On Surviving Well

I’m a survivor. I’ve wallowed through the deepest pits of depression, trudged through snarls of overwhelming anxiety, and I’m still here. Sometimes I’m very proud of that. Sometimes I think how cool it would be to transform the self-mutilating scars on my arm into an artistic tattoo representing my emergence through the fires of hell. Maybe it would be centered around a semi-colon, now an ever-present symbol in the mental health community. In a sentence, it means it’s not over. And in life, it represents a person’s story that isn’t finished yet. It’s worn with pride in a similar way that someone might wear a colored ribbon to show they’ve beat cancer or some other disease.


Lately, I’m not feeling it. I’m not happy to be a survivor, because I feel like that’s all I am doing. I’m barely holding on each day. It is exhausting and leaves no room for anything else in my life. Three months ago, I went on the second medical leave I’ve taken from a job that was burning me out in its toxic environment. No sooner had I returned from my leave, I was offered a new job. I guess I still maintained the silly hope that a job better suited to my personality and interests was the missing piece of the puzzle in my life. And for a while, I felt like that was true. Like the delirious joy that comes with the beginnings of a new relationship, I thought that this was it, I’ve finally reached my destination.


Now that the newness has worn off, I’m back where I started. I’m still me, but in a new location. I still cry at work sometimes, and I am desperately convincing myself to pull it together almost every moment. I keep telling myself, I just need to get through one more day; just one more day, and it will be the weekend. Then I’ll say, I just need to make it until lunchtime; just a couple more hours, and then it will be okay. There is this constant conversation going on inside my mind that not a soul around me is aware of. It is beyond exhausting. I’ll sometimes come home after work at 6:20pm (If the bus is on time) and collapse into bed for a nap. It’s a less than ideal time for a nap, but the idea of lasting another three hours of wakefulness seems an impossible feat.


Five days a week I am practically dead in the evenings. When the weekend hits, I feel an immense pressure to take advantage of it to its fullest extent. I have these two days to bring myself back to baseline so I can try to do it all over again the following week and remain standing. If I do too much, I’ll feel overwhelmed. If I do too little, I’ll feel like I’ve squandered my limited time. Once Sunday comes, I’ll inevitably lament the weekend that is already slipping from my hands, terrified at the insurmountable treacherous terrain scowling back at me yet again. Here we go, another week of just surviving.


Where is the pride in this existence? It’s as if “life” is inherently superior to death. That by living, I am somehow better off. Well the jury is still out, because I’m not entirely convinced that life is the best option out there. Merely surviving is no cure. And maybe that sounds morbid to you. It is morbid. I think about death. Sometimes I think about not wanting to live but at the same time, not wanting to die. I can think of two distinct days in the past week that I honestly wasn’t sure I could make it. It’s scary and sudden. Sometimes it’s gone as quickly and fiercely as it came. Sometimes the very next day is one of the best days I’ve had in weeks. It makes no sense. I feel like I have no control and have no idea what cards I will be dealt the next day. My mind is a Magic 8 Ball: “Will today be a good day?” Shake, shake, shake. “Don’t count on it.” Bummer.


What is it like to never not want to live? It’s most of you out there that like to live all the time that baffle me. How did everyone else get the good juju and I missed the boat? Through my writing, my ultimate hope- when I’m not feeling like a pile of shit- is to help others and offer inspiration and hope. Well, you know what? I don’t have any of that for you right now. If you read through this and are feeling similarly, then at least you know you are not alone. But answers? I have none of those for you right now. I am surviving, but I don’t just want to survive. I want to survive well. And after countless therapies, medications, yoga, aromatherapy, medications, and who knows what else, I’m still not “cured.” Maybe I never will be.

Fuck This Shit! Hey, Swear Words- It Must Be a Good Blog Post!

If you want a fun scavenger hunt idea, visit your local Barnes & Noble (or other bookstore) and see how many self help books with swear words in the title you can find. It's actually pretty fun and amusing. Here is the list I came up with:

Fuck Feelings
Get Shit Done
How to Get Shit Done
Unfuckology
Unfuck Yourself
How to Stop Feeling Like Shit
Let that Shit Go
Find Your Fucking Happy
The Good Girls' Guide to Being a Dick
Fuck Love
Calm the Fuck Down
Get Your Shit Together
I Used to be a Miserable Fuck
The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck
Everything is Fucked
Stop Doing that Shit
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck

Swearing is kind of the "in thing" nowadays. You can get swearing coloring books, mugs, dish towels, and -my favorite- socks. But why are we into that? To make light of all the crap in our lives? To wear our pain with a smile? Honestly, it's probably just a bunch of marketing bullshit. Marketing has our best interests at heart, right? Publishers are looking out for our health and wellbeing, one quality book at a time. Yeah, right. Unfortunately, they are all pretty much the same. Some fluffy words and quotes amid artsy-fartsy lettering and swathes of pastel watercolor. The authors always have lots of letters after their name- some professional jargon, indecipherable to the general public. Because the more degrees you have, the more credible you are (obviously!).

