mental health

Annual Madness

No more New Year's Resolutions
Photo by freestocks.org from Pexels

New Year’s Resolutions. Quite possibly three of the most disgusting words in the English language. Seriously – does hearing that phrase ever make anyone smile? No. People cringe, make excuses to duck out of the conversation, or dissolve into tears. And yet the concept circulates this time of year with the same fervor and insanity as the other holidays.

Pure madness!

Because let’s be honest: how many people keep those ridiculous resolutions? Actually, let’s go back further than that. How many people set reasonable expectations for themselves in the FIRST place? No one. Alcohol, leftover holiday treats, and an abundance of positively-worded memes on social media inflate a person’s ego and set their imagination on fire. Fiction starts flowing from their fingertips that would shock speculative authors.

  • “Lose 500 pounds?”
  • “Get 6 promotions?”
  • “Become independently wealthy in 3 months?”
  • “Marry a billionaire?”

Oh, sure, perfectly rational and obtainable goals.

The brain checks out, locked behind a soundproof barrier while some primal force takes over. People write out pure garbage and proudly share their fantasies with the world. The list gets posted somewhere prominent – so you can slowly cave in on yourself throughout the year as reality sets back in. Months tick by, and you start to realize how unrealistic of a bar you set for yourself. Anxiety creeps in, reminding you that the clock’s speeding up.

You told everyone you’d be a champ by now, but you’ve barely scratched the surface. A 5K? You can’t even jog to the end of the driveway. A raise? Your boss just implemented salary cuts throughout the department. You’re scrambling to meet your fatalistic deadline and hitting a brick wall. And now depression crawls in. Because you know you’re going to fail. There’s absolutely no way you’ll succeed. (And you shouldn’t feel bad – NO ONE would achieve such impossible dreams, even with every drop of luck on their side)

December rolls around, and you’ve shredded that list, burying it in the backyard (or you burned it). But now everyone’s forcing a cheerful note into their voice and asking how you did. They’re acting like they’re any different – disguising the fact they failed just as epically. And you want to crawl into a hole rather than admit you didn’t check a single box. Misery wraps around you, inviting that feeling of failure.

Which is STUPID!

You never stood a chance! You weren’t thinking straight when you made those resolutions! (Actually, you weren’t thinking PERIOD) You had grandiose plans the Avengers would fail to accomplish. But trying to convince yourself of that? Hard to do when you’re sinking into a pit of depression. Instead, you look at the calendar and DO THE SAME THING ALL OVER AGAIN!

STOP THE MADNESS!

New Year’s Resolution are pure evil, and I, personally, don’t make them. I used to. I used to participate in this endless spiral of insanity. I made grandiose plans, failed, and felt foolish and embarrassed. Everyone bounced up to me after Christmas, asking how I did on my resolutions, and I made excuses to get out of the conversation. Obviously, I didn’t publish a novel. (No one publishes a novel in one year – not with a major company when they’re brand new to the scene) And I clearly wasn’t a size 0 (nor will I ever be – duh). Oh, and that winning lotto ticket? Yeah, the odds weren’t in my favor.

It took me a long time to finally LOOK at the resolutions I was writing out and realize they were absurd. I wasn’t expecting anything REAL out of myself. I was demanding tasks of myself Hercules couldn’t accomplish. And then I was berating myself for failing – for no good reason! If you set that bar on Mount Everest, how can you expect yourself to pole vault it? Especially if you’ve never pole vaulted in your life? Idiotic madness!

So I stopped making resolutions. Because I knew I wasn’t capable of asking REASONABLE of myself. It’s easy to think you can, that you can apply thought and rationality to yourself, but when you’ve established a pattern? Nope. (Trust me – I tried one year)

And now? Now this time of year isn’t the nightmare it used to be. And if I accomplish something during the year it’s a delightful surprise. I can work toward something because I WANT to, not because I have a list taped on a wall with a deadline. It takes that anxiety off my shoulders.

Sure, I get weird looks from people when they ask about my resolutions. But at least I’m not lying the way they are. And I leave a new year breathing easily. Which means I enter a new year the same way. Feels a lot better to me.

mental health

The Other F-Word

“Failure doesn’t define you. It’s what you do after you fail that determines whether you are a leader or a waste of perfectly good air.”

~Sabaa Tahir, A Torch Against the Night

One year ago, I hit the lowest point I’ve achieved yet. Turns out that pit of muck has a deeper level, one devoid of branches, vines, or anything remotely resembling a ladder. And the closest you get to a glimpse of light is a tiny pinprick that Depression insists might be a trick of the mind. It’s cold, you don’t want to move, and shutting out the endless cycle of abusive statements playing through your head? Impossible. And while I kept hoping my toe might touch a firm stone foundation at some point, it never did. I just kept sinking deeper and deeper – further and further into abject misery and self-hatred.

The perfect holiday mood.

Torn down to pieces by people I trusted, faith stripped away in moments, I found myself confronted by abject failure. I felt less than a millimeter tall, and I wanted to disappear. Everything fell apart, and I ended up adrift. No plan, no ideas, no comprehension. Just a mountain’s worth of self-doubt, humiliation, and the certainty that I’d never crawl out of that pit ever again.

No one enjoys failing. It doesn’t matter if you struggle against chemical imbalances in your brain or not. Perfectionist or casual seat-of-the-pants mind set – failure throws you off your game. You hit a solid brick wall, and it HURTS in every possible way. You find excuses to avoid discussing the issue with your friends and family. You look at your resume and try to invent creative ways to disguise the blip. You break out a thesaurus and write out long passages to cover the gaffe in your experiment. All while you curl up in a ball inside, wincing and flinching.

Mental, emotional, physical: failure checks every box.

Unfortunately, fails hit some of us harder than others. Yeah, I feel like every failure in my life was the end of the world. Realistic? Maybe not. (Okay, obviously not since I’m still here, but we know convincing my brain takes extra work) Those moments opened every door and window to my depression and a FLOOD of voices swept in. Statements I haven’t even heard before slammed into my head, causing me to shrink down tighter and tighter. The fact that last year came out of left field, consisted of multiple lies, and snapped several bonds of trust? Yeah, talk about an internal meltdown. Every safety net broke like a spiderweb in a hurricane.

Honestly? I was convinced this was the failure that was going to take me down for good. I saw no way out. (Not to mention ruining my holidays) Clearly, I was a useless, worthless human being. I had no future. Nothing I attempted to do would matter, because everything I touched was shit and would turn to shit. (And while people tried to convince me otherwise, failure and depression DON’T mix!)

I’m not gonna lie: it took me almost four months to figure out how to get out of the pit. FOUR MONTHS to silence the voices, to cobble together the mud and muck into a ramp I could crawl up. And the fear of failure? It hasn’t left – not once since then. It hovers over my shoulder every time I decide to send in a proposal or accept a new contract. I’m constantly terrified that I’m going to fail and destroy everything again.

I can hear you from here: “Wait, WHAT?!”

I know: you wanted an answer on defeating failure and moving on to success. That’s the thing, I don’t have the solution. Have I succeeded since I decided to stop going down the wrong path? Of course. Have I smashed every goal I set for myself this year? You bet. But did I shake that vise of failure for even a moment? I don’t think so. (Other people might disagree, and I’m sure they’d lecture me)

I still made mistakes this year. And, in my head, I’m still a screw-up. Coming into December, my body cringed in on itself. Every muscle, every nerve, every cell remembered, and it went into protective mode. My mind collapsed in on itself, and each day has been harder and harder to get up, to function, to keep going. It feels like permanent damage, like some twisted PTSD (please don’t lecture – I know it’s not, and I’m not making light of the condition).

I look at my white board calendars, covered in assignments, and try to remind myself of how far I’ve come. I scroll through my list of completed assignments – well over 150 for the year – and encourage my brain to cheer. I tell myself, “You’re not a failure. Look what you’ve accomplished in eight months!” But the shadow continues to perch on my shoulder and whisper in my ear. And I’m not sure it’ll ever go away.

Does it mean I’m going to give up? No. I’m determined to keep it at bay. To fight against the fear it engenders. And – somewhere, buried deep inside the anxiety – I have no intention of letting that failure define me. Which means forward momentum. Is that an answer? For me. It’s a better solution than drowning in that pit, at any rate.

mental health

Blue Christmas

Between Thanksgiving and the start of the New Year, there are fourteen celebrations that take place among different belief systems. (Which comes as a shock to a lot of people with narrowly-focused minds – not that it changes anything) Some have solemn, dignified practices. Others are boisterous and loud. And a few mix those emotions together. The majority, though, concentrate on a singular theme of family, togetherness, and reflection.

Beautiful, right?

For most people, it is. The vast majority count down the days to their holiday with anticipation and excitement. Halloween barely makes it out the door before they start planning decorations, meals, and gifts. (Okay, so I’m leaning heavily on Christmas here. I honestly can’t say I’ve encountered anyone going overboard on Chanukah or Kwanzaa decorations) They pummel you daily (hourly), asking if you’ve finished your shopping, your baking, your cards. You can see the phrenetic energy coming off them, making you wish you had some kind of force field or protective bubble to hide in. Because those people drain YOUR energy and heighten your anxiety the longer you spend in their presence.

Because the holidays AREN’T always happy and joyous occasions for everyone. Those same messages of family, friendship, and togetherness become reminders for people who are struggling with those very concepts. The enforced joy and happiness hammer at people struggling with their depression. And that constant badgering? Not so great for people with anxiety. (Seriously, how are you supposed to feel getting asked the same question every two seconds?!)

