Scene: the clinic, outside, in the parking lot.
I can barely walk in. The gear grips me. Am I dying? Because my whole life is flashing before my eyes, or at least, the last 9 years of my life. I so desperately need and want something to make me believe in something good. FEEL something other than doubt and pain and the weight of needing to be OK and the band of anxiety that grip my head like a barb wire, ne, razor wire. I need love. Something thats not there. Something to tell me that the further down I go, the closer I can get to it. Crack. Break. And Believe.
The fear continues. The doubts. The existential thought that Im trapped in this forever and once you get one glimpse of getting out, some saving grace, you cling to that, hold on, but not too tightly, because the grief comes back. It always seems to come back.
I’m scared Im going to do this all wrong – do therapy wrong? I mean it sounds funny even as I say it. But I can’t get it out of my head. My way. This is all wrong. None of it is supposed to be happening. Man what a world OCD can create, or is it perfectionism? Who knows these days. Maybe its obvious to everyone else, everyone but me, how far I feel like I’ve fallen. Ah the down fall – America loves a comeback story, right? But what if the comeback isn’t really what is necessary. What if its just an acceptance of what is. Of being human? Because trying to live up the insane expectations that the world sets sometimes doesn’t quite work. I don’t think there is a come back. Only maybe, a come, differently. An acceptance that things will be different. That you can’t go back. You can’t, recreate, you can only grieve, and move forward.
I switch pens. Something other than black to make me remember theres more to life than just the black of fear and despair. Than there is bright, bold things in the world. Depth. Character. Excitement. Connection. Love. Those seem to be lost to me right now, fearful that they’ll never return. The hate is what gets me the most – as Nathaniel Rateliff would say, “I can take the pain, but I can’t take all the hatred.” It rings very true. I don’t know how this all got so hateful. The black of it all. It seems so unmanageable. I need forgiveness, acceptance, crave it, rather.
I see a lady walking by. Her shoulders slouched, that look like she’s been here for a month and feels the despair and pain that I do. She looks worn. The weight of it all bared in her body. I want to hug her, just tell her, that its OK. This. Is. OK. To feel. To go, down if you need to. But also, to be a human, and to shed some of it. The weight of being perfect, of being a person thats accustomed to high achievement but when that high achievement breaks, what then? What do you fall back on? But alas, we try to reach it, never managing, always failing.
But this is all mixed with the poignant thought that when a former coworker of mine asks me what I would like to do with my life, the next 5 or so years (like I can get through the next 5 minutes) – I tell them success, a house, a life – but really, all I want to say is my health. My presence. My mind. I’d work at REI and eat ramen noodles for the rest of my life if I could feel the love and affection of another human, maybe, more likely, from myself too, just maybe. Its a poignant moment when you really learn that money – things – success – don’t really make you happy. I mean they can help – or bring excitement for sure – and we all say we know this lesson, we know this rule, right? But what happens when you actually LEARN it? The hard way. That all that truly matters is someones head on your chest, the smell of grass, the sight of 14,000′, a cold beer after that height, and family & friends & relationships. That’s really it. Everything else is dust. Fairly land, temporary. It doesn’t come to the ground or the sky, pending your spiritual dabblings and imaginings. Its all gone. But in the best way. Not that is doesn’t matter, but it only matters in a way that you can find what makes you happy and maybe it equates to $40k and maybe it equates to $300k. I don’t know. Im just sick of having to decide between the two. Its not that I don’t want success, I just wish the world was kinder to the $40k group, because they might be happier than you and I.
I recite my diagnose’s like a rap sheet. Generalized Anxiety (the world is ending); Anorexia Nervosa (addictive and intoxicating, basically, but killing yourself in the process. Feels like what I imagine heroin would feel like); OCD (the devil, incarnate). Little do they know I can twist and turn them and manipulate them into whatever little puzzle I want to. Or maybe they do know, and that’s the most obvious, painful piece to it all – does everyone else know, but me? Everyone aware, but me? How much pain I’m actually in? Maybe Im not the smartest one in the room, for that is my greatest fear, that its written all over my face, and Im the one in the dark. I can feel it as I look – try to look – at everyone else. The reason I can’t look them in the eye – is because I’ll break. They’ll know how hurt I am. How dark I feel. How angry I am. How, just, afraid I am. They ask my family history and are surprised when I say I don’t have any family history of mental health. Like a nice little jab that I’m the one to kick this all off for the crew.
After all this has come to bare, Day 1 is complete. And I feel, worse. Darker. More scared. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be – opening up all the darkness for everyone to see. At this point, I don’t see any other way. I can’t hide it all in anymore. It’s not pretty. It’s not exciting. It’s not fun. But, I guess it is life, and it is real. That’s the part I’m trying to accept. I hope this helps someone.
The Search for Gratitude 