Many of you now know that I've been dealing with manic depression, or dysthymia, for several years. That wasn't always the case; I remember carefully stepping around eggshells to keep it hidden from all but my closest friends throughout high school (my family included). But recent times and developments have persuaded me that, rather than keeping my problems hidden, I should be more open about them in order to foster a climate of warmth and positivity around me.
Today, I screwed up in that respect. I blew up at one of my best friends over minutia that I'd been brooding over and building up for weeks. In that moment, there was nothing but chaos for me. I mean that literally - I've been prone to blackouts at my peak emotions for some time. This usually meant during panic attacks caused by anxiety, but this was different. I didn't feel the familiar forced clench of my fist from hyperventilation that has always heralded an attack.
Rather, once the fight began and my voice was raised, things went dim. I only remember a rouge curtain over my vision peppered with flashes of light and a loud ringing that quickly overtook reality. I didn't even remember what I did during the actual fight until those present reminded me after I found myself on a couch I had to be led to, still shaking and partially blinded.
As I said before, I've decided to be more public about my problems in this manner. This would have been an isolated incident previously, but I'm finding a solace in writing about it. After I staved off a panic attack by writing eight pages of disparate and meaningless thoughts, I came to the realization that writing was my best medicine in these times. This post itself is therapy to me.
As such, I'd like to talk less about the actual blackout (because that still frightens me) and more about how I plan to avoid more of them. This was a negative situation, but I'm choosing to take the best from it. I did learn a lot about how my mind works from it. You can learn a lot about a machine by figuring out what causes it to break.
I'm, unfortunately, a very self-depricating person. The best way I can describe my thoughts on a daily basis is as a nagging middle-school bully sitting behind me at all times. My depression can manifest as a wayward thought second-guessing myself. "You may have aced that test, you lucky bastard," he'll taunt, "but good luck on that final! You're going to need it, stupid."
More often, though, it's less blunt. It's a constant reconsidering of reality. A friend will compliment my shirt, and I'll remind myself that it'd look better without my fat ass belly bulging through it. I'll meet a girl and as she smiles at me I'll run through thirty reasons why she'd never date me. I'll show a friend a song, and if they don't like it, I'll delete it from my playlist and convince myself it was shit anyway.
As the years have gone on, I've become more and more worn down by these thoughts. I've found myself with trust issues by the dozen. I wake up every morning and end up working on my hair for an hour because maybe a new hairstyle will make me hate the way I look a little less. I've learned to give up and move aside rather than speak my mind, because I'm terrified that they might run away if I do. After all, if I don't love myself, why would they?
That's the long and short of it - I don't love myself. It's painful to admit, but I've wished upon countless shooting stars and tossed coins that I'd wake up one day and be somebody else.
If you didn't know that about me before now, I'm sorry you had to hear it. But, luckily, this isn't going to be a sad blog post. Instead, I'm ready to stand up straight.
There are going to be bad days and good ones, but I'm not going to allow myself to make good days bad anymore. I'm not going to hold myself back because I've convinced myself it was a stupid idea anyway. I won't tell myself I can't or that I'm not capable. I'll eat all three meals because I'm not that fat, and I can skip a workout and not be a failure. And, no, my face isn't perfect. My hair won't ever do exactly what I want it to do, my acne scars aren't going away without some laser surgery, and looks-wise I'm certainly no James Dean. But hell, I'd say I look pretty okay.
These are the things I will be telling myself from here on out. I'll remind myself multiple times a day. I've already been doing so, but it's all too easy to lapse back into depression. It's even easier from there to fall into hopeless desperation, and I refuse to end up in that place again.
I can't say what the future will hold, but I'll face it with conviction. From here on out, you might see me smiling a bit more. You may see me wearing things that I want to wear, because damn it I want to. If I give you a seemingly random compliment out of no where, here's why: nothing makes me happier than making another person smile. Besides, isn't that the golden rule? Treat others the way you'd like to be treated. I'd like to treat myself better, so I'll treat the world likewise.
There are two post-its on my bathroom mirror as of today. The first is on the mirror itself, about eye level. It has an arrow pointing towards where my reflection stands, and it reads as follows: "This guy doesn't suck." It may seem braggadocios to you, but it's a genuine reminder for me. I'll wake up and see that note every day from here on out, and I'll smile even as my brain tries to tell me I shouldn't.
The second is a bit less blunt and sits to the side of my mirror, still in view but out of the way. This one is stuck to the wall with a pin so that it doesn't fall. It reads, "Life is For Living", which is the name of a Coldplay song and a rather poignant phrase to me. Life is for living, and it's too short to spend hating myself.
I'm not going to become happy overnight, but any change has a starting line. That line was marked in ink when I marked my rib with a bird to permanently remind me of how far I can fly. I won't hold myself back anymore. Life is for living, and I'll live with a smile.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete