Mental Health

Open

"Drongo bird in the rain" © uditha wickramanayaka, 2014. CC BY 2.0.
Drongo bird in the rain” © uditha wickramanayaka, 2014. CC BY 2.0.
I haven’t written much of anything this month. Haven’t gone to the gym a whole lot. I’ve been sick for the last week, yes. But it was a problem before that. It’s not motivation or self-discipline. Well, it might be a lot of that. But there’s something else in there. Something sitting beneath the surface that has more to do with my brain than anything. With running over the same damn things over and over and over again. With getting all caught up in all sorts of catastrophes that haven’t happened and probably never will. It’s the closing in, the shutting down. That’s what gets me. That’s what battling February was supposed to be all about.

I don’t know where it went. What happened to it. The month. All the plans that I had to make it through it. All that shit. It slips through your fingers like one of those frogs we caught as kids. Constantly leaping away from you and there isn’t anything you can do about it.

No. I don’t think that’s true. Not really. I don’t think true helplessness exists. Not in the way I’m trying to make it. There is always an ability. A promise I can cling to. There is always a way to get the things I want to get done done. There is just that part of me that is terrified of it, isn’t there?

That doesn’t know what to do with success. With getting clean. With relationships that last. People that stay. There is that part of me that doesn’t know how to believe that what they’re all saying is true. It’s not even just a part by this point, is it? That’s the default state. On edge and wrapped in disbelief. Untrusting and apprehensive. Positive that this is all just daydreaming and planning. That none of this is going to last and none of it is worth anything anyway.

And I start to wonder if the reason I don’t see any success in these ventures is because I’m always doing it for someone else. Not even really for them. Doing it for the memory of them. So that if I run into a person from my past I will look like someone they never knew. Is that really the driving force behind most of my ambition?

So I can say this version of myself didn’t do the things the old versions did. That this version is clean and fit and well-dressed and has gorgeous flowing hair you can stick your hands into. That this version is the better version. The version you don’t get to be a part of. The version that’s not for you.

I’m trying to balance that with the idea that I’m proud of where I came from and I’m not ashamed of who I am. That I made poor choices, but that they made sense for the life I was living in. I say I don’t have any regrets and at the same time I say I want to do it completely different.

And these things are not meshing well for me. This thought process does not get me to the place I want to be. Another one of those things that pulls strings behind the curtains and forces me into positions I’d rather not be. This is not the type of life I want to be living. The one that is always suffering from some past heartbreak. That’s not the type of shit I want to deal with anymore. Constantly living in shadow. Explain to me how that is any fucking fun at all. How you can ever feel like you’re actually improving.

The mileposts are always moving. You’re not going to realize one day that you’re no longer hurting from the things that you did, from the things that happened to you. Accomplishing things now is not going to undo any of it. You’re trying to put back together a broken plate with glue that doesn’t adhere. This is an impossible task. A waste of time. This is not how you move forward.

It’s interesting, though, isn’t it? That you could do the same things, but change the reasoning and it will change everything. They say that, don’t they? That it doesn’t matter so much what you do, but why you’re doing it. And I’m sure there is something to that. And something that helps explains how if the reasons aren’t right then you’re going to have a really rough time.

My motivations are all wrong.

No. Not wrong. Just not conducive to progress. Not the kind that I want. I’m trying to build something gold out of rebar. No matter how good it turns out to be, it’s not going to be the thing I’m trying for.

Mental Health

Cage

"籠の鳥 (Kago no Tori: Bird in the Cage)" © halfrain, 2014. CC BY-SA 2.0.
籠の鳥 (Kago no Tori: Bird in the Cage)” © halfrain, 2014. CC BY-SA 2.0.
I take a shower. Change the sheets. Wipe down counters. Try to find my footing and start wondering if I’d even recognize stability.

Sweating. Vision blurry. My breath is shallow in my chest. My mind can’t get its claws in anything.

“Come on. Focus. You’re okay.”

A truck outside honks its horn and I scream, dropping my glass of water into the sink. Constantly jumping. Firing on all cylinders.

“Come on, kid. Breathe.”

Pacing back and forth in my apartment, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands.

“You’re okay. You’ve been sick. Stuck inside. That’s all this is.”

Boil water. Make peppermint tea. Settle onto the couch and pull my legs up under me.

Sleeping twelve hours a day. Trying to get well physically and I can feel my mind tightening. A spindle already holding too much yarn and doesn’t know what to do with the excess.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll feel better. I’ll leave the house. Talk to someone. Stretch my legs. Get some sun. Stop understanding why caged animals gnaw off their own limbs.

Mental Health

Fifty-seven days ’til spring

"Spring Flowers" © Billy Wilson, 2010. CC BY-NC 2.0.
Spring Flowers” © Billy Wilson, 2010. CC BY-NC 2.0.
I bought a two-month trial at a yoga studio near my office. It runs out the day after the vernal equinox. I’m trying hard to grab onto anything that may be able to propel me out of winter. Ever-hopeful late afternoon stretch breaks are exactly what my routine has been missing.

At 4:30 in the morning I climb out of bed and stumble to the gym before I have time to form any feelings about the day. For an hour I lift weights and blast music through earbuds. I climb onto an elliptical and only briefly curse my once-again hurt foot that’s preventing me from running. Forty-five minutes. I shower, eat, and walk out the door regardless of where I’m heading.

The less I’m at home the better I function. I go to my coworking space, hang out at coffee shops with Mason, and take walks with Alyssa. I meet with my therapist twice a week now and together we try to unravel a lifetime of habits and a faulty belief system.

It’s a constant struggle. I often catch myself wondering if any of it is for anything. There is nothing broken here. There is nothing to fix. All I’m trying to do is understand. Trying to find out what needs I was filling with things that did not fit. In a text message to an old friend I say, “It’s weird because, ultimately, all we’re saying is, ‘Here’s the foundation you’ve built your entire existence on. It’s shitty, but you built your entire existence on it, so good luck with that.'”

There’s a part of me that thinks realizing why I do the things I do and hold the truths I do will help me let them go. If I know why I developed a habit, a trait, a belief that does not serve me then maybe I can find a better way to meet that need. A more effective way to say the things I’m feeling or wanting or wish I could get from somebody.

But I know that I can’t hold on too tight to that hope. Maybe we will hash this all out, take it all apart and inspect every element, and be left still not knowing how to change any of it. Maybe the foundation always just stays the same. And I’m going to have to get used to the idea that that’s okay, too.

Sitting on the couch in my therapist’s office, my legs curled under me, I stare at the plants in the corner. Not avoiding eye contact, but not making it either. He tells me he’s changed my main diagnosis on my insurance claims again and my stomach gets all up in knots when he starts talking about PTSD.

Post traumatic stress disorder. I wobble in and out of focus. Part of me hoping that naming something makes a difference. Part of me knowing it doesn’t change anything. And a third little voice talking low, “Post. Post. Post. It’s over. That’s promising.”