If you have found yourself stumbling on my blog, the first thing I want you to know is that I have no idea what I’m doing. The second thing I want to share with you, in an attempt to tease out my own narrative from others, is MY story.

After almost 3 decades of dissociation, I am exhausted.

It’s not a matter of whether or not I want to be the “bubbly, outgoing” Mrs. Sunshine anymore.

Because trust me, I do

—that “facet” of me is far more…personable. It’s more cheerful & loveable.

The problem is that no matter how hard I try, I simply CANNOT maintain it any longer.  I have lost my ability to dissociate.

I have been “too strong” for “too long”.

It’s ironic, though, because I’ve never felt weaker.

My “functionality” if measured by productivity and performance has plummeted severely, and yet–mental health professionals seem to agree that this is the “best” I’ve been doing in decades.

Why?

Because after decades, I have started to FEEL again.

“In my 40 years of practice,” an esteemed psychiatrist stated, “your case is one of the most compelling and confounding cases I’ve encountered.”

“With the intensity and frequency of traumas that you have experienced, I would expect you to be curled up in a mental health facility for life—probably, on the verge of psychosis.”  

To them, “these darker components” of me are completely congruent with the horrific experiences I’ve gone through.

The problem, they declare IS the façade.

That ditzy, bubbly, “happy-go-lucky” persona does not accurately reflect the life I’ve lived; It does not reveal the struggles I face or do justice in celebrating the adversities I’ve overcome.

For so long, I viewed my ability to get everything “done” in a tormenting environment as my greatest strength. Being able to “detach myself from my feelings” has been the key to all my successes.

Or so I thought.

When we cut ourselves off from our “feelings”, we aren’t just blocking out the negative emotions; We, inadvertently, also lock our hearts from experiencing joy, intimacy, love, and connection.

It isn’t normal to get beaten brutally at 5 am, letting myself cry for about 5 minutes, and then forcing myself to shut down and “get my sh*t together”.

I remember walking to the library in the early hours of the morning, completely numb–absolutely oblivious to what had just happened. I studied for a few hours—only to arrive at my 8 am organic chemistry class to ace exam after exam.

It’s as nothing even happened. I didn’t feel pain. I didn’t feel sad. I didn’t feel at all.

I remember noticing the odd glances, the hushed whispers, and the puzzled expressions of my classmates, as I pranced into the auditorium covered in bruises.

At the time, I thought there was something wrong with everyone else. Why were they staring at me?

The day of my final exam was no different. I walked in at 8 am; I recall my professor pulling me aside; I remember studying him curiously as he tried not to glare at the blue-black bruises that were now forming around my eye sockets.

He empathically offered to arrange for me to take the exam another day, however, just like every other time, I resisted his offer. Instead, I marched vehemently to my seat to ace the exam.

& I did. I graduated with summa cum laude; what i didn’t realize was that the cost of those “perfect 4.0’s” would eventually catch up to me.

You see…my professor had seen me throughout the year, pulling off these dissociative stunts nearly every week.

& as the semester continued, his growing suspicions became more and more plausible. It is saddening now as I think about it–

— because I know that he “knew” what was going on. His hands were tied because I denied everything.

Every week, it was a new excuse, “oh I ran into a blunt tree branch because I wasn’t looking”, “I accidentally fell and hit my cheekbones against the console”, “Besides, I have anemia and tend to bruise really easily..”

“It’s really nothing” I said over and over again–until I accidentally started believing it.

In retrospect, I think ANYONE with half a brain probably “knew” what was going on at the time.

The problem was that I had shunned that “half of MY brain” deep into ignorant oblivion.

Recently…I’ve realized I’m doing something similar again.

I’ve been utilizing my social media platforms as a way to convince MYSELF that I’m “okay”.

Maybe if I just manufacture a life that FEELS good on Instagram, I might feel “okay”….

However, the truth is… I am not okay.

I don’t think I’ve ever experienced what “okay” actually feels like…

 I haven’t been even close to being “okay” for the last 7 months.

 I haven’t driven my car in 7 months because I’m terrified.

I haven’t gone to a single modeling shoot in 7 months.

