Throwing Down a Rope

My therapist asked me once what would happen if I ever found myself bored.

And not in the simplest aspect of the word; but in a lack of chaos. An absence of turmoil and pain, at least on a regular basis. If you know me, or have read my entries, you know I’ve encountered some storms that should have toppled me. In humility, I acknowledge I’ve still had positives; and some of my experiences have been self-induced. It’s slightly frustrating that I feel I have to disclaimer my thoughts, but I don’t want anyone to find me self-absorbed. Just reflective, lost, unsure of what path my life is on sometimes.

I recently returned to therapy after taking a break, due to feeling as though it wasn’t helping me any further. Potentially detrimental, as it’s not as though my depression was “cured,” since that’ impossible. I can’t even say it was fully managed. My anxiety and panic attacks hadn’t necessarily dissipated, they still ran roughshod over my brain. Depression and anxiety still scurried away like cockroaches when I could find a way to turn the light on, but the room was often dark and I somehow just became even more adjusted to the dim lighting.

As I spoke to my therapist, I said, “I’m bored. And you’re right, I don’t know what to do with myself or how to face life.” How selfish of me. To have things going okay and I find dissatisfaction in it. Yet, I also realized there are larger issues at hand.

I’m entirely neutral and shut down; I’m numb and I didn’t even realize it was happening to me. Self-preservation. I’m not sure when just getting by became how I function. I imagine the death in my life, the emotional breakdowns and recovery from them; the emotional toxicity I was exposed to all wore me down. Somewhere along the way, instead of getting stronger, I simply just started maintaining. Surviving.

I’ve always appreciated every aspect of my senses. Emotionally, I found the ties to physical effects from happiness, joy, fear, pain, etc. were what kept the experience of life complete. When you’re encountering joy and your chest swells and it feels as though a wave is rising from your stomach to your heart. It’s often momentary, but it’s there. Or the clench of your chest when you’re afraid and experiencing the fight or flight reaction to a questionable experience.

Those are gone. And I miss them. I feel broken; even more so than usual, yet I appear whole on the outside. A mirage. I still feel what I know; my depression, because it’s a mainstay. Disappointment, because it’s a common theme. My life isn’t shitty; I just can’t seem to be able to open myself to that idea or that realization.

I drink to shut the wallowing off. I drink because it’s what I know; yet it makes me irritable; it decimates the work I’ve done to get my body in shape and it often just leaves me feeling additionally depressed and run down. (Shocker that a downer might have that effect, right?) Sometimes I think it’s because my vices are one of few forms of chaos I have left. I became so used to riding tidal waves that now that the waters only throw me an occasional wave, I don’t know who I am. I live in this endless cycle of saying I’ll get back on track; yet I find myself only doing that in some ways and letting the other negative choices stay where they are. I’m excellent at making excuses for myself and fantastic for essentially justifying a negative choice.

I’m disappointed in myself for not pursuing more of my interests that keep me whole. I don’t write, though it used to make me feel as though I was accomplishing something. Yet it’s incredibly easy for me to explain to myself that maybe I’m not as good at it as I think. I can easily tear myself down in regard to my skills.  I don’t get out of the house as much as I yearn to; there’s just a mental exhaustion I carry around with me that makes me find excuses out of it. I often find myself questioning what kind of friend I am, because it seems at some point I became a less than exemplary one for various reasons. I’m caving to my depression because sometimes it feels like a comfortable friend and I don’t really know how to find the other side lately.

I’m going through the motions and it terrifies me. I used to be able to carry the negative with me; yet allow the positives to shine through. I want to laugh freely and with vivacity again. Find the intensity with which I used to approach life. Find my balance; knowing that my mental health will never be free of some of the shackles, but that I used to be able to dig up the key to free myself most of the time. I’m failing myself; I’m letting down my kids. I’m not being the friend I once was. I’m not me, and I don’t know how my strength allowed this to happen. How it slipped away without me even seeing it happen. I’m watching myself, instead of being myself. I used to chase rabbit trails in my thoughts; in my writing and now I have simply fallen down the rabbit hole. This is one of the first times I’ve written these thoughts out, shared them and not found a resolution. There is no tidy ending; not epiphany. I;ts not even my best writing.

I’m simply expressing myself because it’s a little piece that takes me back to where I once was. I’m yelling up from the rabbit hole in hopes maybe I can start to climb out. But I’m the only one who can throw me a rope, and I’m tired. So tired.

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