TW: depression, anxiety, PTSD, intrusive thoughts, self-harm.
This isn't a post I thought I'd be sharing. At least not any time soon. I'm a pretty private person, and I don't feel the need to talk about much of my life on the Internet. At the same time, I'm a writer, and one of the best ways I process things is through words.
One of my biggest goals in my writing is to create something that makes people feel a little less alone. While this is my life--not fiction--I have a feeling that what I have to say will resonate deeply with quite a few of you.
The past year has been a lot. I'm sure many of you noticed my absence from socials. And while there's still a lot I won't talk about, I want to share how it impacted me.
2022 was the hardest year of my life. And when I say that, I mean it. I hit the lowest of the lows. I experienced depression. I've always dealt with anxiety, but now came PTSD as well. I didn't know how to handle it, and I think it got the better of me a lot of the time.
I'm not better, but I'm doing better.
There were a lot of struggles--too many to recount here--but I think the worst was the loneliness. Those around me did the best they could, but most of the time it wasn't enough. My circle wasn't well equipped to deal with such a spiral.
Almost everyone I tried to talk to either had advice or they didn't believe me or they tried to relate on a very superficial level. I tried my best to avoid them. The conversations that went:
"How are you?"
"I've actually been really depressed."
"Oh, me too. There's just a lot going on. It's really getting me down."
No. Not like this. Not to the point where you can barely pull yourself out of bed. When you have to sleep for 16 hours a day to feel any kind of rest but actual sleep is fitful. When even the smallest things make you cry because your nervous system is so overloaded it can't handle the pin drop. When you start thinking that if you drowned yourself in the bathtub at least then you wouldn't be suffering.
You know you won't do it. In fact, it's actually your brain showing you how much you want to live. But the fact the thought was even there scares you beyond belief. And through it all, no one really understands. Because you can't fully tell them. Because you're worried they won't want to hear the truth.
I learned that sadness makes people uncomfortable. Having a problem that people can't fix makes them uncomfortable.
I made people uncomfortable.
I was like a reminder that no one is safe.
There were things I tried to maintain. I knew I enjoyed writing, reading, food. None of that interested me anymore. I had a creative itch and absolutely no energy to scratch it. I was still working at the time, and most days I would pull myself to work, do my shift, and come home to stare at the ceiling. It was all I could manage.
Group settings became a challenge. I couldn't focus on conversations. I'd dissociate often. I was overwhelmed all the time. I was forgetting things that used to be easy to remember.
Through it all, I'd keep badgering myself because "you used to be able to do all this."
I'm not good with missing goals, and I'd missed every. single. one.
I just wanted my life back. I wanted to find joy in the things I knew I loved.
I started seeing a therapist. There were those who tried to insist I see one when they started to notice a problem (read: when I told them there was a problem because my circle had been seeing me deteriorate for years and said nothing). For me, especially at the time, being told I had to do something pushed me so much farther from it--however true it may have been. I needed the space to make my own decisions, and those around me were still trying to make them for me.
When I finally did make those first appointments, I didn't know how much help it would be. To this day, I don't know if I could draw you a linear chart of how therapy has helped me. What I can tell you is that, after almost a year, I'm starting to feel like myself again. For me, it was a safe space to talk to someone who understood how what I went through affected me on a physical level. How things weren't just in my head, and it wasn't a matter of pulling myself up by my bootstraps. I didn't have to prove anything.
Reading all this now, it's hard not to cry. It's hard to see myself so empty. I often think I let myself get that way, but the truth is: none of it was my fault.
I still have hard days. It still feels like there's a part of me that's missing. But I have more good days now, I think. At the least, I'm writing again.
I've been thinking a lot about what I want my life to look like. What are the things I truly find joy in? Not just what I think others expect of me. (Read: recovering people pleaser.) For now, I'm just holding onto the fact that it feels really good to dream. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to think about the future--which is wild for someone as goal- and future-oriented as myself.
I'm not really sure where or how to end this. I guess I just hope that if you're reading this--if you've experienced something similar--maybe this can help you feel a little seen.
Because I do see you. I see the way you smile and it doesn't meet your eyes but you do it anyways. I see how you go out of your way to help others when it feels like there's so little of yourself left to give. I see you fighting for just one more day because maybe tomorrow will be the start of things turning around.
I see you, and I'm really glad that you're still here, and I'm really proud of you.