Returning to the Scene of the (Thought) Crime

     I have always been a religious person...to an extent. I have also always been an independent, logical thinker. I have always been a person that enjoys being part of a religious community. However, for my entire adult life, I haven't had a "healthy" relationship with religious practice because of the black and white thinking that often comes with obsessive thinking like OCD. My funky brain always told me that religion was an all or nothing thing. I was either perfect in my religious practice and worship or I didn't even deserve to walk through the doors.
     As you can guess, I was pretty much always ashamed and guilty because I wasn't a better Christian. (How could I not be ashamed and guilty when my intrusive thoughts made me terrified that I was going to literally burst into flames or be struck down as I sat in my pew?) So, when my OCD was at its worst, I stopped going. I didn't see what else I could do at the time. I didn't enjoying being there when I felt terrible because I was there. My intrusive thoughts were worse when I was in that environment. At points, even driving by a church would trigger my intrusive thoughts.
     Well, this past year, I wondered if I might be able to return to church. I had done Exposure and Response Prevention Therapy with my therapist. I had even watched a church service on YouTube without having to stop it because of my anxiety. I was doing well when it came to my religious intrusive thoughts. I brought the idea up with my therapist and she gave me the okay to give church another try. (I did have to promise that I wouldn't stay and suffer, meaning I had to give myself permission to leave the situation if it felt like it was too much.)
     It took me three tries to make it through the doors of my church. The first time I tried I got as far as asking my mom if we could go the next morning. I backed out. The second time I asked my mom and laid out my clothes for the next day. Then I backed out. The third time, though, I made it. I gave myself permission to back out this time. I told myself if I could just make it to the doors, I didn't even have to go inside. I could turn around and go right back home. I just had to walk up to the door of the church. I made it to the doors, and my elementary school art teacher was the door greeter that morning. He was a kind, familiar face, and that made me a little more confident. I made it inside the building. I almost cried due to anxiety when I got to the sanctuary doors, but I went inside.
     I was terrified. I was shaking, but I made it through the hour-long service with very few intrusive thoughts, and I wasn't even worried about surviving the service. The service was nice, peaceful even.
     It was the time after the service that wasn't so nice. I was fine for a few hours. Then, by dinner, I was spiraling. The shame, guilt, and worthlessness crept back in. Plus, now I had the added worry that I would lose who I had become, the person I had worked so hard to become and actually liked, in order to fit into the "religious" box I thought I had to fit into to belong there. On top of that, I was worried that, because I didn't want to change myself, that meant I wasn't truly Christian. Suddenly, I was right back to feeling unworthy. Then, I was right back to not liking myself again. (And because I didn't like myself, God felt further away again.)
     It took weeks for me to get back to a healthier mental state after that one church visit. It took longer than that for me to feel like I really liked myself again. You see, this was another area of my life in which my logical brain and my feelings brain hadn't caught up to each other yet. Logically, I knew I belonged there and that I was worthy. Logically, I also knew that I had to remain true to myself instead of squishing myself into a box just so I could belong. Emotionally, I was still as guilty and afraid as I had been a few years ago. Emotionally, I was still stuck in the faulty all or nothing pattern of thinking.
     My mission feels like a mixed bag of failure and success. It feels like a success because I found out that I could go back to the scene of some of my worst (thought) crimes, and I could be in that environment without extreme amounts of anxiety. The environment no longer felt "tainted" by my intrusive thoughts. It feels like a failure because I realized that I still haven't reached the point where I can have a "healthy" relationship with religious practice. I haven't been back to church, but I won't say that I'm never going back. I just have more work to do with myself before I can be there in a healthy way. Like I said before, I'm a work in progress, and that's okay. I give myself permission to take the time I need to work through these issues without guilt.
     I'll end with this: Going back to regular activities after a terrifying incident, like those we experience with a mental health condition, is never easy. It's especially hard when the emotional part of your brain and the logical part of your brain don't quite match. Sometimes, we have to restructure those bits of our lives to stay mentally healthy, and that's okay. Give yourself permission to leave things. Give yourself permission to take the time you need to work through whatever issue that environment presents. We have nothing to feel guilty about we're protecting our mental health.

I Like Myself?

     Since my last post in 2018, I've been on a journey of self discovery. I spent my time writing fiction, re-evaluating my life, figuring myself out, and learning about the person I've (surprisingly) become since I started therapy. I've been piecing myself back together since I started therapy, and as 2019 is coming to an end, it seemed like the perfect time to look back at the progress I've made over the year and a half since I took a break from this type of writing.
     I was in my session with my therapist a couple of weeks ago, and a weird thing happened. I'm still thinking about it. I was talking about who I am currently, and I said something along the lines of, "I just don't want to have to give up any of these new pieces of myself that I've found. I feel like I fought to become this person, and I actually...like who I am..."
     My therapist sat there quietly for a moment. Then she said something like, "Can we just take a moment to recognize how far you've come?"
     Of course, I wasn't sure what she was talking about. She went on to explain that the way I was thinking about this issue had changed. I was worried about changing who I was to fit into a box I thought I would need to fit into. I was no longer worried about what a terrible person I was or what a terrible person someone else might think I was. I was no longer worried about being a terrible person at all, because I finally, honestly, didn't FEEL like I was a terrible person. (You can think something for a long time before the feelings part of your brain catches up to the thoughts part. I LOGICALLY knew I wasn't a terrible person for a few years, but now I didn't FEEL like a terrible person.)
     Instead of constantly feeling like a terrible person or like a person that was somehow less than other people because of my mental health condition, I was only worried about if I would still like myself if I changed some things. I had, at some point during the last three years, stopped hating myself. I had also stopped needing someone to reassure me that I was an "okay" human.
     I sat in my therapist's office that day, and I realized that I honestly LIKE myself. I LIKE the person I've pieced back together. I jokingly say, "Why am I like this?" to my mom and my therapist, but, for the first time in my adult life, that doesn't mean that I don't like being the way that I am.
     I doubted that I would ever reach this point. I never thought I'd actually reach a point in my life when I could say, "I like myself," and truly mean it. Yet, here I am. Four years after I started therapy, and I just had the nerve to think it and then say it. It's a weird sensation to not wish I wasn't who I am.
     I still struggle with my OCD and panic attacks. I still have bad days, and sometimes even bad weeks. I just no longer feel ashamed or less than others because of it. I'm also glad to wake up every morning. I like myself, and I try not to let my OCD tell me that I shouldn't. I'm still a work in progress, and I might always be a work in progress. The point is that I'm healing.
     I'll end with this: Mental illness often tells us that we shouldn't like ourselves. Mental illness also often tells us that we won't ever reach the point of real healing. I know it's the hardest thing to do, but we don't have to listen to it. The first step toward healing is getting help. It'll take time, but healing can happen. You deserve help. You deserve to heal and to like yourself, even if your mental health condition tries to make you think you don't.