Some days I curl up in a ball on my bedroom floor –the bed
behind me and the wall in front of me, a big blanket covering me up and
weighing me down. During those times I am no longer the person that can work
and function and make important decisions – I can only sit there, sometimes
crying, sometimes staring at nothing as the anxiety impedes my life.
Some days I can’t sleep. So I’m up all night and my mind
races and I write beautiful stories and poems and jump from topic to topic.
Sometimes the anger takes hold and I storm out of the house in the darkness and
I walk from one end of town to the other, uphill both ways. Sometimes I feel on
top of the world and I’m super sensitive to touch, and sound, and smells.
Some days I get out of bed, only to fold into the most
comfortable chair in the house, wrap a blanket securely around me and sleep the
day away. Those days I can barely drag myself to the washroom or make dinner
for the kids – and forget leaving the house. Sometimes I can’t feel anything –
my arms and legs are dead weight, my mind is shut down to only basic function,
and feeling – it’s all or nothing – pain so deep that it feels as though I’m
splitting in two, or nothingness; I don’t know which is worse.
Some days I wake up wrong… skewed. The world is tilted and
everything is set to annoy me, the little things, the big things – everything
sets me off. I’m explosive –not just angry, but filled with rage. I see things
and hear things with a filter that makes everyone hate me. It hurts and I feel
jaded, even though I’m the one making things worse. I’m the one losing my
temper and yelling and out of control. I’m the one that is making a big deal
out of a miniscule look, or word, or touch.
And some days… I’m normal,
level, rational, and logical. Things make sense and although triggers and
stressful events happen, I can still handle them with grace and dignity. On
those days I wonder who the other people are that kidnap my body and take over.
I feel humiliation over the ways that I have acted and the things that I have
done. I apologise but it never feels like it’s enough. I strive to change who I
am and I vow to never let anxiety, or mania, or depression, or anger take a
hold of me again. I become determined to be somebody different the next time,
and I work a little bit harder on the daily exercises to train my brain, the
physical exercise, the healthy eating plan, and the maintenance of my routine.
I take the medications I’ve been prescribed and tell myself that I am more than
a disorder and that I have got this.
I continue to work, and parent, and live my life and I move
on because that statement is truth… I AM more than a disorder and I AM capable
of not just surviving, but of THRIVING.
Two years ago I was a different person. I accepted my
disorders but didn’t know that there was so much more to it than a diagnosis. I
was told they were lifelong conditions, to take my meds, and to go to therapy.
At times, I’ve used the terms anxiety, depression, bipolar, and borderline
as a crutch… an excuse… a reason for why I am the way that I am. But over the
past year I have made a change in the way that I have used those terms and I
didn’t realise just how it would begin to change my life.
By refusing to accept that I can’t be level because of my
diagnosis, I have fundamentally changed how I now deal with life. I refuse to
believe that I am defective, damaged, or simply unable to deal with triggers
and the stress of life. I have bad days, but through hard work and training my
brain, I am able to push through and remain present in my own mind. I am able
to say ‘I need help’, and determine
when things aren’t quite right. I am able to face my anxiety and fear and
tackle things (slowly and in my own time) that had previously been off limits
to me. I am able to say to myself – I know you’re tired, let’s get through this
and not give in while the new meds kick in.
I no longer believe that I am broken. I no longer need to use the term ‘I can’t because I’ve got anxiety’ or ‘It’s not my fault I’m (depressed, manic, borderline)’. I no longer need to feel wrong, guilty, embarrassed, damaged because it is what it is and I am slowly getting better. I might never be cured of these lifelong conditions, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t live a good, healthy life. I might need help now and then… support from family and friends… doctor visits to maintain… or even a brief hospital stay to put me back on track, but I’m here and I am not simply a diagnosis. I am the key to my own mental health. I will keep working, and fighting, and most of all winning.