But denying the holidays? Sacrilege!

If you attempt to crawl away from the lights and garland and tinsel (fucking tinsel gets EVERYWHERE – it’s worse than glitter), people stare and shame you. Because who hates holidays? They can’t take a moment to listen and realize that there are underlying issues at play. That overwhelming cheer makes you feel WORSE. That you possibly aren’t on speaking terms with your family (or maybe you don’t HAVE family – 2020 took a lot of them away). Or – craziest of all – perhaps you celebrate differently from them.

WHAT?!

I’ve walked a careful balance for almost two decades now. Since I broke with my upbringing and elected to follow a different belief system from my family, I’ve encountered a lot of stubbornness, ugliness, and ignorance. Which sucks the joy right out of the holidays. And when I dare to point out the pagan origins of A LOT of those people’s habits, they REALLY get nasty. It makes me not want to participate in the first place.

The approach of the holidays equates to stress, anxiety, depression, and misery, for me. It means waiting for endless questions, hearing the same spouted nonsense (for crying out loud – “Happy Holidays” is not a “liberal cop out” – I’m being polite and respecting the fact that I have no idea what you might celebrate!), and rolling my eyes so much I get a headache. I spend more time crying during the holidays than I do the rest of the year.

And I know I’m not alone.

I think, if everyone stopped for FIVE SECONDS, and looked around at everyone around them, things might be different. STOP forcing a bright, cheery demeanor on these weeks. TALK to those around you – find out what’s going on in their minds. LISTEN to people about their beliefs, and maybe learn about a different culture and celebration for once. Take moments out to BREATHE, in peace and quiet with no one around. If you have to, tell people to go away so you can gain those moments (they’ll survive).

And, if you need to, feel bad during the holidays. You’re entitled to your emotions and what’s going on in your mind. Never let anyone tell you differently. Because, when you get down to it, they’re just one more day.

mental health

Step by Step

“I can’t eat and I can’t sleep. I’m not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know?”

~Ned Vizzini, It’s Kind of a Funny Story

Regardless of the mental battle you wage, all of us find a point where we break. The weight of that skyscraper finally sinks into our shoulders, taking our breath away. It can manifest as sinking into that pit of despair people with depression are so well-acquainted with. Your arms drop into the muck, and you lose sight of the ladder – or anything that resembles a ladder, rope, or vine. It can look like the anxiety spiral – one that gets away from you. Your entire body freezes into immobility as your brain tears off on roads even fantasy and science fiction writers wouldn’t think of.

And you just STOP.

Getting air in and out of your lungs is about all you can mange. And even that process requires conscious thought (forget that automatic reflex bullshit). In an understanding, balanced world, people would understand and give you time to recover and find your center once again. But we live in this world, where society doesn’t even comprehend mental illness. So you get side-eye and raised eyebrows. You’re expected to continue with your “normal” life, regardless of the fact that you have a planet sitting on your chest, slowly crushing the life out of you.

Obviously, reform is needed, but that tends to happen at a glacier pace. Most of us don’t have the time to wait for global enlightenment. Which means we get to add ONE MORE responsibility to the tower balanced on our shoulders. (Yay us) Is it any wonder breathing gets to be such a struggle?

I’ve been there: lying in bed with ZERO motivation to even open my eyes. Forget anything beyond that step. My mind, my body, every part of me has hit rock bottom. I just can’t do it. Except I’m an adult, with a job, with a husband, with FurKids. And while some of them may understand the state of my depression and anxiety, others don’t. (Plus, immobility isn’t the healthiest thing in the world) Never mind that the THOUGHT of moving feels like a Herculean task. Somewhere, deep inside, a part of me is screaming that I NEED to.

And I’ve gotten up every day – to my own surprise.

No ladder appeared in the pit, and I’ve certainly never championed a fit of despair in a few moments. That mountain? Still perched on my shoulders. I shift it through a simple (stupid) process: breaking my day into a series of steps. It’s a way to distract my mind away from the misery and cycle it’s trapped in, allowing me to function in the world demanding my attention. All of those thoughts may remain, but they don’t get front-and-center position if I have to focus on how to get from Point A to Point B.

Sounds crazy, I know. But when you start to break down even your morning, how many steps are involved? Keep in mind that, when you feel overwhelmed, EVERYTHING is a step. We’re talking opening your eyes, lifting each individual leg and arm, sitting up, taking each step, etc. My morning involves over a hundred steps. I counted on one of my bad days, forcing myself to think through. Because if I could make it from THIS step to THAT step, I knew I’d be okay.

If you can wash your hair, you can comb your hair.

If you can put your socks on, you can put sweatpants on.

