I really, REALLY hate giving advice. For two reasons.

One: I don’t know shit.
Two: People typically already know what they need to do—they just need someone wise enough who can shut up and listen while they sort it all out.

But, I feel oddly compelled in this moment to write about what has genuinely helped me over this past (almost) year. I’m thinking of it more like wisdom from the depths of despair than an advice column. At least that’s what I’m telling myself in order to hit publish.

I have heard from readers and friends over the past months who feel my experiences resonate with them, or they’ve connected with something I’ve written. So, in a way, this post would be a CliffsNotes version, a gift to you so you don’t have to wade through all the previous bullshit. You’re welcome.

Lately I’ve been experimenting with writing in its different forms. That said, bear with me today. If this isn’t your vibe, it’s cool. I’ll find you next time. Just skip this one.

If you are up for some stupid little tidbits I’ve collected or are dealing with some mind-blowing chaos, read on. There’s only five pieces of advice because, well, maybe I only know five things.

1. In October of last year I kept asking my therapist, “when will I get better?”. She patiently told me, every single time, that there’s no timeline for healing. I wanted to rush to the part of my story where I was me again. I craved peace. In the midst of my giant breakdown, people kept saying things, like, “oh, it’s going to get better, don’t worry.” Let me just say, that’s a very painful thing to hear when you are super depressed. A well-meaning person has just steam rolled over your experience and ignored where you are right now. We like a happy ending, but toxic positivity, is, well, toxic. I would have wanted those same people to tell me everything is royally fucked while they cleaned my house and fed me french fries. Don’t talk to me about some murky future I can’t see right now. If I could go back, I would be very clear about what I needed. I’d ask for those people to sit with me in the darkness instead of fast forwarding through my trauma.

2. Don’t you dare look further than one hour ahead. It’s dark and scary af to even consider tomorrow or the day after when you are going through trauma. I often asked myself, “What do I need to make it through the next hour?” and then went from there. It’s simply the only way to make it through the day in my opinion.

3. Therapy forever and ever. Amen. Virtual. In-person. Whatever. Make it happen. Or, if you are like me, make someone else find a therapist for you.

4. Give your mind a rest, even if it’s just a few minutes a day. When you are in an extreme situation, the mind is a haunted house. You’ll need a break. For me, I plunged into icy waters, tried to play piano, ran while blasting music and forced myself to do 30 days of yoga in a row. It could be any activity where you are so focused on one thing, everything else gets quiet. Find out what it is for you and keep at it. Or, find me, and we’ll jump through the ice together.

5. Hang out with people even when it’s the actual last thing you want to do. There were times when I was so depressed I wanted to just block everyone out. However, by forcing myself to say yes to a walk or coffee, my day would get brighter. I never came back home saying, “I wish I hadn’t hung out with my friend”.

So, listen, I’m not under any illusions that you haven’t heard this advice before, but maybe it helps to know what works.

To be clear, I’m not pretending I’m healed by writing this post, but I can share that I’ve made progress. When I wrote this article in the Boston Globe, I was consistently an asshole to myself. Now I’m kinder to me. Gentler. I think it’s important you know that I do owe my progress to a combination of all of these things I’ve mentioned. Maybe it’s worth a shot.

I don’t know if I’m removed enough
or ever will be
to share
precisely how I got here today.

I sit in disbelief
remembering suddenly where I am
exactly eight months to the day
when my life became a rug
ripped out violently from underneath me.

Like the trick
where a tablecloth is yanked out
from underneath plates and cups
nothing shifting.

But it’s not a trick, is it?

It takes skill and practice
to master the art.
It takes planning.

A planned attack
on my senses
my soul
my entire being.

Every day forward was an impossibility
falling to my knees
scraping by
sleepless and
hopeless.

I was an imposter
showing up
hoping no one would notice
I was decaying.

I would see her in visions.
It was me
and she was OK.
I let her guide me
motivate me
to inch forward
until suddenly
I wasn’t so shattered anymore.

I came face to face with the version of me
who was waiting for
me
just to keep trying
and trying
to arrive.

For reasons I’ll never in my life understand, my five year old daughter sat at the breakfast table with me this morning and pointed at my high school 20th reunion sticker on the fridge that says “Joanna Carmona” and said to me “that’s not your last name.” She was upset. She said I needed to fix it right away, so I grabbed a red sharpie and crossed out Carmona and wrote in Alizio. Only then was she satisfied.

