It feels so helpless to be wherever I am currently. I honestly could not say if it is because I am 20-something, or because I actually have some kind of difference in my mental functionality–whether it be the diagnosis I received for major depression and anxiety or some other undiagnosed secret of my genetics.
Part of the reason it is so hard to be here is because it is laced with so much ambiguity. I don’t know why I am feeling this way, if it will last forever, if I am doing enough for myself and my life, if I am responsible for this feeling, or how to move on and leave this feeling behind. These feelings.
I also very much feel the consequences of my actions and constantly fear and fret over doing the “right” thing for myself and others. This leaves me in a horrible state of constantly evaluating and reevaluating my ethics and methods and thoughts.
It’s exhausting to be in my mind.
I sometimes feel so unsupported that my own strong legs shake at the effort of holding me up. I feel at any moment I may crumble to the ground and become a heap of weeping crumbs to be swept under the rug until cleaning day.
Anger boils in my lower abdomen. It sends a raging fire through my torso and my head begins to scream. This makes me uncontrollably need to grit my teeth, but inside I feel like destroying things. I sometimes wonder if I am screaming out loud in the quiet rooms I inhabit.
My stomach turns over the slightest thing. My stomach has always turned over the slightest thing. So much does it turn that I think I might be physically sick. If word vomit does not begin to exit my mouth, surely real vomit will. Only it isn’t words I need to get out, it’s emotions. Instead, nothing comes out at all. The knots continue to tie.
My heart has a spear going through it in multiple places. One of them has been there for a very long time. It enters my chest on the right side and exits through the back of my ribs. I feel the pierce of this wound always. In addition to that, I feel tiny stabs in many other places. What was once a solid, loving, emanating light is now a black mess of insecurities hidden by bandages and protected by massive shields of lies– anything to get stop the pain.
The anger that boils from my lower abdomen boils up to my heart and stops at my throat, unable to escape. My throat is scratchy. My throat has always been something of focus as a singer. I have always been affected by phlegm and allergens and fear of damaging my voice with misuse. It often clutches down on my words, not allowing them to even get passed the base of my throat, let alone form into some sort of verbal expression.
My head is clouded. It is like instead of thoughts, my head is filled with the tangled mess of earbuds and necklaces and coins and dirt someone found in their coat pocket. Endless strings, all connected and confused. All balled up in an impossible mess, with no place to start untangling. Might as well throw it all away and get a new set of ear buds.
My skin sometimes takes a grey appearance– I am grey inside. My hair gets greasy– I feel slimy everywhere.
This is the physical state of my body when I am in a depressed episode.
These feelings are all accompanied by a disjunct symphony of thoughts. Thoughts that cause the physical pains, thoughts about the physical pains, thoughts about the thoughts. I feel like their slave. I cannot stop them, I cannot express them. They are stuck at the base of my throat and in my mess of a head, never making it to a moment or point of releasing.
I cannot figure out why I am like this, how I became this way, when it all began, what motivated it. Mostly, I cannot figure out how to stop it.
I have tried accepting depression as a part of my identity, which led me to expressing the anger I felt. This happened in middle school, when I started wearing black, listening to angrier music, and facing my tormentors with the same evil they threw at me. It was deemed unacceptable by my teachers and parents.
I have tried seeking help from doctors. This makes me feel no better, just gives me a place to wallow and a numbing medication that furthers my self hatred by convincing me I am not interested in anything.
Now I am at a loss and attempting surrendering–accepting this as a part of my identity again, but somehow letting go of the anger. I’m still at a loss.
Currently I am kept motivated by the great friends and positive memories I have. I know this is an episode and it must end. It may come back again, but it must end first. Then I can have more positive memories before trying some other method.
Ps, no worries. I’m still in therapy.
2 Replies to “Journal: An Attempted Self Analysis”
It takes great courage to open up and share about this. I hear your internal struggle, and am inspired by you, Rachel, and your vulnerability! Much love to you.
Thank you, Ilana. ❤️❤️❤️