a blog about depression, anxiety, and writing
I haven't written in a while. Life has been hard, and my depression and anxiety make it really difficult to do anything. Every thing feels like a chore - even 'simple' things like brushing my teeth and showering and going to bed (even though I'm constantly exhausted from fighting every second of every day!) are so hard to do. But I do them because I have to. I do them because if I don't the demons living inside my head will grow. They'll get harder to fight. And they may even win. But I can't let them win, so I get up every day (even though it takes more energy than I have to get out of bed) and I take my meds and do my best to give all I can for that particular day. I am learning that I can't give 100% every day. However, I can give 100% of the 30% I may have to give that day. This is a hard thing for me to learn because I grew up trying to be perfect. But being a perfectionist hurt me more than helped. It took me a long time to get to where I am today - where my best is actually still winning; my best is okay. My best is good. My best is all I can give and that is okay! I'll write more on this another time, but I still struggle with perfectionism. And I have to be consciously aware of my every thought (for many reasons, but one of which is perfectionism). There are moments each day that my best doesn't feel like it is okay. Last night, I sat in my bed crying and telling myself I was a failure. That I fail everything. That I never seem to be able to 'succeed.' That I can't do anything right. Thing is, this was all triggered because I made a sort of promise to myself that I would go to bed earlier. And I failed... that is, I didn't take my medicines even close to when I told myself I needed to, I didn't get into my bed until much later than I 'should' have, I didn't fall asleep until way later than I needed to. I tried so hard. I tried to get off the couch. I tried to move my body. I tried to activate my limbs; I tried to get my brains to send the signals to my body that it could, and needed to, move. I tried so hard, but I couldn't move. At least, not then. Eventually, I moved. Eventually, my brain listened to me and sent those signals to my body. Eventually, I sat up, stood up, walked to turn the lights off and check the door (again), and went into my bedroom. I sat on the bed, and I cried. I realize now that even though I didn't meet my expectations, even though I have been trying to succeed for a while now I still didn't fail. I may not have 'succeeded' in the exact thing I wanted to, but I still won.
It just feels like I am drowning. Drowning in life. Drowning in depression. Drowning in panic and anxiety. Drowning in responsibilities, and essays and repressed emotions. Drowning in pain. And drowning in every possible negative emotion flooding me all at once, but I can't feel a single damn thing.
But I feel everything.
All. The. Time.
I am a poet. A writer. A student. A fighter. A survivor. I use writing as a means to understand my world, my experiences, my struggles. I use writing to cope, to escape, to help myself and others, and to relive.