Buried Tires Never Decompose

16 months ago I deleted my facebook profile and it’s 16 year history thinking that I would never be back. Since then, I’ve been doing some work. I’m in a much better place than I was in September 2022 when I shut it down…but that wasn’t even the worst of it. I would love to blame the pandemic but if I’m honest with myself, the breakdown came well before Covid took our world by the throat. My anxiety had been slowly chipping away at my self-esteem for years (decades?) until it became so unbearable to be around others that intrinsically, I began to isolate myself on and off the internet.

I’m not sure if my hiding was to protect myself from the judgment, the disappointment and the perceived rejection of others or if I was protecting others from my impending self-destruction. Regardless, my attention and my patience were thin — too much was demanded of me from too many people coming from too many directions. I retreated into myself because that’s what I knew. I tried to tuck into my turtle shell for protection and in some ways, it worked…but not exactly how I thought. For when I turned on a light inside, I illuminated the demons that took up residency under my skin. Some were placed unpermitted but others were personally invited by me.

Besides…you’re never truly alone when your shadows are home.

I remember feeling a big shift into this journey in May of 2019. Upon the total collapse of a highly anticipated Lokella tour that we put nearly everything into that spring, I watched the fire in Evan’s eyes die and along with it, my spark was failing, too. Together, he and I spent 10 years scheming, building, writing, restructuring, bargaining, spending and fighting to make a career in music together and within 10 days, our feeble stretched-out rubber band of a dream snapped.

We rarely talk about how dark the path that leads you away from your passion truly is.

I couldn’t bear it. In my attempt to self-soothe and climb out of the depression, I threw my focus onto another path — one that felt more tangible, one that wouldn’t tear me open each time I was rejected. One that I could quantify with numbers and logic…but also one that could offer us a new way to live. Potentially, a path that we would have to work so hard to obtain and maintain that we wouldn’t have the option to consider going back to the old dream that failed us time and again.

I attempted to burn down a bridge to make sure I would not be tempted to return.

That worked, too. We threw ourselves into selling our first home and bought big. Dumped every penny and ounce of energy into a new home, distracted ourselves with new ideas and bit off more than our little mouths were comfortable with chewing all the while knowing that if we were vigilant in our growth, we could find new passions — a new vehicle to happiness.

It worked until it didn’t. During the pandemic, my unraveling truly became obvious. I was losing touch with every part of me that kept me safe. The hardest part of my anxiety and depression spiral was that the world kept spinning around me while I was drowning and I had no idea how to ask for help.

I believed it was better to struggle to breathe in my own misery than to reach out and be told that my problems were small. That I was overreacting. That I was insignificant.

Rock bottom looks different than what Hollywood leads us to believe. If you look hard enough, one may be lucky to find mixed into the filth of the gravel pit slivers of resplendent gems that have been planted by others who had been there and climbed out on the other side. Each remarkable stone a lesson left for the next heavy-hearted guest to uncover.

I picked up splinters of anything shiny that I could find and took them to therapy. In the preceding months, it became apparent that each speckled, metallic stone was not a stone at all — they were shreds of glass reflecting everything I soaked in from my past, my trauma, my failures and my conditioning.

When I began this round of therapy in 2022, I wasn’t sure what I needed but I knew positively that I was burning out. I thought that maybe I was due for a career change but it didn’t take long to realize that those feelings were merely symptoms of much deeper issues that were beginning to bubble to the surface. But what? I’d been fortunate and incredibly grateful for everything…why did I feel so empty when my life was so full? I was blessed with a large family, a supportive community, a loving marriage and a safe environment…why did I feel so lonely? Why did I pull loose threads just to see how things would unravel? If I was desperate for deep connection, why did I cringe when anyone wanted to get close? How could I be happy for and so envious of those around me who had the gull to follow their dreams?

Why was I so resentful? And to whom?

When my (second) therapist asked me about resentment, I cycled through significant relationships throughout my lifetime. I couldn’t think of a specific incident that I hadn’t already forgiven another for that would still leave me feeling bitter. And yet…I couldn’t spend one more minute on social media. Constantly inundated with information that muddied my already overwhelming and distracting thoughts. I was angry — the world was so loud and so demanding of me and still, the most distinctful and bellowing voice was that of my shame.

The external noise was no match for my internal nagging. She reminded me consistently that I wasn’t enough. That I inflated my problems, my emotions too big and my feelings undeserved.

It’s just now that I’m coming to understand that the internalizing I did as a child to seek safety and comfort had become a maladaptive strategy later in life. The shame didn’t live in me in those early years…she was still lurking on the outside.

She made her way in eventually. Stealthy, sly; she nestled into a dark corner and planted roots. Her presence felt familiar and before I knew it, I became a guest in my own home.

It is nearly impossible to see the detrimental effects of generational cycles when you’re still running on the hamster wheel. Once I figured it out, I wanted off.

Exiting the hamster wheel, however, would mean facing the reality of my daydreams, the fantasies of optimism, the illusion of delicacy.

I would have to acknowledge and accept that sometimes you are dealt a shitty hand that you can choose to accept or discard and other times, it’s forced on you.

Above all else, I never wanted to feel powerless. I did everything I could to avoid feeling like a victim even if it meant not sharing sexual assault, emotional and physical abuse and crushing fear. To tell someone would make it real. Swallowing the pain meant I could attempt to override the nightmares with grandiose dreams and I never had to speak a word.

But when those dreams fail?

Crash. Burn.

Trauma resurfaces;

Buried tires never decompose.

….

Turns out, I was a fawning people-pleaser until I was angry. If I was fired up enough, I employed the skills I keenly observed as a kid. I could pretend to be tough long enough that even I would be convinced by my deadly stare. The teeth I bore, however, were not nearly as sharp as they seemed; an herbivore masquerading as a carnivore just so no one could trample the shrinking violet inside of me.

I laugh now when I think of all the times I swore I was not a people-pleaser. I became one to appease, to calm a room, to chill a scorching temper, to avoid the eggshells laid out in front of me, to keep me safe from explosive landmines hidden in the relationships that were supposed to protect me. I adapted to be a “good” girl — a “good” daughter, sibling, friend, student, employee and yet, I shut myself in each time I felt my emotions rising up again because I learned that they were simply not acceptable. They were an annoying burden. These were the same emotions that I attached to because I believed that they were all I had to rely on.

But I’ve been digging up those old rubber tires with each therapy session. Once you know something, you can’t unknow it. While I now understand that the shame and guilt bestowed upon me was never consensual, I do have the power to change it.

Maybe I can’t bury my problems, my trauma or my feelings to seek safety…but I can change my perspective. I can recycle and repurpose those tires. If it’s true that we heal in relationship, I can start with forgiving and loving myself knowing that ultimately, community may be the biggest help of all.

I can’t carry all these old tires myself and I’m beginning to understand that I was never meant to in the first place.