I used to write the way that I breathe. Never did I have to put in the effort, I never thought of writing as something that I “do.” Rather, it was simply the way my brain worked - a constant stream of conscious stringing words together and tearing them apart to find the most delicious phrasing, over and over again. Now, it’s taken me weeks of effort to sit down in front of this screen and piece together my thoughts.
The last year has broken me in ways I never thought possible. My brain split in half at the impossible expectations of others thrust upon me. Before their expectations, I was fine, by the way. Were things perfect? Certainly not, but I was on my way to being independently happy for the first time in my life. Somewhere along the way, my people pleasing tendencies broke down any boundaries I had in place, and replaced my sense of self with depression, and anxiety. Mostly anxiety.
My therapist tells me that the anxiety was there to protect me… until it grew so large from constantly living in survival mode. The fear of being exactly what I was. Abandoned. The anxiety only helped me reach abandonment from people who had been in my life for over a decade. No matter how I navigated my relationships, I wasn’t doing enough, being enough, reaching out enough, showing up enough. Burn-out sank into my bones, drenching my soul. And I screamed for a hand to hold onto as I drowned under the expectations of others and my failing mental health. Asking for help took everything I had, and when I asked, the hands slowly, then all at once, left me to drown.
In some of these relationships I still cannot figure out what I did or did not do to make them leave. In other relationships, I held on too tight and drove them away with the hope that someone would show up for me in the ways I was trying to show up for them, and the fear that they wouldn’t. Anxiety won, and I lost.
It’s been months now of trying to recover. Trying new meds, different meds, and trying not to get fired from my job while also listening to my body. Trying to string together coherent sentences to organize my thoughts the way I used to. Trying to nurture the relationships I have left and strengthen them without falling back into people pleasing habits. Trying to find things I like about myself and the joy in things that used to bring me joy.
Some days, most days, my body is heavy. Unscrambling my thoughts enough to function takes every effort I have. Anxiety is still here, but has stepped aside to let Depression run the show. No longer do I feel the ocean above my head trying to claim me. Instead, I am counting. Constantly. 5 things I can see, 4 things I can hear, 3 things I can touch, and so on. I am reciting affirmations I still do not inherently believe no matter how large I write them on my bathroom mirror.
The spark left completely, and I know that my focus must be on myself. Healing is a lonely process. Trial and error, getting up every single day and doing my damndest to stay out of bed for the entire day. My therapist told me that right now we have planted the seeds and I’m still underground. I like this analogy, though I do wonder when I will surface and see the light once again.
The world is not a cruel place; I was simply trying to fit in where I never belonged. Because of this, at 32 years-old I’m now learning how to advocate for myself. How to function without a tribe. How to breathe again. How to write again.