I haven’t applied to a single casting call in 7 months.

I’ve barely left the house for 7 months.

I haven’t hung out with anyone I consider a friend for 7 months.

I’ve finally crashed.

What I HAVE done in the last 7 months is hide behind my phone –

I’ve wasted countless hours laboring over Instagram algorithms, hashtags, and engagement strategies in an attempt to gain external validation from all of you because I loathe myself.

I dove headfirst into trying to portray a life that “looked good” on the surface because, in my heart of hearts, I felt so hopeless, sad, and repulsed by myself.

— but what I’ve noticed is…

…the more adamant I become about my attempts to “fake it”, the more drained, lost, and depleted I feel at the end of the day.   

And the vicious cycle of distracting myself from the self-hatred goes on and on.

The truth is…

that through social media, I was being inauthentic with myself…with God…and with all of you.

& it’s ironic because in my heart of hearts, I truly believe that connection and community are byproducts of authenticity and vulnerability—two things I am fatally afraid of actually practicing.

Despite how much I crave connection and belonging, I haven’t allowed myself to be vulnerable or authentic—in a very long time.

In my adolescent days, when I did practice vulnerability–when I did truly let someone in— I nearly lost my life to their abuse.

However, advanced medicine and meticulously trained doctors helped revive & restore my physical body to health.

But who do you go to help you revive your soul? How do you restore someone’s sense of safety in the world after it’s been taken away?

The truth is…I had stopped “living” long before my heart ever gave out.

I don’t know where to begin my story.

I haven’t come up with a strategy to tell it. There is no rhyme or reason.

& for the first time, there are no angles.

I don’t even know if sharing the ENTIRETY of all the horrific details surrounding these incidents is even helpful to me or you.  

I don’t want to trigger you or re-traumatize me.

& these blog posts take a lot out of me.

Honestly, I don’t know much at all right now.

What I DO know is—I have to start somewhere.

I have to start— because I want to live.

I want to connect.

I want to move and be moved by people.

I want to feel like I’m worthy enough to take space in this world.

I want to feel like I’m worthy of being Ayrah’s mother.

I know that I eventually want to use my experiences to help elucidate the hope, resilience, and relentless will to survive that lies dormant within each of us.

How curious it is that the words of a stranger online—some that I’ve never even met—help to feel more understood than some of my closest confidantes.

I posted, authentically, for the first time on Instagram a few days ago—

& the responses I received from you all—your messages glowing with genuine care—

I cant disregard or downplay how much they meant to me.

They bring me to tears even now.

How is it that mere acquaintances and even strangers can communicate such a piercingly deep empathy for another?

And what’s more confounding is that they can do it over an impersonal digital platform.

What a puzzling and powerful world we live in…

So…for those of you who are willing to walk alongside me in this journey…

Please know that it is going to be the furthest thing from perfect; In fact, it’s probably going to be a very messy ride.

I wanted to thank YOU

For caring. For existing. For reaching out.

–for helping me get to a point where I am willing to myself be seen.

If there is one thing I want to make abundantly clear through my blog, it’s this—

The EFFECT that even ONE person, like you, can have on another’s life is immeasurable.

Your responses led me to question the unchallenged abusive & demeaning narratives I’ve been repeating to myself for years.

Because…

WHAT IF those people were wrong?

What if I do share myself openly with you—with the world—and I discover that I AM actually worthy of love and belonging?

What if I hush the voices that tell me that I will be rejected, ostracized, and ridiculed again just long enough to be seen for who I am?

Even though, this may be the scariest endeavor of my life—

What if, to my surprise, I find that the world loves me back just as deeply as I love it?

What if all the “sunshine” I’ve tried to sprinkle in the lives of so many is finally returned to me?

What if I’m not a waste of space? Or a burden to this earth?

What if I’m not “damaged goods” that no one will want after being raped?

And the biggest “What if?”

What if there ISN’T anything inherently wrong with me?

Or even better—

What if there is SO much wrong with me…

— & yet still, I am met with acceptance & love despite my numerous imperfections.

Here is to having enough courage to wonder….

What if…?