On letting it go

It’s not as easy as I thought it would be to follow up my last post. I feel a bit like when you want to say too many things at once and end up saying nothing.

I’m going through something big, and I’m having trouble finding the language to talk about it. It’s turning out to be a long transition, but who’s to say how long anything is supposed to take? Our time measures are mostly constructed, matrixes we impose over processes that really have their own innate logic.

There’s a voice that’s been whispering in my head all summer: I am here to let things go. It’s ok, I can put it all down and nothing will be broken. This obliterating pressure I feel to keep up, it’s optional, it’s a membership I can cancel. I can opt out of constantly feeling bad about myself. Because good and bad is in itself another constructed matrix. I can continue to participate in it blindly, seeking gold stars on my report card, or I can dig deeper, all the way to the place where all humans have an intrinsic immutable value, no matter what they’ve done that’s either good or bad. I can let myself feel everyone’s wholeness, including my own.

It’s an acquired reflex that’s telling me I am failing when I’m not being productive. Where’s my value if I’m not creating anything consumable? Fuck that reflex. I have taken true pride and joy at making and sharing my videos. And I can’t wait for when this outward flow returns. But for now I am involved with an inward flow, which is just as immensely valuable.

It’s kind of a funny thing to say in a blog, but these days I want everything and everyone to leave me the fuck alone. Isn’t that the contradictory thing about being human. Part of me is so isolated and wants so badly to connect and belong and yet another part needs to feel that I have time and space to exist for myself, by myself. It’s not easy to conciliate but I know that my artistic capacity is dependent on both. So I have to find a way to rise beyond the idea that I am better when I publish a post or release a video every x amount of time. I have to believe in my life more than I believe in the life I should be living based on the interferences of every other rationale out there.

I guess it’s pretty easy to see how this all fits in the context of my story. I’m still recovering from the habit of putting other people’s needs before my own. I’m always searching for the feeling that I belong to myself. This is why I end up spending so much time alone, why I am so wary to participate in anything. It explains why being engaged with this project is such an extraordinary success for me. And why Vimeo’s censorship triggered me back into feeling so ashamed and interrupted. Crazy how everything always cycles back around.

At the end of the day, this really is just a call to peel back another layer of the healing that I need for myself. That’s what repetitions are for. Getting confronted with what still seeks resolution.


On my story


This is the most difficult thing I have ever written. It feels gigantically important.

Warning: it’s by far my longest post. It takes me about half an hour to read.

Also, the side notes I wrote a while back still very much apply.

So, where to start… I guess at the beginning there were my parents. When they met in their late twenties, they both thought they didn’t want children. They both had horrible childhoods, something they bonded over. But their love changed their minds, and so they decided to start a family and have a baby. Me.

Can one ever describe how they were in their first years? I look at pictures, I listen to anecdotes, and from that I piece together the kid that I think I was. I would never sit straight in high chairs, always had a leg swinging on the side. My parents took me to all kinds of places children don’t usually get to go. I remember being aware of music, and I imagine I must have been highly sensitive from the get-go.

It’s extremely difficult to find the words to talk about what happened next, which makes what happened before seem irrelevant. When I was three years old, my sister was born. Everything seemed normal until her birth, when it became clear that, well, she wasn’t normal. No one knew exactly what she had until she was seven years old, when by chance one of her doctors saw a case with a kid that looked just like her. Only then did we get the actual diagnosis of her syndrome. Like with Down syndrome, except it’s a different rarer syndrome, a spontaneous mutation on one specific gene created a ripple of consequences all over her development.

I’m used to describing my sister’s story in a detached clinical tone, because I’ve learned that sick children is one of the most heart wrenching subject. The events of her early life were very dramatic. She spent the first six months of her life in intensive care. She almost died, couldn’t eat on her own, and had a bunch of other problems. When she finally came home, she had to be forced fed at night. So our room became the ICU. It took two adults to set up, my parents having to become expert nurses overnight. She had to be restrained with special orthotics so she wouldn’t pull on the tube that went down her nose to her stomach. Later she would make herself vomit to have it come out. Can’t reason with a baby that feels tortured by what is keeping her alive. Every single night, all night long. For three years.