Little, minute progresses that got me moving as a functional person. But they did something else – something more important that the outside world doesn’t get to see. Every little accomplished step reassured me I was okay. I could do SOMETHING after all. Maybe it was just tying my stupid shoe, but I did it. And when you’re buried so deep in that depressive pit, ANY accomplishment is a big deal. Managing to scramble eggs when your brain’s panicked over every decision calms anxiety – because NOTHING went wrong.

Each step was a tiny, mended link.

It sounds simple, and it looks…well, it looks mundane and useless to the outside world. After all, small children accomplish most of those steps without supervision, right? But when you feel like you can’t do ANYTHING, it’s a huge deal. It heals fractures and wounds inside. It gives you pieces of a ladder to build upon and get OUT of that pit. It silences the spiral in your mind. A collection of Band-Aids that may not cover the gaping hole, but it’s a start.

To this day, when things get rough, I walk through my steps. And, every day, I get out of that bed and go through my day. I check off my To Do List. And I feel better than I did when I woke up, staring at the backs of my eyelids. I know there are jokes out there of, “I showered today” and such. But, honestly, if you managed that step, I’m proud of you. For a lot of us, it’s a big step and important. Maybe, eventually, the rest of the world will understand that.

mental health

Real? Not Real?

Pain medications
Photo from Pixabay on Pexels

Allow me to open with a controversial statement: Pain is a nebulous concept. Why? Because if you go through life and only feel pain on rare occasions, it has one meaning for you. Those stupid charts in doctor’s offices with the grimacing faces? They actually have meaning for you. You can rate your pain on a scale of 1-10 without a problem. People take your yelps and moans seriously. You get to live in a special world – and you don’t even realize it.

Then there’s those of us with chronic pain.

We don’t experience moments WITHOUT pain. Daily existence places us in the middle to the high end of that stupid scale. Getting out of bed? Yeah, that’s a 6. Showering? On a good day, we might get away with a 5; bad days chalk us up to an 8 and require a rest afterward. When we cry out or moan or wince, we get the side-eye. Doctors and nurses sigh when they see us. When we tell them our pain eclipses that damn chart, they roll their eyes and stamp “hypochondriac” on our chart. We’re left writhing on our beds, dismissed as fakers or drug addicts. If we dare to tell them the medications aren’t working, they frown and tell us we need a rehab program.

Thus, “pain” has no true concept – not one that applies across the board. Even in this age of “advanced” medicine, it’s one of the things that no one agrees on and people fail to treat appropriately. And if you fight through chronic pain, it starts to worm its way into your mental health. After all, how many times can you hear someone dismiss your concerns before you start to believe them? Before your mind twists around and you accept that you’re wrong? Or crazy?

Pain does terrible things to the mind.

Some of my deepest depressions have followed horrific flares. Or not even flares – just intense episodes of pain that doctors decided weren’t important. It’s altered my mindset completely. I now avoid trips to the doctor until I’m in dire straights. Following a laparoscopic procedure last year, I developed a seroma at one of the incision sites. I didn’t allow my husband to take me to the ER until I could barely stand up straight and coughing almost made me black out. (And, to be fair, I protested even then. He just hauled me out to the car and refused to listen) I ended up needing surgery to drain it and earned an open wound healing for the next TWO MONTHS.

But I convinced myself it was all in my head – like doctors always tell me. There was nothing wrong, and it was my fibro flare, nothing more. I didn’t want to go the ER and end up embarrassed – AGAIN. It’s miserable describing an intense pain, only to have a doctor dismiss you as a hypochondriac. And trying to insist that you KNOW something’s wrong only makes it worse. Better to skip the visit entirely and pretend it’ll go away eventually. At least, that’s what my mind tells me.

It’s why I’ve avoided telling a doctor about the worsening pain in my lower back – for the past two years. My nephrologist yawned and told me the cyst would go away, that there was no way it could cause me pain. (And, yes, the doctor knows I have fibromyalgia, and, thus, feel pain differently than normal people) But I don’t want to feel that small and idiotic again. So I suck it up and tell myself (daily) that the pain will go away.

It’s how these “medical professionals” have conditioned me.

I read about these fantastic advances in medicine all the time. Broken barriers, miracles, cures. But pain? No one seems interested in advancing the care given there. Oh, they were quick to embargo pain MEDICATION – slandering anyone taking such medications as a drug addict. They didn’t stop to think of chronic pain sufferers when they did so. Then again, they never think of us. We’re lumped into a category of hypochondriacs, drug addicts, and liars.

And then they act shocked when chronic pain patients commit suicide. It’s a twisted cycle that breaks down the mind a little more each day. It makes you wonder if one of these brilliant scientific minds needs to experience it themselves before we’ll see a breakthrough in how we’re treated.