The next thing out of her mouth was that this is the best day of her life. She told me I needed to play “Best day of my life” by the American Authors. We sang every word together and she was so happy.

My daughter doesn’t know that today is the day I would meet her dad in court to finalize the divorce, but somehow in her bones she did.

I arrived at 10:00 a.m. at the court house in Lowell for our trial. I felt strong and brave, and was wearing a dress and boots that make me feel beautiful. I dress for me, not anyone else, though the gentleman who sat unnaturally close to me on the bench for an hour and a half had other ideas.

I watched him check me out, look me up and down and try to make eye contact the entire time. I threw him a bone to ask what time he had been assigned this morning. He said 8:30 a.m., so I assumed he would go before me. I was wrong. When they called the Carmona case ahead of his, he touched my hand, looked me in the eye and said “good luck”. I suppose since he’d been mentally undressing me for a while he thought he could touch me. I get it, I looked good, but no one will ever own me again.

It went very quickly. The judge asked us a few questions that I already knew the answers to after having watched a few other divorce cases ahead of me. The last thing the judge said was that I would return to my name “Joanna marie Alizio” and I was overjoyed.

When we left the courtroom, I gave my ex back the charm bracelet his mother had given to me. She has always adored me and during one of our trips to Spain, she gave me a bracelet with his name and birthdate on it, one that she had worn for years. It was a beautiful gesture. But, I am not his anymore. He has moved on and I gave it to him to pass on to his new girlfriend.

We rode down in the elevator together. He asked me how I was doing. I answered honestly that I was great. I am great. As we parted ways to return to our vehicles, I yelled to him “third time’s a charm”. I don’t know if it was a curse or a blessing, but either way, good luck to her.

Rebecca, if I had known it was that easy

I would have pressed the delete button

Years ago

I am reviewing our 42 page divorce agreement.

It begins innocently enough with a few gut-punching lines about where we got married, the ages of our children and their birthdays.

The first line mentions our anniversary date: Oct. 21, 2012.

Surely the agreement had to begin somehow, but why did it have to start with a happy memory? I received an anniversary card from today from a relative in California who hasn’t heard the news. Gut punch number two.

Gut punch number three: We’ll never make it two days from now to what would have been our 11 year wedding anniversary. Instead I am being mentally punted back to a time way before our marriage, way before I met him.

There’s something about visiting your parents’ house, tail between your legs as a single mom that feels fully like gut punch number four.

I’m being forced against my will to start over.

I can’t put my finger on what age I’ve been returned to, but the only age it could be before the trauma began in my life would be 17. I don’t feel 17.

I feel me at my age now with a striking sense of confidence and clarity, but I think I found my track back to my silly laughter from 17. Things I found funny as a teenager have returned. And I laugh more than I have during our entire marriage. I laugh at super inappropriate things at inappropriate times, just like teenage Joanna.

So, I am carrying this Frankensteined version of me, a weird mix of 17 and 38. She’s brave, confident, confused, sad and fun.

And this version of me is a magnet. Part of my magnet magic is that people are beautifully coming to my rescue in too many ways to count. They all, in their own ways, are able to lift me out of my darkness when I am in their presence. And because I’ve got so many people, I’m also hearing their beautiful hopes and dreams and stories.

I’m honored lately to be witness to people sharing their dark stories of past trauma with me and I am grateful to be a listening ear for the creative and out-of-the-box thinkers in my life sharing what makes them tick and how they are actively pursuing their goals.

You people are more beautiful than you realize. I see you. I think you are open to telling me because maybe you trust me a little extra now that I am baring my soul more now and it gives you permission to share yours.

I, of course, am grateful for everyone who has talked to me and continues to help me with my dark stuff.

But, I’m really loving this mix of 17 and 38 year old me that’s showing up right now and able to be witness to how incredible the people are that surround me.

Unforeseen circumstances. Irreconcilable differences. 

The polite ways to say shit has hit the fan.

Every time I have to use and see these words to describe my current situation, it feels true and false at the same time.

Were my circumstances really unforeseen? Or did I choose to ignore all of the red flags?

Are our differences truly irreconcilable? Or did we at some point replace the true and deep musings and conversations of our early relationship with discussions about daily schedules, meal planning, gymnastics and basketball sign ups and what we’d watch on Netflix?

I did not notice we had stopped talking until it was over.

I was indifferent to our circumstances. It was not intentional.