Trying to Stay Sane
I don't feel comfortable sharing these thoughts, feelings, and experiences. On the one hand, I don't want to diminish the genuine struggles that people diagnosed with mental illness deal with, or equate my experiences with theirs. On the other hand, I very much believe I ought to be diagnosed, but I have not had the motivation, persistence, or whatever it takes to engage the medical system and insurance industry to get the help I think I need. I've tried the online counseling services and the EAP program offered by my employer, and both have said that they can't help someone with my concerns, that I need in-person professional counseling. But I have been unable to navigate my benefits to determine what I qualify for, nor do I have easy transportation and the spare time to leave work for regular sessions during business hours. So I self-diagnose and try to make do with my wise friends and earnest introspection.
Sorry for the disclaimer, but I didn't anyone to think I was making light. I indeed feel superbly irrational for letting seemingly mundane experiences disturb me so. Nevertheless, I can't seem to work past them or let them go. After a week of feeling completely worthless and devoid of purpose, I watched a movie that made me feel something, and I decided to try and do some adult human things to wind up my weekend. There is plenty to do, as I have been listless and neglecting both household responsibilities and passion projects. But I selected the task of sewing a button back on some work pants. After 45 minutes, I was finally able to thread the needle--and that experience was so stressful that I wanted to choke myself, stab myself, and bounce my head of a wall. Yes, I imagine hurting myself all the time--but I am also incredibly intolerant of pain and so rarely do more than hit myself. At 35 minutes, I was so close to the end of my rope that I thought about throwing away my perfectly good pants, as well as anything else that causes me frustration. I knew I was being ridiculous, but my anger level was on tilt. Then, suddenly, somehow, the thread went through the eye of the needle.
But then I knew I needed to knot the thread so it didn't come out of the needle's eye while sewing. And I forgot which end to knot--the thread closest to the needle, or the thread at the end of the tail. The answer is the end of the tail, and I know this because I chose the other end. I mustered enough patience to make sure I knotted the same spot a few times to make sure it would hold. Then, on my first pass through the button, I realized my mistake, as the knot caught in the pants, and the thread broke at the needle. I wanted to go ballistic! Nothing seemed like an extreme enough reaction, but instead of stabbing myself with the needle a bunch of times or ripping the pants in two, I decided to try to write my feelings here. And though I'm still incredibly stressed and angry, having to pause to think about which words to choose has stalled the rageburst. Still, when I had trouble typing in the url for this journal, I did bite my computer as hard as I could--that might have provided some release, as well.
I don't think I can try again tonight with the button, which is really sad because this is one of only two pair of my work pants that I actually like wearing.
I have confessed to my friends, family, and the world that I'm lonely. I have been honest about struggling with depression, and taken note of the cycle of mania followed by self-loathing that seems to regulate my life. I know that little things like stepping on cracks or brushing one arm against a surface make my skin crawl and make me obsess with getting even. I feel like my life is an act of revenge against myself, an attempt to compensate for my inadequacies by doubling them--if I can't be perfect, maybe I can be the MOST imperfect...it's ridiculous, but choosing to be a loser seems like a comfortable refuge.
I walk a half mile every morning to the Metro, then a half mile from the Metro to work, and then reverse the path in the evening. And almost every day I spend the majority of those two miles thinking about how much I wish my life were over. I am too much a coward to end my life--again, I don't like pain, but also I have a weird obsession with other people's approval, and couldn't handle disappointing my friends and family like that. So I keep thinking about the accidents that could befall me: getting hit by a bus, getting mugged and shot, an air conditioner falling from the windows high above me, even weird imagined scenarios like streets that electrify anyone in the crosswalks after the red hand appears. And each time I think of these scenarios not with fear but as a sort of fantasy, a daydream.
It's so hard to write these thoughts out. On the one hand, I want everyone I know to know I feel this way--I crave their compassion or pity. But I also know how sad it would make my friends and family to know that I feel this way, and how often. This blog feels like a way to cheat the system, as I want someone to find it after I die, and long for it to be read, but also think it unlikely that it will be someone that knows me. Therefore, it feels like a safe space for a public confession, which is silly, because the only people that would possibly look for something like this would be my mother or some close friends who knew I blogged. Loved ones--I imagine it rings hollow, but you did not fail me. I have struggled with these thoughts since I was a young child, and neither religion, nor philosophy, nor drugs, nor quality time with people I care about has stopped this persistent mantra that it would have been better had I never been born. But I was born, and intellectually I believe that means I am responsible for doing something with my vitality. Furthermore, I believe the world is genuinely a place of wonder, with natural beauty, creative spirits, intriguing puzzles, gut-busting humor, and amazing feats. I just don't feel like I belong in this world, and I would rather not burden anyone else with my silliness when there is so much wonder for them to experience.