I remember nothing from this time, I blanked it all out. If it isn’t clear already, this is the first source of my post-traumatic stress disorder, though I didn’t understand that until a few years ago. I was told that after my sister was hospitalized, I became the perfect child. I don’t know what that means exactly, but I do know that my subsequent struggles are related. In the work that I have done on myself since, I’ve uncovered some of the agreements I made with myself back then. One of them was, if my sister dies, so will I. Completely irrational of course, but it’s the kind of thing a three year old would come up with. Bargaining with magical thinking. I use a lot of psych jargon by now, but it all boils down to one thing. What was happening was overwhelming and I did not have the resources to make sense of it.

Those early years were the worse, but that’s not to say that the following ones were easy. Her physical, intellectual and emotional health were, and still are, a rollercoaster of challenges. She’s doing pretty great these days, but it’s been a hard road getting there. And as for normal, she never was nor ever will be. But normal is overrated, and I can say that from actual experience. My parents and I became a tight knit team around her, bonding over everything she had to overcome. As can be imagined, I got to grow up too fast and never again was quite the normal kid either.

How to continue… I guess school years. That’s a tale of extremes, highly tainted with the misunderstood context of what was happening to me through what was happening to my sister. At first I went to my neighborhood school, which turned out to be quite rough. I always had a lot of ease with academics, something that was due to my parents encouragements and to being kind of gifted. During the three years that I was there, I remained the kid no one could relate to. I never once made a friend. I was either bullied or ignored. At times I was bullied by parents. I was too different to ever fit in. Teachers had no idea what to do with me, and as the weird quiet ultra mature kid, I certainly wasn’t their priority.

The principal ended up summoning my parents to plead with them to take me to a different school. That’s when my fortune turned around. Because of my sister, I got sibling privilege to attend an alternative school. It had barely a hundred kids, the classes were integrated with different ages and different disabilities. It was based on a self taught, project-based pedagogy. I can honestly say that this school changed my life. I immediately made a bunch of friends, my family life became integrated with my school life, and I found my voice. We would make our own schedules and create our own projects. We never had normal exams, but instead had evaluations that focused on how we felt. How do you feel about yourself? Oh my god. Those questions opened up my soul. I got to know me, everyone got to know me, and I felt like I belonged.

Then this dream time, which is still the model for what I believe life can be, ended. Sadly, there were no alternative options in my city for the next grades up. So I got hit by puberty at the same time as I re-entered the nightmare of conventional schooling. I switched schools four times in five years, and never found continuity in any community. That’s when my psychological health unraveled. Out of paradise, out of latency, most aspects of life stopped making sense to me, and the pains that had been repressed inside blossomed into a big time mess.

The one redeeming element was that I started seeing a psychiatrist. I had been asking for one for years, ever since having been once to the therapist that was following my parents after my sister’s birth. Whenever I asked though, my parents would say that I should just talk to them. But I couldn’t. One day when I was eleven, I heard that my sister was going to see someone and I lost it. I said it was unfair that she could get one but not me. That seemed to do it. I got very lucky when the senior child psychiatrist who was supposed to refer me to someone else decided to keep me. I started seeing him once a week exactly a year before I was officially diagnosed with depression. And I remained in therapy with him for exactly a decade.

My first break down was all about my sense of having no control over my life. It started slowly, mostly over issues surrounding school. I started seeing my psychiatrist multiple times a week. He would have my parents over at sessions to explain that I needed to be given some slack. He told them that it would help for me to have my own room, which I ended up getting. He gave me permission to pick one day a week when I didn’t have to go to school if I didn’t want to. I realized later that he was trying to create a safe space for me to to find myself but also to fall apart, because that was just bound to happen.

