I’m having a hard time writing this down, but if I don’t, it’ll probably just get worse. Over the last few weeks, I’ve reached out to some dear ladies in my life that I’ve noticed have been struggling lately and I’ve tried my best to provide emotional support and lift them up the best I can. I’ve been pouring my heart and soul into an event at work that has turned into my metaphorical child and the impending doom of it being birthed in a few days is making me so anxious. More so anxious in a “I want to see how this unfolds” rather than “Oh God why?!?!” type of anxiety.
With this event, I’ve been looped into hundred of emails that have to do with everything from booking a speaker, down to “do we need cans or boxes to collect surveys?” Every minute detail has been scanned over tenfold by my tired eyes. I’m pretty sure my supervisor is tired of my obsessive checklists. The voice in the back of my head is screaming at this point, but on the outside I’ve managed to maintain relatively cool, calm, and collected. As a last minute detail, I was forwarded a piece of writing that will be shared at the end of this event and I spent bits and pieces of my workday reading it.
For reference, this event is a suicide prevention educational forum. This is the type of event that has been brewing in the back of my brain ever since I returned to school from inpatient psychiatric treatment. I wanted to shove this information down the throats of anyone that crossed my path. It was(and still is) a priority in my life to make sure no one had to feel like I did right before I checked in, or if they did, to make sure that they knew they weren’t alone. Or to make sure everyone knew what it looked like when someone they knew might be on their way to rock bottom. My superiors at work are surprised at how passionate about this event I am. And damn right, I’m fucking passionate about it.
This piece I spent my day reading was from the young man that will be our keynote speaker. A young man that is a suicide attempt survivor and mental health advocate. Without spoiling it, his message was central to this: speak up. No one will be upset that you did.
It made me think back to when I had to be brutally, painfully honest with myself and a group of then strangers each and every day. I said how I felt about five times a day. I took time to check in with myself to see where my head was in that given moment. And most of the time it wasn’t good, but I still shared so we could talk it out and talk it over. I used to write so honestly and blunt. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, but that I did care. I did care about being as transparent as possible to show that sometimes things aren’t ok, and that’s ok, becuase they’ll probably get better. Things don’t get better if you don’t(or won’t) face them head on.
And what that all beings me to is this: I checked in with myself today for the first time in a long while and I am not okay. I’ve been filling my time to the brim with “stuff” in order to avoid feeling. People ask me how I’m doing/feeling and all I can muster is “stressed, but it’ll be over soon haha” or “I’m good.” The occasional “I’m losing my goddamn mind”, but followed promptly with a smile and a laugh as if I’m joking. I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion finally settling in from maintinging such a high level of functioning or what, but I’m crashing and all I can do is cry about it.
I’ve been reminiscing about my time in treatment. Although it was hard in several ways, I was allowed the time to rest and heal my heart. My only concerns were making sure I woke up on time to get my meds and had all my shit in my bag for a fun filled day of group therapy. I didn’t have a ton of options for distractions. I had to sit in my feelings, work them out, and move the fuck on. I was on a tight schedule and my life was generally contained to the property the facility was on. There was excitement in going to the grocery store once a week. All in all: Things were simple.
I need simple in my life, because at this point my life is anything but simple and it’s driving me into the ground.
Although I feel like I’m headed for a nosedive into the concrete, I do feel different than before. Like I’m spiraling, but I know it’s going to get better. I want to stay in bed for days to cry and sleep, but I know that tomorrow moring I’m going to prop myself up out of bed, slam some coffee, and head on my merry way to my 365th day at the job I love so much.
I guess I’m writing here for some form of accountability, because I haven’t said shit to anyone and I feel like that isn’t going to get me much farther than where I’m at now. Putting it all out there in the open helps me stay honest with myself. That’s all I’ve got.
S.O.S. Help, please.