I moved to San Francisco State in August 2004, and I was a transfer student at that. My roommates struck me in the immediate present as gaslighting bullies. One was messing around with her perception of race, and didn't bother to correct me as I see now she was looking for an excuse to criticize an innocent person. They did turn out to be very abusive. But at first, I tried to be the one to help them get along although the roommate I met first was the sort of person who liked messing around with people, and like I said, I imagined I had wronged her by not guessing her race right. I'm sorry, hun, I didn't know any better, and remember I was in my mid-twenties so therefore, learning new things?
Days go by, boring, monotonous, chill and uneventful. These days go by and I take them for granted. I tend to forget for a few blissful moments that I am free from what really lurks in my mind. I don't focus on the fact that there are tons of ways that I could screw up my life at any moment with just a few words.
Living with mental health
We’ve all heard that line; “it’s not you, it’s me”. And I don’t mean the typical excuse to get away from that creepy tinder date you’ve been meaning to get rid of. I’m talking about dealing with mental health in general when you’re in a relationship. If you’re lucky enough the person is supportive and understanding and everything you wanted but of course the overthinking kicks in. “Do they pity me? “I can tell they’re getting frustrated with me” “f*ck it, I should give up and never let anyone in again”. All these statements whirl around your head and at the time it makes sense.
Okay, so there are many campaigns circulating now based around mental health, and it’s about time, but words on a screen aren’t always a great comfort when you’re suffering.
Dumping a bucket of water on a wicked witch is like dumping a bucket of truth on a narcissist. The difference is this. You can collect water from any place to dump on a witch. The hose, the sea, rain, the toilet. It doesn't matter. Dump and watch them melt.
I was four years old when my mom told me the story of a goat she had. Adventures of a premie who lived in a tote at the foot of her bed because she was born in too cold of a month. My mom named her Lisa.
In September of 2018, I lost my emotional support animal, Rascal. Not only was Rascal my puppy that had been there for 10 years, but he had been there on nights I put blades to my skin, nights I had been molested, nights where I tried to kill myself, nights ex boyfriends would throw me down stairs, push me out of cars, and throw me to the floor, and nights where no one was there for me. Losing him was one of the biggest pains, simply because he held all of that in his small, ten pound, four-legged body. The worst part about it was, it only took him a few hours to die. We did not expect him to grow so fuckin sick in hours and I did not expect to hold my very best friend as we had to end his suffering from a silent cancer. This drove me off the rails. Who was going to let me cry on them and cheer me up at the same time? Who was going to hold my deepest secrets and not tell a soul? In October of 2018, after nights on end of college parties, drinking bottles on top of bottles, staying around friends I knew were fake but they kept it from being silent, I knew it was time. I knew that I was ready to kill myself. I had nothing. So, I disappeared with no trace. No one knew where I went, if I died, or been taken. I drove to a psychiatric hospital and checked myself in. I told myself, if I still want to kill myself after getting professional help, I can. But first, I have to try. For a suicidal person, I was quite reasonable. I knew I wanted to get better but knew that it would take a village for someone with as much trauma as me. I was fucking scared. I had never even seen a hospital specifically for psychiatric needs. I had been in and out of the Psych wing of Emergency Rooms, but never to a hospital that specializes. I was scared, but oddly excited. I WANTED to get better. I did not want to constantly feel suicidal and sickened by myself. Just barely over a month before, I had gotten raped on my BIRTHDAY.
For a long time, I’ve been learning to manage my anxiety/depression in a number of ways. One of my first methods I started when I was 16, and that was talk therapy. I was terrified to see a therapist at first; it was already common for me to cry in the hallway at least twice a week at school, or have to go to the nurse’s office when my anxiety got so bad I had trouble physically moving around. Now I had to see a therapist? I felt like I was checking all the boxes for “crazy”, or “mentally unstable” or any of those words that made me feel like I was something to be avoided.
It is no secret that I suffer from the effects of anxiety and depression. I have struggled with the grips of these illnesses since I was a child. Lately, my mood has been less then ideal. I've been agitated, fatigued, panicked, and full of pain. There are many nights I sleep very little and quite a few days I have to fight to make any sort of progress. Self care helps. I do practice taking time for me where I can, trying to do activities I enjoy. I make a solid effort most days to get up, get dressed, shower, do my hair and makeup. I follow a pretty consistent schedule which is helpful.