I got lucky again the following year when I could enroll in a special school that used to be reserved for ballerinas. It was module-based, and you could complete it at your own pace, wherever you wanted. I finished most of my classes in the first two months. Then I focused the rest of my time on myself. This period turned out to be both alienating and fascinating. How else could you describe the experience of a fourteen year old, walking the streets of her city alone, journaling in coffee shops and hanging out in cinemas, feeling herself slowly reach rock bottom? I remember the exact moment I reached this bottom. Strangely, it felt good even though it felt painful. Like I knew, even back then, that this wasn’t the beginning of the end, it was the beginning of the real.

I paid for my unusual lifestyle myself. I started earning money when I was nine years old, recording radio jingles. My career as a talent ended quickly though, because they wanted older kids who could sound young, not young kids who could sound older. But I kept on working jobs throughout my entire adolescence, babysitting then being employed in a business owned by an extended family member.

That’s also when I started taking anti-depressants, which I took for five years straight. I still don’t know for sure whether that helped me or fucked me up even worse. Probably both. I do know that the SSRIs I took are not recommended anymore for people under 18. But based on the information we had back then, I guess it was the right call. There were legitimate questions about my staying alive, and I think my psychiatrist wanted to use all the tools at his disposal to make sure I would. And I did, so that’s that.

The following year I started again at this same special school. By then word had spread and a few more alternative souls had joined. During one of the first weeks, I wrote an essay about my experience with depression. Somehow almost everyone got to read it. A bunch of people flocked to me afterwards, sharing similar or different experiences. And just like that I found myself in a tribe again. I would still spend most of my time in coffee shops, but I wasn’t alone anymore. I started getting better and better, envisioning a future for myself. I thought this was it, my ticket to real life. Then right after Christmas, they announced that the school was closing, and my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

Had to take a break from writing here, to let the tears flow. This is the second source of my post-traumatic stress disorder. And that’s another time of my life I don’t remember very well. I know that the day my mom went to her first surgery, I was wondering if there was anything in the house I could take to make it all go away. I know that while my friends were making plans to land in the same school, I was busy taking care of my sister while my mom would undergo chemotherapy. I know that for some obtuse reason, I ended up enrolling in a far away school that no one else I knew was going to be at. I know that I started going everywhere with my mom, became her nurse, and even her assistant as she started a business to try to keep herself attached to life. But all I could really register was the feeling of being hit on the head by a hammer as you’re in the middle of getting up. Surefire way to get knocked back down.

My mom got better and the worse was over when I had to start school again. I had spent the summer working for her and taking care of my family. I felt chewed up by life. I felt old. And I must have looked it, because everyone at this new school thought I was a new teacher. Students and teachers alike. I was fifteen years old going on forty. This was a traditional huge high school, and my presence there was the epitome of surreal. I lasted two weeks. Then I started skipping school again. But this wasn’t the type of place where that was allowed. So I would lie, even though of course I would get found out. I didn’t know how else to manage. When I look at it now, I see how exhausted I was. I had stayed strong for as long as I could and it left me burned out. My psychiatrist started advocating for me again, recommending that I should be allowed to stay home. I got appointed a home school teacher, which turned out to be an extremely awkward experience.

That’s when my familial situation reached a breaking point. I was falling apart at exactly the time when my mom needed things to get back to normal. We were all still reeling from the stress of almost losing her. Struck by some sort of temporary insanity. My parents started questioning my psychiatrist’s choices and decided they wanted a second opinion. He had to agree so he took us to a colleague of his, who was the head of the psychiatric unit at a youth hospital. We all went there on a Monday at 10 am. I have a journal entry that says what I had for breakfast that morning and that I had planned on doing yoga that afternoon. No one had anticipated what happened next. After hearing my case, this other doctor said that if I was too sick to go to school, then I should be kept for observation to confirm that. Somehow everyone agreed, and when it was my turn, I didn’t know how to disagree. My parents left and my mom came back with some clothes so I could spend the next 72 hours there. At that point, alone with her, I begged her to take me home. I cried and cried and she cried but it felt out of our hands. So she left and left me behind.

