaviors (check, check, check, check). I had become so reckless that my outbursts and lack of attachment to my body had trickled down to those I loved most.  My lack of knowledge had made me hate myself for all those years and here I was, suffering for not suffering. 

She explained to me about triggers, how to recognize them and how to conquer them.  By this point I had brushed away my emotions so long I was numb to everything. I had to feel again, a task that wasn’t easy for me at that moment. How can I force myself to feel when I trained my body to ignore my pain? Time. Consistency. Vulnerability. Patience. Most of all LOVE. I had to love myself enough to recognize when I was being unbearable. I had to give love even when a situation deserved ugly. I needed to love each day as if it were my last because triggers can come and go in an instant. Love was my way out of this ugly state. Love had to be my number one priority. 

That’s what I did. I loved myself enough to realize people’s true intentions. I loved myself enough to recognize I needed to focus on me. I loved myself enough to recognize when I was being pushed in the wrong direction.  I loved myself enough to know my worth as a wife and a mother. I loved myself enough to know how valuable I am in the workplace. I loved myself enough to realize it’s all up to me to change my life, to cope with the past, and to expect the unexpected but take charge of my future. Everything may not go the way I planned but that was okay because I was going to love the journey it takes to get there.  Love was my key to understanding, I found it in the most unexpected place and therapy helped me get there.  

I know now that therapy isn’t for everyone but it was for me. I haven’t seen my therapist since September of 2016, right before I got pregnant with my second child. I’ve exuded so much love into my life that I’ve learned how to recognize my trauma and handle it properly.  I loved myself to a new position with the #1 law firm in the country, I loved myself hard enough to see how I did deserve the life I have, I loved myself to lose 65 pounds after the birth of my son, I loved myself to the point I need no validation and have cut my use of social media to less than a quarter of what I used to, I loved myself enough to feel my pain and speak on my struggles, and I loved myself enough to share my struggles with you. So thank you, to whoever you are because YOU SAVED ME TOO.   

Beyond the horizon of love will always be my struggles and recognizing my triggers will save my life. This month has been hard, between the divorce of my parents, the drama of being in a wedding party, or the jabbed shade of former friends, it’s been harder to see the love. My patience has dwindled, my anxiety has raised, my mind has been wandering, and my temper has hit its breaking point. I need to see my therapist. (There goes step two, you’re doing great Xoch.)

I write these blogs not for you but for me. If this helps you to realize you’re not alone, the scary thing I call vulnerability is worth every sense of doubt I have before starting to write. I can’t continue my journey without pinpointing my triggers and handling them accordingly. Maybe a few years from now May will be just another month but maybe it won’t. That’s okay though because I love myself enough to know that I’ll be okay.  Today, I called my therapist because I’d rather be at war with the world than at war with myself. I love me so much I know when I need help. (There goes step three, you’re a beast Xoch.) 

Love yourself, be kind to the process, be patient for results, recognize your faults and praise your accomplishments. Every single day is a blessing from God, love yourself in the moment. 

Humbly I write,

-XO

If you suffer from trauma or know someone who is please call the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration National Hotline at 1(800) 662-HELP (4357) for more information and resources on PTSD.