Real Life and Raw Words

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As I have learned over the past few years of writing and sharing my stories, I have come to find that my style is to write with emotion, connect it to a bigger picture, and tie it together with a bow of hope and inspiration. I began writing for myself but saw that other people resonated with my words, and that was one of the motivating factors in continuing to write these posts.

So, what happens when life gets messy and words get jumbled? What do I do when I want to share positive thoughts and meaningful insights, but feel at a loss for keeping that bow neatly tied, holding my words together in my heart? As my sister suggested, I should write about this too. The experiences I’ve had recently should also be highlighted, because it’s real life too. And if someone else out there can connect to these words, then it is well worth the fear to write it.  

I pause here, as it is hard to put words to pain sometimes, especially when the pain is numbing. While this may seem contradictory, I think it accurately describes these past few weeks. It starts slow, with extra sleeping and a dose of heavy crying, and then it morphs into panic attacks and fast heartbeats. Loading the laundry machine one day, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. Starting my car one morning, I felt sick to my stomach. The “resting anxiety” was seeping into my skin and choking the air I breathed. It calculated my every move and kept me filled with panic and fear of the unknown.

I became really depressed, not knowing when or where my anxiety would strike. Some people go on high alert, whereas for myself, I shut down. I cancelled plans with people I enjoy spending time with. I skipped meetings I knew I would like to attend. I was paralyzed with fear that my anxiety was a weight too heavy to bear in public, and my depression fed me lies that I couldn’t be helped. I couldn’t taste food or see sunshine or hear laughter. I felt like a walking zombie with no destination.

I wish I could say that something happened and I could point fingers at what triggered these episodes, but I am learning that it doesn’t make these moments any less real. It’s as if I had a reason for the chaos, then it would make sense that it was happening, therefore being acceptable. Unfortunately, the formula isn’t that simple.

I kept telling my family that I was scared. It felt like my medications were failing me and I didn’t recognize myself. I kept trying to grasp onto a thread of trust that I would get through this, but the line kept getting thinner and the boundaries were blurred. I got frustrated with people who didn’t understand my pain and I was furious with myself because I couldn’t explain it. I took the anger out on myself, beating myself up for losing the words that carried my voice. Here I was, writing about being your own mental health advocate, and I couldn’t even identify the body I was living in.

Tears are falling down my face as I write this, feeling the burden of trying to keep up the act that I’ve got it together. I felt selfish for wanting more out of my life than being dictated by the bullies of anxiety and depression. I thought I was crazy for suddenly plummeting to a dark place that was cold and unfamiliar. It seemed like everything I had worked so hard to overcome has come crashing down to the harsh reality of the life I was living.

I don’t want to believe that this is all we are meant to be. I don’t want to accept that the way things are is the way they will always be. I have faith that life changes and we continue to grow, despite all the challenges and setbacks. Just as the sun sets and rises on a new day, there will be another opportunity to revive our heartbeat and begin again. So I sit at my computer, with just my words and my heart, praying we can see that our soul’s journey isn’t finished here, and the light we shine beams on this precious and fragile world.  

 

 

Share Your Story: July 2015

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You hear those sayings, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” And, “You need to think before you speak.” These would play in my mind as I continued to battle depression. I thought the world was cruel and ugly, so I had nothing nice to say. I thought about how people would chit chat and talk nonchalantly about the weather. I thought that was a waste of time. I didn’t want to participate in those conversations because they seemed fake and superficial to me. I felt that not speaking was a better option. I didn’t think I had anything to contribute anyway.

Students would ask me about homework assignments. Friends would want to know what I thought about the latest movie. Leave me alone. I don’t care. But instead I said nothing. I did not feel like conjuring up the effort to have conversations. It was too exhausting. I spoke when spoken to, and participated in class when called on. But as far as I was concerned, I believed being silent was the answer to an unspoken question.

I wanted to shut myself out from people. They talked too much and all I could hear were mumbles and whispers, echoing through my thoughts. I wanted someone to grab me by the shoulders and shake me, yell at me, anything necessary to get me to speak. But I felt like my voice was no longer a part of me. It was swallowed by the depression, another side effect that this illness brought into my life.

There comes a time when you forget what it feels like to say something and have people listen. I was silently screaming at the world. Other people’s happiness bothered me. Don’t you see the world that I see? I hated that I was in so much pain, it made my voice become torn pieces left scattered on the floor for people to walk over. Nothing I said had any meaning, so I chose to say nothing at all.

People started walking out of my life, and I had no words to stop them. Others became concerned, but I couldn’t express myself to convince them I was okay. I let people say hurtful things, and I had nothing to refute their points. Losing my voice was my way of saying that there was actually nothing to say. I didn’t understand my depression and what was going on. There are no words to describe the feeling of not being able to say anything.

It makes me think of how many people suffering from this mental illness have felt like their words do not matter, that their thoughts shouldn’t be spoken. You have to be able to say out loud what you need, to give the world and the people in your life an opportunity to give it to you. I had so much to say, but nothing I wanted to share. By shutting myself out like that, I could not explain what I needed. I wanted people to be mind readers and that’s not fair.

I urge each and every one of you to share your story. It took me a long time to find my voice, and I want to speak out for those who feel silenced. I am learning to articulate my thoughts and feelings and I encourage you to do the same. To a family member, to a private journal, don’t let the words go unsaid. You are worthy of being heard. Know that there are people who will love and cherish what you have to say, if you only give them the chance. Here’s your chance: don’t let it slip away.