Let's Talk About Mental Health

I've been struggling lately, and I just realized it. Funny how things catch up to you like that.

I had a dreadful week. I couldn't muster up the stamina to get nearly any freelance work done, rationalizing my decision with the fact that I have minuscule savings holding me afloat. Even though I wasn't working, I actively avoided working on my book with my deadline quickly approaching. The dishes in my kitchen sink have reached Mount Everest's potential - I even bought paper plates to continue avoiding them. Don't even get me started on laundry; I haven't touched the washer and dryer in two weeks.

Instead, I've numbed myself with mindless activities: video games, movies, television shows, books, articles, doom scrolling, and more. I've been doing anything but the things I need to be doing. I feel like I'm running away from something, but I have no idea what it is. There's this feeling in my chest that feels constricting if I even think about doing the things I need to do. The things that are piling up and becoming much more daunting than they ever needed to be in the first place. It's like a fist is balled up around my heart, tugging and pulling it in different directions. It makes me sick; no, literally, it induces vomiting if I think about it too much.

I stayed up until four in the morning the other night thinking about plane crashes. I have to fly in nine days' time, so that's no fun. That then caused me to think about the fact that I might give myself a panic attack so bad on the plane that it kills me, which is also a pretty miserable thought to ruminate on. The other day, I thought about the vastness of space and the fact that one day, though it's very far away, the Earth will be swallowed up by the Sun when it turns Supernova. I thought about the fact that even before that potential, the moon will move out of the Earth's gravitational pull, leaving our planet lifeless and desolate. These thoughts make me feel so small - meaningless. They scare me. I panic. The panic makes me even more terrified than I was before. I also thought about what it would be like to hurt myself, you know, permanently. I play different renditions on a loop in my head, disturbing myself. I'm afraid of my own thoughts.

I need to highlight the fact that I'm not suicidal, not in the slightest bit. I am so afraid of death I don't even give myself the chance to live. That's the problem. My mind is a neverending pit of gloom and doom, exhausting and haunting, all at once. The thing is, it's not always this way.

I have Bipolar Type II. When people think of Bipolar Disorder, they think of Type I most often. The mania that comes with Type I is associated with risky behavior that may put the sufferer's life in danger. People with Bipolar Type II don't experience mania, they experience what's known as hypomania. What does this mean? Well, for me personally, it means that every couple of weeks there are a few days when I'm human again. When I can do the normal things that everyone else does, such as take care of the house and myself, for that matter. When I don't think about life and death. When I don't collapse in on myself.

When I'm not experiencing hypomania, I'm in a depressive state. It's hard for me to come to terms with the fact that I'm depressed because I don't see it that way. I'm able to have conversations with friends and laugh and have fun, but there's this constant battle going on inside my head, so I do anything I can to ignore it. That includes binging content and media and staring at screens an incredibly unhealthy amount. Living online and in stories makes it so I don't have to think about how bad I actually feel.

Sometimes I stay in bed all day, at least for the most part. I make sure the needs of those around me are met; my dogs and my child. Then, I neglect myself. I rot away under the covers, and it feels just awful. It feels isolating. It feels embarrassing. It feels shameful, even. I let the clock keep ticking. I let time pass. I let chores pile up. And I feel disgusted with myself. Those feelings make it even harder to do what I need to do to get better. Because I know cleaning the kitchen will boost my spirits. I know taking a shower and brushing my teeth will make me feel rejuvenated. I know going outside and getting some fresh air will bring me life. I still choose not to do them. I hate this aspect of myself. I get angry with myself because I know I can get up and do what I need to do, I just can't. I'm weighed down by an invisible problem.

I'm trying to give myself grace. So, tonight I asked myself: "Why was it so hard to do things this week?" And I realized, it's because I am sick. I forget sometimes - really, most times. This is a lifelong condition, and I do not have mental health care like I used to, so things aren't going to be as easy for me as everybody else and even my past self. It still frustrates me that I am able to recognize these patterns within my life and feel powerless to stop them.

I was laid off in February, and I've been applying to tons of jobs every week. There's one question that always catches me off guard, no matter how many times I come across it. "Do you have a disability or a record of having a disability?" Often, this question comes with a list. This list includes Bipolar Disorder. I always want to answer "no" because I don't feel like I'm disabled. I feel like I'm lazy, no good, rotten, and useless. Insults that have been hurled at me and stuck like glue. But, I'm not. I know I'm not. I want to do better and be better, but I recognize it's not that easy.

I saw an image recently that really resonated with me - just replace the word "success" with "progress".

Many things can be true at once: I'm not doing well. I have not had a good week. I've not been the best parent I can be. I've not been the best person I can be. I am sick. I've also overcome a lot of obstacles. I have found the strength to do things I don't want to do, including things as simple as showering and brushing my teeth. I've pushed through harder times before, and I can get through the tough times I'm going through now. I had a baby at 21 and graduated college with no delay. I pushed through the pandemic of unemployment and achieved a master's degree. I wrote a whole book while juggling a household and jobs. I keep the lights on in my house. I make sure there is food on the table. I make sure that I tell the people I love that I love them. I did, and continue to do, all of it with Bipolar Disorder.

This bad week is not the end of the world. It's just a setback. I am not my mental illness. Though it controls me sometimes, when I get the strength, I always fight back. I will catch up on my chores. I will work more next week and make enough money to keep myself afloat. I will get better, but I will also get worse again. That's okay, as long as I continue to get back up. And I intend to, always.