I want to write. I want to publish a book. The only credential I have is that I've been through the meat grinder of mental illness and come out barely alive on the other side with a moderate amount of success. I don't have a bachelor's degree. I didn't take any fancy writing courses. I never studied mental illness treatments- I went through the treatments as a patient. I know and understand what works, and I want to share that experience with others in a way that's approachable and affordable to others. Not many people are in a position to take off weeks or even months of work to go through therapy one to five days a week, let alone be able to afford the extravagant cost of therapy. In that respect, I know I was and continue to be very fortunate. And so, I will continue to write here in a boring font with absolutely no marketing ploys or cool visual graphics, hoping that at least a few souls out there will be inspired even in the slightest.

Work? Check, Please!

In the past week, I've cried three times at work. Two of those times I ended up leaving work all together. And I got a warning. A warning? I don't think I've ever gotten a warning for anything in my life. In general, I'd describe myself as a stellar employee. I have high morals and standards when it comes to work, and that has shown in all that I do. But apparently crying at work is inappropriate and disruptive. If losing composure at work is something that will be repeated, then I must disclose a disability and have specific accommodations written out by my treating physician. After having this conversation with management, I felt like the rug got pulled out from under my feet. A crushing weight sat on my chest, suffocating me. The world felt like it was crumbling around me and I was sliding backwards, returning to a time in my life where I just couldn't "do life." Why am I getting "in trouble" for a mental illness? If I barfed at work in stead of cried, would I have been written up? I felt like my character was being attacked. "Maybe this isn't the right job for you." "Maybe you can't handle the stress of this job." "Maybe you need to be more open to change." No! Stop! This isn't me! I've gone above and beyond in every way possible. I've contributed great ideas, taken on extra work, stayed late finishing things. After one year of being a rock-star employee, I felt like my entire worth was diminished by my recent loss of composure.

After leaving work (the second time), I cried and screamed, I panicked, and felt trapped. The drive home felt like it took a lifetime. I just wanted to escape this situation as fast as I could, but was limited by rush hour traffic. My mind was racing, and I brainstormed all the possible options I had to get this disgusting feeling out of me. Will I have to go back to the hospital? Would that be best? No, it would only disrupt my life even more. Do I need to hurt myself to get away from this black hole? Is dying the only way to fix this? No, I've got this. I just need to hang on for now. Just hold on a little longer. Maybe hope isn't all lost. Having passive thoughts about dying freaked me out even more. My mind was spiraling out of control, and I had no idea how to get off of this emotional roller-coaster.

Luckily, I already had an appointment scheduled to meet with my psychiatric nurse just a few days after this whole ordeal. It is nearly impossible to get in to see mental health professionals on short notice, so I was incredibly thankful that this appointment had already been scheduled ages ago. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. The waterworks made another appearance at this appointment, as I laid out all the stressors of my job and how they had been piling up for an entire year, wearing me down, and breaking my resolve. I'd finally reached a point where I had lost my ability to cope. Even after a fabulous weekend off from work, I found myself starting each new week on Monday feeling like I hadn't recovered enough from the week before to survive yet another week of the same old ridiculous circus.

We decided it would be best to take a short leave of absence under FMLA. For those not familiar with FMLA, it is a law that grants employees (unpaid) time off of work for various reasons while protecting your job in the process. It can be used for things such as a personal illness (in my case), a new baby or adoption, to care for a sick relative, or military leave. Effective immediately, I left my appointment feeling like an immense weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could finally breathe. I went home, read a great book, and then took the most amazing two and a half hour nap. I slept like a corpse (Probably a bad analogy under the circumstances), as if my brain and my body could just let all the tension go and finally rest and recuperate.

I'm feeling more hopeful now that I have this time to build my mental health back up. I'm still scared to return to work in two weeks. Or the prospect of starting a new job all together is equally daunting. But for now I'm going to focus on "me" the next two weeks.