Tag: anxiety

Autobiography · Mental Health

Settle

Ruby Pipes13 Comments
"Metamorphosis" © Viewminder, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“Metamorphosis” © Viewminder, 2012. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Things are getting quiet around here. The boxes are all broken down and we’ve hung the pictures on the walls. Moved in, but I still haven’t fallen into a proper schedule.

Consistency is key, I know this. I have to get up at the same time every day, go to bed at the same time every night. I have to get at least thirty minutes of exercise daily and eat around the same times. Bipolar disorder thrives on the sporadic. It amplifies the fluctuations, grabs hold to the moments I fall out of rhythm and pulls me hard in a dangerous direction.

It feels like I’m slipping. And then I blame myself for the slip. And guilt myself for the blame. One emotion cascading into the next until it’s everything I can do not to curl up on our new carpet and sob.

I imagine I am the Columbia River, pummeling through the gorge. I imagine I am Mount Hood, tearing up across an empty skyline. I imagine I am rainfall and mushrooms and moss. Powerful and peaceful and radiant. I imagine I am a free-floating seed, but only for a moment. Soon I will find roots again, create channels.

Grow.

Autobiography · Mental Health

Depression, An Explanation

Ruby Pipes24 Comments

“flock” © Stefan Powell, 2006. CC BY 2.0.
At breakfast, bright notes of lemon and dill dance across my tongue in a decadent hollandaise. My coffee is a full-bodied mug of caramel. The linen of my freshly-bleached napkin is soft and tender as it kisses the skin poking out from underneath the edge of my dress. Silverware catches the light, shimmering unapologetic up at me and I use it to cut through layers of poached egg, cured meat, and English muffin. Each ingredient marries the next. Ice clinks in glasses, the murmur of the cafe rises and falls like waves lapping the beach. Nobody shares my booth and I bask in the solitude of morning. But I am wearing gloves. Covered in plastic wrap. I am trapped inside a bubble, twice removed.

I leave the restaurant and put my headphones in. Turn the music up loud and the melody climbs down my spine, cradling my bones. The bass moves my legs and I fall in step with it. But the sound remains muffled, like listening to it through a tunnel. No matter how much I increase the volume, it can’t get through the glass I’m standing under.

On my walk I touch every piece of plant matter I pass. I caress fresh leaves between finger tips, feel their veins pulsing. The fog collects on the collar of my jacket and shimmies down the back of my neck, cold and wet. I drag my fists along the concrete walls until my knuckles bloody, but my hands do not belong to me. Someone far away must be feeling these things.

At night my husband lays his head on the hollow of my chest where my shoulder and torso connect. My breath falls in rhythm with his slowly. Comfortable and quiet, almost nonexistent. His smell is safe and familiar, but distant. An old shirt he left here weeks ago, not him.

Floating on the ceiling, I watch us lying in bed. And I wonder if I’ll ever find my way back into that body again.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Crumble

Ruby Pipes34 Comments

"Puddle Play" © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“Puddle Play” © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
I held my breath all the way home. Led Mason back into our apartment, walked to the bedroom, and collapsed on the floor. Hurt went through me like waves and I tried to ride them. Tried to steady my breathing. Say something nice or think of one good thing about myself.

Slouched over to one side, I curled my knees into my chest and sobbed. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Just one of those nights. One of those days. I started running through my list of emergency contacts. Practiced saying, “I need you to take me to the hospital,” under my breath.

Mason came into the bedroom when I started to hyperventilate and throw fists. Coaxed me onto the bed and pulled me into his chest tight. Immobilized, I softened.

“I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard and I don’t feel like anything is changing. And I can’t exist like this.”

My own words crashed over me. Each one a sharp epiphany. They pointed to my exhaustion, my self-doubt. They told me the truth about how I’ve been seeing myself lately. Torn between how I’ve been feeling and how I want to feel. Logically, I know I’m a good person who is working hard. Emotionally, I feel like a waste of space who deserves nothing lovely.

“I just… I fucking hate myself.”

And I don’t think I’d ever admitted it to someone else before. I wanted to slap my own words out of my mouth. I knew how hurtful they were, to him and to me. But I didn’t know how to say anything else. It was the only thing that seemed to hold any significance. Any weight of its own.

I didn’t backpedal, though I wanted to. Wanted to make excuses about getting caught in the moment or being overly-dramatic. But that wouldn’t be true. I said it. I meant it.

But not all the time.

Sometimes I think I’m worth the work. Most of the time I know I do good things. And that’s what’s important to remember. When my fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands. When I’m listing the things in the house I need Mase to hide from me. I have to learn to remember it is not always like this.

It usually isn’t. Even though lately it is.