Now tears are just pouring down my cheeks as I write, because this experience still breaks my heart. It was completely the wrong call. I was actually re-traumatized in having to be in a hospital and in having my consent taken away. I would like to write more about how I felt while in there, but the whole thing is a blur despite feeling so cutting. The lockdown came to an end and I was switched to an outpatient status. My mom would drive me every morning to make sure I would go. That lasted a month. I don’t know exactly when but at some point my soul retreated deep within me, into a hidden place. Out of harm but also out of reach. Everything became grey, and I stopped trusting everyone. My parents. My new psychiatrist. My old psychiatrist. Myself. The world.

The painfully ironic thing is, their official diagnosis for me was that there was nothing wrong with me. I was depressed, sure, but I wasn’t anorexic, I wasn’t bulimic, I hadn’t actually tried to commit suicide, so my not going to school was just me being temperamental. Which is why they kept me as an outpatient. I was told that I could either go back to school, or stay there. Blackmail by any other name. I dreaded the school so much but I couldn’t take the hospital anymore, so I went back. I finished the year a ghost of myself, eating lunch in bathroom stalls, pretending to be alive. I know that no one intended to harm me, and that everyone had good intentions. But no one actually helped me, and at the end, everyone seemed satisfied with my faking it. No one ever acknowledged how deeply I had been broken. I am still trying to get over this. I’m terrified of losing control like that again. And yeah, this is the third source of my post-traumatic stress disorder.

Everything that happened afterwards is tainted by how locked out of myself I remained after my hospitalization. That’s really the worse thing about it. Once I was out, we never talked about it again. My relationship with my family became fake. I remained in therapy with my old psychiatrist but it was never the same. I would walk through life, doing what was expected of me, feeling dead inside. I switched to a school for dropouts in order to finish my high school degree and even went on to get a college degree but I went through all of it feeling like a fraud. I pushed my truth so deep within me that I lost touch with it.

Admittedly, my time in college almost felt like the real deal. I just wish I hadn’t been plagued with deep feelings of shame and dissociation. And that my entanglement with my family didn’t always take priority over my social life. I did have a few amazing experiences despite my constant struggle with myself. When I was eighteen, I went to an extended language course in another country. For three weeks, I got to be a carefree fun young person. I made friends with a bunch of other misfits and we went out every single night. I ended up having my first romantic sexual experience there. I’m so grateful I got to have a healthy first time. The following year I continued experimenting, but ended up only having affairs with older men. Back in my everyday life, I didn’t really have the context for any usual form of relationships.

When I graduated college, instead of feeling successful, I felt cheated. I was involved in a big project with my mom that became a nightmare to manage. I didn’t know how to navigate it while respecting my own integrity. That summer I went on a long trip by myself and that’s when something in me started becoming unhinged again. I spent three weeks in a big European capital, but slept through most of it. I had a complicated affair that revealed just how desperate I was underneath my facade. When that ended, I traveled aimlessly for a few weeks, feeling how truly lost I was.

Then I went to visit the brother of a family friend. We had met in person the year before, had corresponded, and I knew I liked him. He was older but healthier and kinder than anyone I had ever met. I got to his place and somehow the stars aligned for us. We spent an entire month together. I let him take charge of everything and just dropped into being taken cared of. I told him everything that had ever happened to me. Talking to him is how I learned to talk to myself again. He became my safe place. We’ve actually been together ever since.

The following years were a cacophony of trips and moves that were all about the challenge of individuating from my family so I could have a life of my own. I moved in with my partner, who had relocated in a different city on my side of the ocean. I spent a year there, traveling back and forth, battling the pull of my co-dependency. Every single time I left one place, my fear of loss and my separation anxiety would get triggered. Each goodbye on either side felt like tearing a psychological muscle. I ended up moving back to my hometown for a year, living with roommates but working for my mom again. Then a year later I moved back with my partner so we could move to Europe together. So far away from my old life, I thought maybe I would be free to create something new. But my past kept haunting me, and I felt trapped in old patterns. I became depressed again, unable to participate in life, unable to really function.

