Jamie Berube

Little did I know, my opinion would soon change. And not because I wanted it to.

I quickly realized he was relentless and my words likely would not change his attitude, but I responded anyway.

If you are a Christian, imagine this: you tell someone you are a Christian and go on to discover later that that person lost respect for you because of your religious beliefs and thinks you’re crazy, evil, and might be better off dead.

”This does not define you.”

“You have so much to be happy about, why can’t you just focus on those things?”

I feel lucky to have married a man who is and has been willing to do this work with me — a man who has chosen to stay when there have been times he could have left, and who has seen me through my absolute worst and never once wavered in his devotion.

Because for a person who has ventured through the dark, deep valleys of the psychological prison of illness, it becomes a whole lot more than just feelings and sadness and “stuff in your head.” It becomes a part of you — or at least, a part of how we identify ourselves.

Most importantly, therapy has shown me that it is okay to be broken. It is okay to not have it all figured out and not understand why our minds work in certain ways.

I cannot tell you how painful it felt to be laughed at by kids in the cafeteria in school for being overweight. Or how worthless I felt when my step-dad compared me to a whale. And then after losing the weight in college, how frustrating it was to be asked if I had an eating disorder.

When a Rod Stewart, Bee-Gees, or Lionel Richie song comes on the radio in the car, I sing along to every word.

Reading status updates about the Crossfit class so-and-so did four hours before your alarm went off or scrolling through pictures of babies and engagements won’t mentally prep you for powering through the day. The first images you see and the first words that you read and speak in the morning should be edifying and nourishing on a deeper level.

The expectations and hopes to live “like everyone else” that I feel as an adult is rooted in more than just a desire to measure up. It is also rooted in the need that I have felt since I was a child to live a normal and happy and controlled life.

There is so much beauty to behold and that beauty is sometimes most beautiful when we ourselves feel the most ugly. Seeking out that beauty with intention, however, requires discipline.

I can’t tell you what gift-wrapped presents I got last year for my birthday but I can tell you about how glorious it felt to have the day off of work, eat chocolate chip pancakes from IHOP with my husband in my PJs, and then go to Las Vegas for the first time, where I tripled my gambling allowance at the blackjack tables.

When I step back and consider some of the things that I tell myself on any given day, I’m disgusted because they are mostly things that I would never be cruel enough to say to someone else. But for some reason, it’s easy and almost automatic to talk to myself like this.

On the surface it sounds deranged, disturbing, and dark. But underneath that, beneath the act and the inflicted cut lies an untold story.

It is the voice of an oppressor and a bully that I let poke, prod, and shame me into submission to achieve the flawlessness I think is required to be whole and happy.

This paralyzing and logic-defying fear stuns and terrifies my body and mind in a way that is convincingly cerebral and completely crippling. There’s no real way to get used to such a sensation.