It could be the holidays or just my usual mental state, but
depression has been nipping at my heels for months. Several weeks ago, it sunk
its teeth in and hasn’t let me go. I believe mental illness shouldn’t come with
a stigma—some stupid reason we shouldn’t speak up.
As an Atheist, I’m not big on holidays or what they mean.
Christianity pillaged pagans for their traditions, whatever, but it’s around
this time everyone gets a bit down. We don’t have family to spend it with for
whatever reason. It highlights our anti-social tendencies. Whatever it is,
holidays just seem to exacerbate the shifting of our moods.
I don’t think that’s what has me down. Spending days in bed
to awaken and just turn back over because I’m tired of existing. A week ago, I
had to be taken by ambulance to the hospital, my panic attack didn’t come on
with that annoying tightening of my chest and the bugs crawling beneath my
skin. The nosebleed which isn’t a normal part of my attacks. It hit me like a
sledgehammer and I had no way of controlling it. All the counting, visualization,
none of it worked and I let others see the weakness.
For decades, no one sees me at my worst, I don’t let people
see how bad it gets. The rage overtaking me as I tried to count and lost my
place, only to have to start again. Breathing 133 times a minute when you
should be at 12 to 20 breaths. That overwhelming pain in your chest. Caught
between rage and despair, not knowing which one to feel. Pinching your flesh
just to have the pain to beat the sadness away. They medicated me, ask me if I
felt I was a danger to myself or others. I said no, and they discharged me.
Self-care for me are the stories I tell. The worlds I create
where everyone is welcome. And right now, I don’t have those words. Misfiring
synapses, the broken connections, and I lose myself. Some days I want to be
like everyone else. Function as if I’m normal. And unfortunately, that isn’t
possible. I’m not wired that way.
My triggers are many and people say just avoid this or that.
How can I avoid a certain tone of a voice? How do I ignore a sharp sound? How do
I ignore the wrongness of my own skin? How is someone supposed to brush aside
that their own body doesn’t feel right, I can’t. I wonder sometimes was I too broken
to be born. That my existence is a burden for those around me. I wait calmly to
wear out my welcome and move on, because eventually I do.
Emotional attachments are hard for me. I don’t process as
someone should. How and what I’m supposed to feel is a mystery. I laugh when
inappropriate. I find myself being sad over something happy. My brain feeling
like being happy is just the road to failure. Why should I become attacked when
the thing or person I’m attached to is just going to be…gone?
People claim that I’m too hard on myself. That my inferiority
as a person, writer, whatever is unwarranted. I take things personally. I fall
in love with my words, characters, the tales I weave for others to read.
Sometimes I’m writing a book, it feels amazing, and when it’s
done, I know not everyone is going to love it as much as I do. I’m supposed to
focus on the positive, one person will, but when you know something is going to
be perceived as less than it’s a kick to the nuts.
I should be writing, but I look at my stories and the ones
that call to me are the ones that people aren’t going to read. As a writer, you
have cover artists, editors, all these people to pay to make your book look
good and still those words aren’t important. Those less important books I write
they are my therapy, the one thing that actually get me out of bed every day,
but how many hits can I take?
I can take a good punch. I know how to absorb the blow. I can
handle physical pain, I did it a lot of years. Self-harm and physical abuse
were just parts of the day, like brushing my teeth, having a meal, they were
normal and familiar. I know how easily bruises and cuts can fade, but the scars
to my mental health linger so much longer. And for too many years, I considered
myself a failure. A simple part of the scenery, unimportant to the overall running
of the world.
When I fall, I wonder how many people would even miss me
when I’m gone. Will I even be a blip if I never published another story? Would
someone notice if I didn’t post or share that Atheist meme? Would I just be
another silent profile in the ether of cyberspace? A forgettable footnote.
These are the things I think about daily, hourly, sometimes
every second of my day. There’s no time of year that makes it worse. It’s my
reality and a lot of times I’m sick of that reality. Sick of the sobriety. Sick
of pasting on that smile and making everyone comfortable while I slowly die
inside. I don’t want to go back to pre-sober Jami, but it would be so easy to
fall, to slip into the past for a moment to forget. To delude myself that my
brain isn’t badly wired and that I don’t stumble between mania and depression
as moments counted by the ebbing of an ocean onto shore. Flowing in and out, moods
shifting with the suddenness and gentle rhythm of a single breath.
Sometimes I long to be normal. And others when the meds kill
my voices, I want nothing more than to be crazy. I want to feel and know I’ll
be okay. But that’s not how my brain works. I fight it like a riptide
threatening to pull me under and knowing I just need to relax, to breathe.
Right now, I’m not breathing, I’m fighting the savage current
that’s threatening to drown me.
I want my words. I crave my voices. I crave to be MY normal,
but I’m lost. I just hope I can find it soon.
All I have are platitudes. You're in my thoughts and prayers. How can that mean anything when you're going thru something like this? All I know is, I stalk your author page on Amazon hoping you've published something new. Keep fighting against that tide. I would miss your voices.
ReplyDeleteSometimes my brain runs away from me; too many emotions, too many thoughts that I can’t straighten out. I wonder if I’m dying or if I’m fading. Sometimes I don’t feel like me. I look in the mirror and I don’t know who I’m looking at. It’s terrifying and I panic. My panic attacks come less frequently than they used to but they linger, like a demon peering over my shoulder waiting in silence to pounce. I try my best to ignore it, but some days are harder than others. I try to surround myself with friends and people who support me in any small way, but even they don’t know the panic I face when I’m alone. Someone asked me the other day what I wanted out of life. I told them I wanted what everyone else seemingly wants; to be loved, to be accepted, and to be me without fear of repercussions. I want someone to walk into a room and smile simply because I’m there. I want someone to tell me everything will be okay even when the world is falling apart. I want someone to support me even when everything is crumbling around me. I want someone to cuddle with, someone who loves me for me, and someone who will be there through it all. I want to feel like ME, to be ME, to be accepted for ME, without someone questioning it or telling me I should be or have to be someone else. That is what I want. It may not make my brain slow down or the demons disappear but it may just make them more bearable.
ReplyDeleteReflecting on your own comments, I want you to know that I enjoy your books, all of them. I literally own them all. The characters remind me of myself in different ways. They are relatable and I find solace in entering their worlds. I would miss you if you stopped writing. I would miss you if you were gone. While it may not help, I hope you find some comfort in that knowledge.
All my best,
Another struggle bus passenger