I want to talk about my mental illness.
It’s not something I generally discuss in an objective, top-down way. Normally my posts here regarding it are rants or bouts of self-pity. I recognize that can all be hard to read, but it’s also hard to feel.
I am on spring break this week. I only work one day this week – tomorrow. The rest of the week I’ve been struggling to leave my bed. I am so exhausted. This past weekend my kids were with their dad, and I slept for 10 hours, then took a nap later in the day on Saturday. I keep telling myself that I’m going to get up early like I do every day when I’m not on break, but my body feels so heavy and my eyes just won’t open.
I feel betrayed by my body and my mind constantly.
A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting on the couch with my partner, watching Shark Tank when pain radiated through my right arm. I felt my chest burn, like I had run for miles and miles. But I hadn’t. I went to the emergency room and they couldn’t find anything wrong with me (aside from high blood pressure, a side-effect of my anxiety attack). I felt so angry and resentful of my body. I was fine! I didn’t even feel panicked, but I had a panic attack that had physical symptoms, which I’d heard about before, but I didn’t think would happen to me. My panic attacks were dizziness, feeling I was on the edge of fainting.
A week or so before that, I found my body in a scrunched heap on the shower floor, sobbing.
I felt out of control.
Crazy. A word I try not to use, because I know they’re talking about people like me. I don’t fit the social norm of “sanity” but I can tell you that I hide it well.
I am on an anti-depressant. It’s supposed to help me. And, for awhile, it did. I felt amazing. I hadn’t had panic attacks in years, but now they’re coming in waves. That scares me. I know I should probably go back to the clinic because I’m sure that’s not something that should be happening… but the thing is, I don’t care about helping myself as much as I care about helping the people I love. I should love myself too. I know that.
This morning I had a strange, familiar thought: none of this matters. Creating my own meaning from life is too hard, and I really just don’t want to do it. I don’t really care if I exist or not. Etc.
But I do care. I want my brain to stop telling me these things. I want my brain to tell me that I’m good enough, smart enough. I want my brain to stop telling me that I need to lose weight. I want my brain to stop telling me that I’m a burden. I want my brain to care about me in more than a primal, self-preservation way.
I’d like to find a way to shut that off, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that I’ll always have this double-self, the one that abuses me and the one that’s always fighting against it.
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