as I sit here
inner hags and life commentators
Football season is in full swing and we’re watching and cheering on the Vikings with the in-laws each Sunday. Typically, we mute the commercials and half time to go refill our plates with more snacks. Lately, I’ve caught more of the commentary between plays and the rare moments when we’ve forgotten to mute half time.
As I sit here today, right now, at this moment… I feel like I’m both the player and the commentator of my life.
“Well folks, she’s at it again! Bursting with energy and excitement, she’s entering her day full steam ahead!”
“Ope. It appears there’s a small malfunction with the strategy. It seems the four-wheeler has a flat tire and that was not part of the plan. How will she handle it? Stay with us after the break to find out!”
Lately, I’ve spent more days than I care to admit asking myself, “Am I still feeling depressed?”
I’m out and about and doing all the things.
Because that is the way I’ve designed my life.
I launched myself into a freelance business where I support other business owners, and taking a chunk of time off really isn’t an option.
The well-intentioned, “just take a day.” suggestions have been heard, and I hate to break it to y’all, this depression is more than one day can solve.
It’s deep.
It’s violent.
It’s unpredictable.
It’s exhausting.
Being an intellectualizer that’s been doing inner work to actually feel my feelings for almost a decade now, I can see and understand why I’m feeling the way I feel.
After decades of ignoring my emotions and learning how to function in a society that doesn’t make space for the human experience, I’m also an expert at disconnecting from my inner world. Out of both necessity and protection.
I’m big mad that I know what’s happening in my brain behind the scenes, because I can’t think my way out of depression. I went back to therapy this last spring because I had things bubbling up that I needed help with. I dove back into EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) and had been uncovering the parts of me that were stuck in the past. I haven’t finished this work, I stopped half way through because my nervous system was hijacked and my body isn’t going to tolerate doing EMDR work right now.
What a mindf*ck to be depressed with pockets of trauma re-opened waiting to be processed.
In July, I wrote about my intentions to not go numb or become calloused. The inner critic in me has been eager to remind me of that these days.
“Remember, you committed to the world.”
I imagine my inner critic looks like the hag from the forest in Snow White. You know, the one that gives her the poison apple. I’m sure this visual comes to mind because I’ve frequently compared the absolute pastiness of my skin tone to Snow White. Plus, now I live in the woods and sing to all the animals in my life.
Whether it’s understanding the inner hag is a liar, feeling uncomfortable from the pressure of accountability or the terror of uncovering the shame she’s a symptom of, I don’t know.
But since she showed up, I proceeded to disconnect from my inner world because that’s easier than asking why there’s shame there.
Tears
A tear rolled down my cheek today and it had a very round feeling to it.
What I mean by that is that the tear itself was smooth as it very quickly rolled down my skin and into my lap. Some tears are gritty, almost like they’re made of velcro and they stick to my pores as if to rehydrate my face.
But today, the tear was soft and round and smooth and it quickly fell with the pull of gravity.
I count it as a win that I’ve begun to understand the difference in the way the tears feel when they roll down my cheeks.
A week or so ago, my eyes welled with tears as a friend shared with me that they’re expecting. I know how much this woman has yearned to be a momma to a lil babe, and this moment was joyous and celebratory. My tears felt light and dry. Strange as it sounds, the tears felt dry in the sense that they wouldn’t leave a trail on my skin because each droplet is so eager to spill off my eyelash line.
Yet today, as I held my breath and hoped that the tears would recede, I could see the reflection of the road off the curve of the droplet building on the rim of my lower eyelid. And these tears felt different. They felt heavier and fresh, thick like when blood slowly flows out of a small, but damning wound.
I’ve been no-contact with my dad for several years. We’ve had moments where some communication has taken place, but for most of the last five years, we haven’t been in a relationship with one another.
I spent most of my life learning to assimilate and do as told. Rules had a purpose, and we had to follow them. I learned how to please others, attune my senses to how other people were feeling and how to play the part I was given. I was rewarded when I did things well, and it became the expectation I quickly applied to myself in the form of perfectionism.
I look back and think I started questioning why I was doing whatever I was doing, during my first marriage. Although there is a mile long scroll of reasons my first marriage ended, one of them is that I started shedding the masks I had been wearing and letting go of characters I was told to play.
I started writing a book right after I got divorced; #SingleLife, and in the best twist of events, that season of my life wasn’t long enough to constitute writing a whole book about single-hood. But there are parts of what I have written that will absolutely make it into the book I’m planning to release before the end of 2026. (Another commitment for the inner hag to remind me about later.)
One of the things I wrote about was the idea of looking at my future like it was a “blank white canvas.” I expressed how I had so much power to determine what that canvas was going to look like with each next decision. I was curious and hungry for new things, experiences, foods, ideas, relationships and more.
Asking questions and getting curious can be dangerous to an identity that’s born from decades of “good girl” character development.
When I started breaking down the layers of who I had become to uncover who I wanted to be, I was in the process of changing. Expanding in some ways and contracting in others.
My relationship with my dad didn’t change though. If I brought up a different idea, I was dismissed. If I expressed how I was feeling about going through something hard in my life, I was told to just pray about it.
When my ex-husband was laid off from his job (again), I remember crying into the phone with my dad on the other end. I leaned my forehead against the window overlooking the front yard and slid down to my knees on the floor listening as he said something along the lines of knowing we’d figure it out.
I always had parents that believed I could do anything and taught me a work ethic to match.
I didn’t have parents that provided empathy or left space for big feelings.
And if you haven’t been around my writing long enough, you’ll soon learn I have big feelings a LOT.
