I Am Not Okay

A confession from the battlefield inside my head.

I wrote this in my phone Notes on September 7th (while I was questioning my worth as a person… a writer…). And since I started this Substack to “heal out loud”, here I am. Loud. Not necessarily feeling proud.

Although I have moved on from this thinking, someone out there may still need to hear something of this. And so… here it goes.

I am not okay.

I feel overwhelmed most of the time.

And when it comes to my writing… I usually wait until I’m “better,” until I can slap a little happy on top of the mess.

Because who wants to see this side of life? No one, right? That’s what I’ve been trained to believe. Keep the emotions out. Lead with logic. Stop making decisions with your heart.

But my brain has always been a slave to my heart. What disorder is that called?

Yes, there’s been positive traction in my life. A lot, actually.

But with every step forward, there are always setbacks. Always tests. Always opportunities to respond in a “more healed” way.

And that’s where I get hung up on that wording… more healed.

Not all the way. Not even close.

Writing has been hard lately. Because writing means opening the gates. It means accessing my emotions, my heart, my reality.

And when the walls are already up, it takes time to bring them down. Until then, I’m in the middle of a personal awar.

I’ve carried so much shame. Not being a good daughter. Or sister. Or cousin, aunt, niece, granddaughter, friend. Not the best “wife” or stepmom. Not even the mom I always dreamed I’d be.

Instead, I live in this delusional world in my head. And not the kind that manifests beauty and magic. I’m trying for that, yes, but the world that I’m coming from was made of terror. Abandonment. Judgment. Loneliness. Brainwashing. Poison.

My brain was wired in survival mode. Knowing why doesn’t magically fix it. I still react like I’m fighting for my life in every single conflict, no matter how small.

And yet… when I step outside of myself, I do see how much good surrounds me now.

Parents who love me, though they’ve taken the brunt of my adult temper tantrums.
Children who are healthy, strong, intelligent, and listening.
A partner who would give me the world if he could… if I would let him.
Friends I can bare my soul to.
Animals who worship me like I hung the moon.

And time. Time to not struggle financially. Time to play with my passions, to figure out how to make a difference. Time, which is the rarest gift of all.

But it doesn’t always feel like a gift. Because my brain is still wired for disaster.

I’ve done so much work to get here, and I want to enjoy this beautiful existence, but I don’t know how to move forward when the overwhelm blinds me. I’ve built rigid boundaries… maybe too rigid. Is it time to soften? To lighten up?

How does one give themselves a break?

My emotional cup is always overflowing. I was able to empty some of it for the first time in decades. But it fills again so quickly, and I realize I still have so much work to do.

Starting to write my truth was a huge growth moment. And it continues to pull forward parts of me that need to be faced. It forces me to see all that I could miss if I don’t learn a new response.

You know what doesn’t help? Being 45. The hormones. The exhaustion.
And my communication skills… wrecked by years of survival… leave me with so little energy to give a fuck.

This writing is just a snapshot of the battlefield inside my head. I want to be the good daughter… and I also don’t.

Good daughters send birthday presents, at least cards. I don’t. Barely anything for my mom. Nothing for my dad, my stepmom, my brothers, my niece. And before you think I’m the only one, let me be clear: it’s not just me. My family doesn’t do this for each other either.

Except my stepmom. She still sends Christmas cards every year, the smiling faces of my dad’s family printed on glossy paper. I haven’t sent a Christmas card in over a decade. I don’t even celebrate the holiday anymore. It wasn’t about hate; it was financial strain, spiritual misalignment, and mental overwhelm.

But maybe… maybe I can start? A card here. A text there. Something?

And yet even that thought feels overwhelming. I can barely manage my kids’ birthdays.

So here I am. Writing it all out. The truth of it.

I wish someone could help me with my brain.

— AudraHealing out loud, so you don't have to heal in silence.