We moved back to our American city, renting a room that felt like living at the Chelsea Hotel. The walls were painted bright yellow with a shiny gold fish pattern that looked like wallpaper. It became the jar for the darkest phase of my transformation. That’s when I discovered complex post-traumatic stress disorder and self-diagnosed myself with it. Learning to manage PTSD made the pieces of the puzzle come together. I was supposed to be in that yellow room for three months, but I stayed for three years. The first one disintegrating into my rawest state, the second one incapable of leaving it by myself, and the final one slowly rebuilding myself like a soft shell crab.

And then I moved back to my hometown. Yes, again. I did it completely earnestly, thinking this was my destiny. I needed to be there for my family, for my sister. After a month, I was at the lowest point I have ever been. I wanted to die so badly, the only thing that would calm me down was imagining myself dying. My partner didn’t want to leave me alone for more than a few minutes. I couldn’t ignore the signs that this was absolutely not the right place for me to be. And I had to tell my family. That brought up a pain that felt excruciating. The night before I was set to talk to them, I had the worse panic attack of my life. Funnily enough, when I did tell them, they knew, and they understood. There’s no helping others in denying yourself.

So I left again for my other city, where I still am. It’s been a few years now. I’ve been slowly but surely creating a life for myself there. This process got a booster shot a couple of years ago, when something I have dreaded all my life almost happened. My sister needed to get a pacemaker for her heart and during the procedure the anesthesia needle pierced one of her lungs. They didn’t realize it right away, so she went home but became very ill as her lung collapsed. It all happened very quickly. I knew her surgery had gone well and yet the next day I woke up with a terrible feeling. A few hours later my dad called, my sister was in the emergency room. I traveled the many hours that separate us in a night bus, sleepless. A strange feeling came over me as I watched the landscape pass me by. I have spent my entire life getting ready for this. Most people who have my sister’s syndrome die as kids and none are older than fifty. I have worked my ass off to develop the maturity to be able to live with this reality. And here I was, this was it, I was going to have to say goodbye to her. That’s the moment I realized, if she dies, I am not going to die. That’s the moment I realized that I can be ok with that. I have found enough reasons to live, I have become enough of my own person, that I know I will figure out a way to outlive her.

But her story isn’t over, and she didn’t die. When I got there, her lung was being restored and I watched her skin go from grey back to her beautiful mocha. My sister is extremely resilient, she’s already gone through more than most people ever will. She bounced back like a champ, walking out of the hospital on her own two feet a few days later. I followed her example and went back to my life. A week later I got sick, the stress having taken its toll. My stomach would hurt all the time, but something about it felt right. I started to feel my insides again, whereas before I couldn’t feel a thing. It was like being thawed unfrozen. I had to take care of myself and, for the first time, I actually could. So I nursed myself back to health, from what seemed like a lifetime of sickness. I lost fifty pounds in the process. I felt more like myself than ever before. I felt like I could finally love myself. That’s when my project started. And that’s where the timeline bridges to now.

So, this is it, my hero’s journey. The way I cried while writing it shows me how necessary it was for me to go there. This was the next step I needed to take. I have suffered a lot in my life from feeling like no one could understand me. Feeling trapped because I didn’t know how to show the people around me who I was. This is an attempt at rectifying that. To own my story, to reclaim my past. Now that this is out there, I feel like I can write about anything I want. And now that this is out there, I feel like I don’t have to care anymore about what anyone thinks. Everything that happened to me isn’t cause for shame, it’s cause for pride. My odyssey already has many chapters, but that’s exactly how I made it here.

On radical acceptance

I tracked down the article on Marsha M. Linehan and radical acceptance:

Expert on Mental Illness Reveals Her Own Fight
By Benedict Carey

Withholding love is not the way to solve suffering. Being harsh on yourself does not drive positive change, it causes pain. And pain sucks, and pain kills.

