I am devastation personified. We’ve all been through our own versions of hell, but sometimes it feels like the more you try to climb up, the deeper down you go. I’m not sure if anyone will ever read this, but that’s ok. I need to write for my own sanity.
I have always struggled with anxiety. I remember my first thought I couldn’t control. It crept so uninvitingly into my mind and I panicked. I thought I was broken, or even worse, some type of seer. Thinking I can see into the future was far worse because of the thought that I had had. I “believed” I saw what was to happen to someone I love. I was only around 9 or so when it happened so I was horrified. Over the last 20 years, there have been literally millions of thoughts that have popped into my head without welcome or warning. Sometimes they leave me feeling broken or questioning my sanity. Others, I can recognize it to be anxiety and I can try to cope.
I used to write a lot. I had a book of poems that I had written and I wish like hell I still had it. There has always been a catch with my writing though; I only ever got the itch when I was depressed. As you can imagine, I wrote most of my works in middle school. Being a teenage girl with a chemical imbalance is extraordinarily difficult; add outside influences and people on top of that, and it’s incredible that I made it through. High school sucked. I called my mom everyday crying to come pick me up. I considered dropping out; Dad was supportive and Mom wasn’t having it. I think if I had been able to speak up about what was happening in HS, I wouldn’t have so much shame and guilt. But too much time has passed now and once it’s out there, I can’t take it back. So I’ll keep it in. I’ll hold onto my secret for the rest of my life and know that when a certain person takes a dirt nap, I’ll dance on their grave.
Depression, anxiety, and OCD are nothing to be shrugged off. People who are fortunate enough not to suffer, don’t understand. My OCD makes me panic (given a trigger) and my anxiety exacerbates the issue. The rational part of my mind knows this. But nothing about OCD/anxiety is rational. NOTHING. When my anxiety is particularly high, I snap at people. I crave to be left alone and I just want to scratch my skin off. Depression is an entirely different demon. Nothing is good enough. Nothing tastes good. Nothing sounds fun. The couch or the bed have never looked more warm and inviting. People say, “try to bring yourself out of it! Cheer up! Let’s do something!” That may work if I felt sad. But depression doesn’t work that way. I can’t get up. I can’t function. It exhausts me to think about putting on a brave face for the sake of someone else. It’s just as insulting as when someone tells me that I look fine, knowing that I have fibromyalgia. Bottom line, you’re not in my shoes. You don’t feel what I feel. Be thankful for that.
I’ll write again about what I’m currently going through but for now, I just wanted to write a post about the general things I go through. My next post will, no doubt, be heavier. It’s been a terrible few weeks.