A Mental Health Check-In

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.

An Interview with Myself

The past year of my life has been one excruciating, extended series of unfortunate events after another. Each occurrence more devastating than the last, and slowly but surely, I stopped writing, isolated, and internalized everything that was happening as some sort of karmic retribution for existing. I lost myself in my relationship and in the avalanche of never-ending loss and change. It’s time to begin again. But how? 

I haven’t written a single word in more than months. The practice of writing, and the art that comes with it, are more like riding a bicycle than most people realize. In theory I know how to ride a bicycle; I have an entire childhood of practice and proof. Though the last time I was on a bike was entirely too wobbly and left my lungs completely winded, begging for unrestricted air flow. Writing is one of those bicycle skills - it’s not possible to lose it entirely, but figuring out my footing and the best pace at which to ease back in without falling over is… well… I have fallen more times than I have completed a sentence.

The most sure-fire ways I know to get the creative juices flowing again are simple: start with your feelings and ask yourself questions.

What are you feeling right now?

A combination of hope and anger. The anger doesn’t sit right with me; I don’t know what to do with it. The anger swells in my chest, creating an uncomfortable awareness of my heart. Heavy and painful, burning my chest with every beat. How could somebody claim to love me so deeply, yet demand that I change everything about myself to fit her ideal of a partner? How, after a year, and so many moments of showing up for her in major ways could she possibly call our relationship insignificant? How could she expedite a mental health journey so intense that I end up checking myself into a hospital and she just walks away?

I am angry at the effect she had on me. At the anxiety and insecurity she caused. At the demand that I make myself available to respond to her insecurities and provide comfort but not be allowed to do the same. I am angry that she wanted so much and gave so little in return. The anger isn’t even directed at her. I am angry for not standing up for myself, for not putting myself first when she was so clearly incapable of doing so. For letting her convince me that asking for help was okay… despite knowing that every time I had, I didn’t receive any help.

The most dangerous kind of person to date is one who always only puts herself first. I need it to be about me sometimes, and I am angry that I wanted so badly to believe in our shared wants for the future that I wrote off the issues in the present. The friendships that failed as a result of always putting her first, still would have. The relationship still would have failed. But it would have been far less damaging to have my own say in nearly all of my closest relationships ending all at once.

Did you see the red flags?

I didn’t think they were red flags. She was, is, a human being whose trauma informs her decisions. She was broken, and so was I - just differently. I knew that not being able to speak to my partner about the little things before they simmered and grew larger, was not okay. But there was always something bigger going on in her life that took precedent. So I waited for my turn. It never came.

The largest red flag was that she was actively talking to my own friends about us. In fact, my roommate had far more of a say in the decisions she made about our relationship than I did. But her trauma informed that also. 

Is there anything you want to say to her?

No. There’s nothing I can say that won’t be turned around as me playing the victim and refusing to take accountability. I was told often that something I was saying or doing was incorrect, I was told often how my words and actions affected her and my roommate. In the middle of panic attacks, I was told what I was doing wrong. In the midst of things I had no control over, I was told that I needed to be better. There was no space for me in any conversation with her.

Where does the hope come in?

Since she’s been gone, I can breathe again. The weight of my mistakes isn’t constantly being thrust upon me. The few relationships I do have left are far healthier and encouraging. Slowly, the expectations actually held for myself are untangling and releasing themselves. No longer am I hyper-conscious of how I dress and speak when I step foot outside my house. 

My home has become a safe space again. Albeit empty, I have room to explore my emotions safely. Room to write, room to read, and most importantly, to allow myself to think without fear of upsetting someone else… or being rejected.

I am discovering a new belief in the universe. In how the moon affects not only the tide, but also human beings. We are made up of mostly water, after all. My daily routines are changing, not because anybody is wanting me to do these things, but because I want to. For truly the first time in my life, I am learning how to love myself in all the ways I always needed.

So what comes next?

I have no idea. It’s terrifying, and simultaneously exciting. In the words of nearly every child I helped face their fears on the zip lines at camp: I’m scare-cited. I am experiencing far more support this past week than I have in quite a while. I want to reach out to people I haven’t really seen or spoken to in years. Maybe try to get coffees or dinner with people and see if kindling some of these relationships is even possible. 

I am putting myself back into the world in little ways. I am watching new movies and taking myself out on the type of micro dates I wanted to do with a partner. And I am eating and drinking pineapple again. My life is unrestricted, and I am finally living it.