I am still trying to accept myself unconditionally. It’s a damn hard practice. But a worthy one. I want to remember to choose the carrot, not the stick. I’ve already hurt myself so much. The time to love myself has come.

This article was one of my first exposure to these ideas. I am so grateful it landed on my path when it did. The date published tells me I read this 6 years ago. At the time, I felt like I didn’t know how to live, and I wanted to die every day.  If I look at me now, I see how much I’ve changed. I credit this to having learned how to be loving to myself. And I know, this is how I want to continue…

On late night update 

I got a cold. It feels like my body is burning through something. That may or may not be the case, but I sure wish it to be. I wish for my body to burn through all the fears holding me back, all the hesitations keeping me tottering…

On another note, Vimeo got me back into my account. Except they wiped it completely clean. Plus, I noticed that my main profile page is still not working, so I’m holding off on re-uploading until they tell me they can fix it. At this point though, I have no qualms starting a new account if I need to. Everything I wanted to keep is gone. 

Grieving what I lost. I have written about this before, but this is quite the persistent topic isn’t it? Beyond the connections and interactions, the main thing I lost here is continuity. The feeling that I started something and kept it alive. Failing at that reminds me of all the relationships and opportunities I have left to die. The many times I have fallen out of steps and went hiding under my bed instead of figuring out how to get back into the rhythm. I try to convince myself that time underneath my bed is part of my rhythm, but that seems to speak mostly of my guilt about it. 

I guess I wanted this experience to be the one that absolves me of previous failings. As if that one new plant could make up for all the others that withered and died under my watch. Hmm, all this dramatic talk is pointing to an even bigger issue here. Life and death, the main deal echoed in the smaller parts. Like freakin fractals again (there’s been a lot of fractals talks in my head lately). Yeah, that would make more sense when measuring the scope of my reaction. Because I’m acting all calm and collected about it, but being truly upset is the real reason it took me 6 months to get over Vimeo kicking me out. 

You know what this reminds me of? Radical acceptance. I first heard about that from a great article on Marsha M. Linehan and DBT (dialectical behavior therapy). The idea of radical acceptance, and then later of radical forgiveness, is what helped me get over self-abusive episodes. Because trying to metaphorically beat yourself up over actually beating yourself up just doesn’t work. The only way out is the way through, in accepting that you did this and forgiving yourself for it. But it definitely takes the radical kind for it to work.

Radically accept and forgive yourself, no matter what happens. There’s so much that is not in our control in this world, but that’s one of the thing that actually is. It’s just mighty hard to do. Btw, a synonym and companion to this is love. Loving yourself no matter what happens is definitely one of the most radical thing I can think of. May the love be with you. 

On side notes

I went to an acupuncturist this weekend for my period issues. I ended up telling her my whole life story, which felt so liberating. That might explain why I suddenly feel the urge to tell my story here too. It was interesting, she told me that her chief concern in her work on me was “moving and building”. She was talking about actual blood, but that phrase stuck with me. I think moving and building is exactly what I need on all levels. Moving the old and building the new. Writing about what happened to me feels like a relevant way to move the old, so that I can build more new.

But first, a few side notes on process:

1. What happened to me is not who I am, it is the road on which I have traveled. I don’t identify with my story, it’s just the background from which I emerge. I was I before anything happened and I will remain I no matter what happens. Of course, the events of our lives informs how we behave, what we believe is possible, how we see ourselves, etc etc. If I thought it all meant nothing, I wouldn’t feel the need to talk about it. But I want to be clear on the distinction before I begin, because it’s easy to mistake yourself for the road. I have been there before, and that’s exactly when I felt like a victim to my circumstances, and though that was an important stage, I’m looking for the next stage. The one where I can tell anyone what’s happened without falling apart, because I am firmly rooted in being myself, and nothing can knock me down from the truth of who I am.

