I've been looking back at the most recent stretch of time in my life and I'm trying to do the math. Has it been months or a year? Has it been several years? I can't really figure out the answer and it scares me: I can't recall the last time I didn't feel overwhelmed, stressed, anxious, worried, fatigued, fearful, sad or lonely. I know this sounds crazy, given the amount of joy I've experienced: Can I really not remember a day when I didn't feel like I was hurting? I used to say to my boyfriend, "I never cry. I don't know why I'm crying right now." I said it a lot. I cried a lot. I look back at the last few years and I can't remember many days when I didn't cry. I'm ashamed that this is the version of me he received, that he rarely had access to me as Happy Kristen.
How does this happen? It becomes normal. The stress piles on, situations expand and explode, and I can convince myself that my general weepiness is related to just this one last thing or just this series of several things, and not just my life in general. I convince myself that I pick fights with people I love because I'm having trouble with whatever the latest incident is -- as if there weren't a hundred prior incidents I had an equally difficult time handling. As if this is just some phase I'm going through, and not an accumulation of poor coping methods and unhealthy habits.
I've felt lonely on coffee dates with my friends. I've felt misunderstood by people who care about me and love me. I've felt overwhelmed by my everyday life. But I could justify anything, you see, because I was always convinced I knew what the problem was. My excuses ran the gamut: I didn't make enough money and the financial stress was weighing me down. When I started making more money, I was working too much and the job stress was weighing me down. I'd feel better if I wasn't so worried about the health of my relatives. I'd feel better if my living situation was different, if I lived closer to my boyfriend, if I sold my book, if I didn't have to watch my grandparents die, if I made more money, if my friends were less busy with their own relationships and families, if people understood me better, if I had more time to work out, if if if if if if if ...
My God. And then a few years pass, and I'm convincing myself it's normal to burst into tears when someone asks me how I'm doing. The shame of knowing how poorly I was really doing would bubble under the surface, under a smile and a laugh. Yes, balancing freelance writing and graduate school was hard. Yes, having a few friends turn against me was hurtful. Yes, being in a long-distance relationship was hard. Yes, having sick and dying family members was scary. But for another person, would it be crippling? Would there be the nearly daily crying jags? The ongoing fights that I perpetuated -- would anyone else ever see these as normal?
Recent events in my life have pushed the grip of anxiety and depression harder and tighter around me. I've reached the place where the fear of asking for help no longer outweighs the fear of staying where I am. I can't stay where I am. I can't experience the mental anguish anymore, and I can't experience the physical symptoms anymore, either. I'm tired of the nausea, of the flu-like chills and hot flashes. I'm tired of the constriction in my chest, the heaviness in my heart. Most of all, I'm tired of not having control over my own life.
If you're wondering why you never knew all this about me, it's because I let the happy moments justify the anxious ones. I've experienced so very much joy in the last few years -- mainly as a result of my writing, my wonderful family, and my amazing friends. I've laughed my ass off. I've had incredible conversations. I've learned a lot. I've spent important time with people I care about more than anything. When I admit to being depressed, I don't want to take away from any of those wonderful moments, or any of the wonderful people in my life. The difficult feelings I experienced mainly came to me inside my own head, and often when I was alone. The love I received couldn't have possibly been better. This has been my own quiet issue, and at times I've done a really decent job of hiding it.
But what service is that to you? Who do I help by hiding what's really going on in my mind? Who gains when I pretend there isn't really anything wrong?
Today I have to say that indeed there is something wrong. And maybe there's some bravery in admitting that, but that doesn't counteract the cowardice of covering it up for so long. It's not something I did knowingly. I truly kept thinking, over and over to myself, that I'm only upset because of Current Situation X. It's only now when I look back and realize that Situations A-W preceded Situation X that I realize I have a problem.
I've never spoken openly about any of this before. But like I said, who am I helping by hiding it? So, there it is. I've laid it out. I have a lot of hard work to do from here. But for now, for this moment, admitting my truth makes me feel a little relieved.