When I began accepting that I was a big feeling person and started expressing more of how I felt, it created uncomfortable conversations that often left me feeling hurt.
Apologies were always given, but behavior never changed.
At some point, the definition of insanity repeatedly played in my mind and I had to choose something different.
So I explained that I couldn’t maintain the relationship with my dad without a third party, like a therapist involved. And if that wasn’t an option for him, well then he could follow me on social media and see what I share with the rest of the world.
He followed me on Instagram the next day.
We attempted therapy last summer and needless to say, it didn’t go well. It’s actually a large part of why I went back to therapy on my own this past spring. Because I had worked really hard to heal the wounds of my relationship with my dad and how things ended, and when he came back out of the woodwork, I took a jagged blade and cut my scars open to bleed out all over again. Returning to therapy is part of the process to stitch myself back up… again.
In September, I hoped he would keep his distance and recognize that confronting or approaching me at his granddaughter’s wedding wouldn’t be the time or place since we haven’t spoken since he quit therapy.
Alas, my hope was misplaced and the interaction has had reverberating impacts on my physical and mental wellbeing.
For years I’ve been trying to explain and express that I don’t feel seen as who I really am. I don’t feel heard or that my needs, desires or thoughts are allowed unless they mirror his. I haven’t felt safe to express my needs or feelings without fear of repercussions or bullying.
I finally removed myself from the environments where I’ve felt unsafe.
And it’s devastating to admit that I got better.
My mindsets were shifting and my inner dialogue had defaulted to positive, a first for me.
I was feeling my feelings as they came up and allowing myself to take up space.
I remember last year just one month before my dad reached out about therapy, I helped someone out with some research for a book. One of the questions they asked was if I loved myself and I replied with a resounding, “Yes!” The interviewer smiled and shared that I was the first person they interviewed that said yes without hesitation.
But when therapy with my dad didn’t work out just a few months later, the inner hag started up again with her harsh critiques that make me question whether I really do love myself after all;
“You’re a selfish child.”
“Something is wrong with you.”
“But he’s your father.”
In September, I felt like I was being asked to perform again. The sensation of muscle memory kicked in and the bells indicating I should go with whatever is asked of me, were loudly clanging in my mind. Within a matter of seconds, like an out-of-body experience, I overrode my cellular memory and firmly spoke my rehearsed line, “I’m not interested.” as I put my hands up in front of my chest to indicate I wasn’t open for a hug.
His wife put her arms around me anyway.
I walked away.
He unfollowed me on Instagram the next day.
I am so proud of myself for not contorting myself to fit back into a box of doing what I think is expected of me.
I am so proud of myself for preparing for this interaction even if I hoped it wouldn’t have happened.
I am so proud of myself for breathing my way out of that panic attack and walking back into the reception to toast my niece on her big day.
and
I am so torn apart because my big ole feelings built a residence the inner hag has moved into without an end date on her lease. The cement footings of her new home were poured close to my frontal lobe and she’s got opinions and no hesitation to share them;
“You’re such a problem. You couldn’t just go along with it and make nice? Now you’ll never have a family again.”
“If your family can’t even respect you, what makes you think you’re worthy of respect at all?”
“You’ve never belonged and they never wanted you.”
As I sit here and reflect on the last two months, I’d summarize them with one word: “Accomplishment.” Events attended, friendships maintained, work deadlines met, chores completed all while navigating an abundant season of transitions.
The question, “am I still depressed?”, crosses my mind again and I check for the connection with my inner world.
The pulsing beat of rage floods my chest.
Gurgling like lava ready to slowly boil over the edge and apathetically destroy everything in its path.
I’m keeping the inner world disconnected because feeling that pulsing beat of rage just might overtake me.
I spent a large portion of my 20s angry, and I know how sweet a mistress that anger can be.
I don’t want to be that version of myself again.
But one day soon, I’m going to have to let it out.
I’m buying time and space to make that happen after this abundant season of transitions.
I’m anxious about doing the work, but eager to do it all at once.
I’m currently regulating and finding balance through self-validation and compassion.
It’s soothing.
It’s calm.
It’s safe.
It’s exhausting.
Talking to myself
Well that was an unexpected shift to the day and you handled it so well.
It was really scary. I saw the tears falling down your cheek.
I saw you trying really hard to hold it together.
I saw the cracks in your lip as it quivered and that you just wanted to let the flood of emotions come tumbling out, but you took a deep breath, swallowed it down and put on a brave face.
My dear.
My darling.
My precious little self.
You don’t have to do that anymore.
I’m here with you.
I know you think that’s the only option because you’ve been told how dramatic and ‘too much’ you are for so long, but you are none of those things.
You are human, living a life that has brought about the feeling of being scared.
I’m so sorry you weren’t allowed to be scared.
You really did master the art of doing your research, being prepared and organized and knowing every angle of each situation or circumstance.
You don’t have to do that anymore.
You don’t have to be put together or have it all figured out.
You can show up messy.
People like when you do that because it reminds them that they are not alone in their human-ness.
You don’t have to put on a show for anyone.
You just need to be yourself and show up, even if it’s messy
Take a breath.
You’re okay, and it’s okay to feel scared.
That was really scary.
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.
You’re okay.
I’ve got you.
“Welcome back to the Life of Adrianne broadcast, friends. During the break she took a power walk, then filled the four-wheeler tire before she hooked up the wood cart to move a couple loads of firewood to the house. There was a brief moment where she debated on driving to the liquor store for a bottle of tequila, but it seems she’s back on track now and we’re looking at another bright day ahead.”
❤️❤️❤️
Proud of you for sharing all of this. You’re such a helpful model for us for dealing with our inner hags.