2. Perspective is not an objective truth, it’s a moving target. Ask me again in half an hour, and I will have a different story. My mood, the weather, what is happening right now are all going to influence how I tell the story. I know, because the story has been changing ever since I started telling it. Actually, telling it is what helps it change. It’s a huge part of the digesting process. Making sense of, assigning meaning, untangling emotions, freeing yourself from their effects. Storytelling is more than just art, it’s a powerful healing channel. (well, we could get into the conversation that all art is healing, but let’s stay focused here.) So, I’m going tell my story this way now, and reserve the right to tell it differently later. Because that’s just how it works, thank heavens.

3. We all have a story, and we all go through different things. Sometimes we go through the same things, and then our responses are what’s different. The point is, comparison is pointless. I learned this lesson very early in life, when I realized that pain is pain, and joy is joy, and any attempt at ranking them is a waste of time. There is no reason to think that my pain is bigger than yours, that your joy is bigger than mine. I’m not telling the events of my life to position myself on some hierarchy of suffering. First, I don’t believe in hierarchy. Second, pain and joy is what we have in common, not what separates us. Also, I’m not looking to be pitied, rescued or condemned, and I am not intending to shock, distress or mystify. I’m just sharing openly, hoping to be received freely.

Alright, I think that covers it. Time to sharpen my pencil.

On waiting

So I did hear from Vimeo, from someone at entry level a few hours after my inquiry, and then the following day from someone at Trust & Safety. Both only asked about the email address linked to my profile. I responded immediately but heard nothing since. 

I fear that the account might have been deleted and be unretrievable. It’s been so many months now. That’s a stick I just want to pick up to beat myself with. How on earth did I let this slide for so long? Now it’s my fault, I’m the one to blame for all the lost messages and comments… (Oh the habit of self bashing, such a hard one to kick.)

But maybe I’m wrong, and maybe they just don’t know how to handle my case. If that’s true though, I wish they would freakin let me know. Something as simple as a “we are reviewing your request, hang tight”. But maybe there’s nothing to review and they really don’t want to have anything to do with me. If that’s the case, then I really wish they would let me know. So that I can grieve and move on. Here my paranoid side is waking up, whispering that maybe their policy is to give the silent treatment to those who have violated the guidelines, because that’s a very effective way to shame them…

Wow, I’m really doing such a bad job at handling this emotionally. (Even the way this sentence is phrased shows how I’m stuck in a negative brain state.) I need to figure my way out of this. Re-empower myself. I do not want to be a victim. 

The truth is, I’m very triggered by this situation. I want to explain why but talking about my traumas is not something I’m good at. I’ve worked hard at making peace with them and yet it all still feels so raw, like I can’t even open my lungs enough to breathe deeply right now… 

There’s a gigantic context to this, one that would take many posts to describe. It involves my family going through several waves of intense stress, which led to a place of such exhaustion that it turned into temporary insanity. It happens, when adults mean well but are at the end of their ropes, and wrong calls end up being made. It’s what happened to me at 15, when I was misdiagnosed and involuntarily hospitalized. I spent 72 hours in lockdown and then 2 months as an inpatient. I do not have the capacity to tell the whole story at the moment, but I want to free myself by at least saying it out loud. I think it’s because I feel like my actions, and especially my inaction, are very hard to understand. When someone doesn’t make sense to us, we often think “what’s wrong with them?” But really, the more pertinent question is always, “what happened to them?”

A lot of things have happened to me. It still makes me act in ways that seem erratic and incomprehensible. It still makes me act in ways that make me hate myself, because even though I understand why, I wish I was free to act differently. I blame myself for not being there yet. (I know, I’m very hard on myself.)

I have dedicated the last decade of my life to finding my way to being a whole and healthy person. It’s been a slow and painful process, but I have already become more than I ever could have dreamed for when I first started. Oh man, I’m crying again… Well, like I always say, tears is how I know I’m telling the truth. Hopefully this will read as the truth too, and not just as the ramblings of a crazy person. (Yup, this subject makes me incredibly vulnerable…)

To those who are concerned about my well being, please don’t worry, I’m ok. I actually think that sharing my story will help me. So thank you for listening, and thank you for being patient with me. 

On my day

For the first time since November, I made a new video. One that I would like to upload on Vimeo. If I could.

Fluttering around my heart, cheeks on fire, breath caught. It’s been so long now, it’s too late, I fucked up, I failed. Wanting to have nothing to do with this. Need to do anything but deal with this. Oh, wait a minute, I know what this is. Avoidance. Shoot, try to remember what to do with avoidance. Love. Right, easy. Love love love. I can still love myself. I can still love myself no matter what happens. I can love myself so much that I don’t need to flee from this. I can stay right here with it. Breathe out. Breathe in. Action. Action is love too. Ok, I can do this.

I will call them. I’ve been wanting to all this time. Open computer, get to page Contact us. Fuck, I can’t call them. Vimeo does not have a number. Ok, no problem, so I will write to them. Again. Don’t assume this is over. Don’t give up. Let’s try this one more time.

Dear Vimeo,

My account was removed in November 2016. I wrote back to you twice right after that but never heard back. My account had also been removed back in July but then had been re-instated after videos that were violating the guidelines were taken off. I had tried to stay within what I understood was acceptable but the removal in November tells me I didn’t and for that I am sorry. It took me this long to find the courage to contact you again in hope of getting a response. 

I understand that Vimeo does not have a responsibility to interact with me, it would just mean so much to me if I could resolve this experience in a more open way. In an ideal world, I would like for my account to be re-instated like it was in July, this time with all videos containing nudity removed. I can find another platform for those, but I would love to stay on Vimeo for my other work, which really is about existing in the world. I realize I could just start a new account for those, but I haven’t because the relationship I have with my original account has become part of my project. 

On that note, if you choose not to reinstate my account, I would like to know if it is possible to retrieve the statistics and mostly the messages from the account, as they are meaningful to my project. 

I realize that I have failed Vimeo’s guidelines and that may be why you have chosen to stop interacting with me. But I am a human being and this experience has, and still is impacting me on an emotional level. I would so appreciate an answer, even if only to tell me to stop writing to you. 

Thank you very much for your time and understanding.

Rain Robert

Tears dropping on the keyboard. I guess I’d become numb to how much this is still affecting me.

Plan A. Get my account back. Because of the followers, of course, and the stats, but also the comments, the history. And the messages, the miracle of human interactions. This MEANS something to my project. This means something to ME. I want it back. I won’t ever use it again for anything that even resembles a reference to sexuality, but I want it back anyway.

Plan B. Vimeo keeps ghosting me. I can’t control what I can’t control. Did my best gotta leave the rest. Start new account, start fresh.

Wow. What a day.

On I don’t know how to call this post

All that I want. All that I don’t want. Stuck between a rock and hard place. So much fear swirling inside, liquid paralysis. Fear of doing. Fear of not doing. Conflict all the way down to the cellular level. And all the ways that I blame myself. The more I hide the more I wait the more I can’t. Breaking down left and right just to prove my point. Desiring drying down to wishing dying down to wasting…

Why is it so much easier to write about my negativity? Because that’s a story I know, a story I feel safe with. Bad Rain. So so bad. So so sad. Oh so easy to tell. Now the story of how I reach out beyond, that’s still new, still foreign, and still oh so scary. 

The minute I stop loving myself, I lose this project. Love. Cause that’s where this project comes from. That’s why it was good for me. That’s how it meant something. All these weeks, months now that I’ve been asking myself, how do I get back, how do I start again? But not being able to because I just don’t know how to love myself at the moment. And keeping thinking that I need to do the one thing that will make me love myself again, the one thing that I can’t do until I love myself again…

Oh fuck, I just saw it clearly. It wasn’t in my consciousness before but it’s right there in the words. Two mirrors looking at themselves, searching for the light that shines on the other side of their blackened glass. There’s infinite light all around me yet I am lost in myself, looking for a match and a candle…