How does this happen? It becomes normal. The stress piles on, situations expand and explode, and I can convince myself that my general weepiness is related to just this one last thing or just this series of several things, and not just my life in general. I convince myself that I pick fights with people I love because I'm having trouble with whatever the latest incident is -- as if there weren't a hundred prior incidents I had an equally difficult time handling. As if this is just some phase I'm going through, and not an accumulation of poor coping methods and unhealthy habits.
I've felt lonely on coffee dates with my friends. I've felt misunderstood by people who care about me and love me. I've felt overwhelmed by my everyday life. But I could justify anything, you see, because I was always convinced I knew what the problem was. My excuses ran the gamut: I didn't make enough money and the financial stress was weighing me down. When I started making more money, I was working too much and the job stress was weighing me down. I'd feel better if I wasn't so worried about the health of my relatives. I'd feel better if my living situation was different, if I lived closer to my boyfriend, if I sold my book, if I didn't have to watch my grandparents die, if I made more money, if my friends were less busy with their own relationships and families, if people understood me better, if I had more time to work out, if if if if if if if ...
My God. And then a few years pass, and I'm convincing myself it's normal to burst into tears when someone asks me how I'm doing. The shame of knowing how poorly I was really doing would bubble under the surface, under a smile and a laugh. Yes, balancing freelance writing and graduate school was hard. Yes, having a few friends turn against me was hurtful. Yes, being in a long-distance relationship was hard. Yes, having sick and dying family members was scary. But for another person, would it be crippling? Would there be the nearly daily crying jags? The ongoing fights that I perpetuated -- would anyone else ever see these as normal?
Recent events in my life have pushed the grip of anxiety and depression harder and tighter around me. I've reached the place where the fear of asking for help no longer outweighs the fear of staying where I am. I can't stay where I am. I can't experience the mental anguish anymore, and I can't experience the physical symptoms anymore, either. I'm tired of the nausea, of the flu-like chills and hot flashes. I'm tired of the constriction in my chest, the heaviness in my heart. Most of all, I'm tired of not having control over my own life.
If you're wondering why you never knew all this about me, it's because I let the happy moments justify the anxious ones. I've experienced so very much joy in the last few years -- mainly as a result of my writing, my wonderful family, and my amazing friends. I've laughed my ass off. I've had incredible conversations. I've learned a lot. I've spent important time with people I care about more than anything. When I admit to being depressed, I don't want to take away from any of those wonderful moments, or any of the wonderful people in my life. The difficult feelings I experienced mainly came to me inside my own head, and often when I was alone. The love I received couldn't have possibly been better. This has been my own quiet issue, and at times I've done a really decent job of hiding it.
But what service is that to you? Who do I help by hiding what's really going on in my mind? Who gains when I pretend there isn't really anything wrong?
Today I have to say that indeed there is something wrong. And maybe there's some bravery in admitting that, but that doesn't counteract the cowardice of covering it up for so long. It's not something I did knowingly. I truly kept thinking, over and over to myself, that I'm only upset because of Current Situation X. It's only now when I look back and realize that Situations A-W preceded Situation X that I realize I have a problem.
I've never spoken openly about any of this before. But like I said, who am I helping by hiding it? So, there it is. I've laid it out. I have a lot of hard work to do from here. But for now, for this moment, admitting my truth makes me feel a little relieved.
2 comments:
You are speaking my language.
This whole post had me nodding and saying "yes yes yes" quietly under my breath and then this:
"... it's because I let the happy moments justify the anxious ones."
It totally knocked the wind out of me, because that's me, too.
Thinking of you and so proud of this post! It is seriously hard to ask for help, and no one is even close to thinking that you don't appreciate the good times even when a dark cloud is hanging over you . . . you deserve so so much happiness and I hope that you start relieving some of the pain/sadness that you are carrying with you.
xoxox
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