A Rare "Good" Day

I’m writing this on a rare “good” day. There haven't been many of those lately. Maybe you’ve noticed I haven’t written one of these in a while. Maybe you haven’t. To be honest, even I didn’t realize how long it had been since I sat down to write.

I’ve been very torn about writing this at all. Mostly because, most days, even watching a tv show that I’ve seen a half a million times feels utterly impossible. Partly because I’m a very angry person right now and I don’t know exactly what will come out when I write. And lastly because I’m not sure how I’m going to find the adequate words for the past couple months. But on this rare “good” day, I figured it was worth the try. So, please bear with me.

As I’ve reflected on what to write in this post, what to say, how to say it, how much to share, how honest to be, basically grappling with trying to put words to the seemingly impossible, one image keeps coming to mind. That image? The ceiling of my living room. Weird, huh? Let me attempt to explain…

Up until January 19th, I was fully functioning in my life. Well, that could be stretching it, maybe I should just say, functioning in my life. To almost everyone around me, I actually think I could say “fully functioning” and have it be truthful. To the select few that had more of an idea of what was going on behind closed doors, even just the word “functioning” may seem like a stretch. I think that’s the key to talking about mental illness. What someone looks like, or how it seems like they’re doing, can often be drastically different to how they are actually doing or functioning.

On the outside, I was showing up to my job. I was on time. I was prepared. All my lesson plans were done, my videos for remote learners were meticulously made and posted ahead of time on Google Classroom, I had a set plan for the day. My classes were still doing three deep breaths with me before we started each class. I was doing my normal recess duties, chatting with kids, making the occasional stupid joke that kids would roll their eyes at, all the “normal” things. I would eat lunch with my coworkers, meet online with remote learners, joke around and talk with kids on our daily walks around the school grounds, chat with my colleagues before and after school in the hallway. Again, all the normal things. All the functioning things. All the things I was supposed to be doing. At the end of the day when everything was complete, or as complete as it could be, I would tidy up my classroom, pack up my stuff, and head home. Those are all the things that other people saw. I looked…”fine.”

When I would get home, it would become a different story. Even though I was severely depressed and all I wanted to do was sleep, I would usually take Rocky for a walk. I wish I could say it was solely for him and for his happiness and wellbeing, but if I’m being honest, it’s more that the “eating disorder voice” in my head almost always wins out over the “depression voice” in my head. So, we would go on our walk, that was a lot more for me than for him, and during that walk, I would think. I would rationalize with myself that things could not be nearly as bad as they felt, because look at me, I’m taking my dog for a walk. I just finished work. Everyone thinks I’m fine. I look fine. I act fine. Maybe I am actually fine? Yes, I’m sure that I’m fine. I have to be fine. I would argue with myself in my head, trying to talk myself out of the chaos and crisis that I was pretty sure was my life even though I didn’t want to admit it. Yet, when I would walk back into my house, it would become very evident that all that arguing with myself was in vain, because I was indeed, very, very, very much NOT fine.

During normal times, I would usually jump in the shower after our walk to wash off the day and to relax. At the very least, I would change into my pajamas for an evening of relaxing and cuddling with Rocky on the couch. But in the weeks and days leading up to January 19th, these things would not happen. Instead of moving forward with my evening, I would suddenly realize that I had absolutely nothing left. To the point where I would collapse on my living room floor, still bundled up in my warm winter workout clothes, and just...lay there. It was as if I could not make my body pretend anymore. I couldn’t even talk myself into the idea that things were ok. Things were most definitely not ok.

Laying on my living room floor, staring at the ceiling, I would sometimes lose all track of time. I’m not kidding you, sometimes I would lie there for hours, just numbly staring at the ceiling, too tired to think or to move or to talk, and definitely too tired to get up and eat supper and keep pretending that I was a normal human and everything was ok.

Writing those words, I feel a sense of shame. Of embarrassment. They make me cringe, just writing them. I know that I’m big on telling the truth and being authentic and being a mental health advocate, but man, something about confessing to an unknown number of people that you have spent an embarrassing amount of time laying on your floor because you are literally too unwell to function is pushing it, even for me. I hated those times. Well, I should say, I hate those times. Because, even though I would like to say that I haven’t ended up on my floor lately, it would be a lie. I, in fact, have spent more time on my floor. And on top of feeling just as devastating and shameful as the first time, every time I end up there, it’s reinforcement and disappointment that it was not just the stress of work that was making my life irrevocably not ok. But something much more than that.

These are the glimpses of reality that others don’t usually get to see. And that’s the hard part, well, one of the hard parts, about all of this. Because I could put on a pretty kickass “show” during the day. Even to people that know me pretty well, and that knew of my previous struggles. This is what made things even more frustrating and confusing, even to me. How in the world could I be the normal, functioning, smiley, person joking around and being effective in my job….yet, just a couple hours later, be a comatose, numb, unmoving blob of a human being on my living room floor. It didn’t make sense to me, still doesn’t, so how do I think I’m going to find the adequate words to make it make sense to all of you? That’s been the million dollar question lately. And I still don’t think I have an answer for it.

I’ve been very resistant to writing this. For all the reasons I said at the beginning, but also, because I’m tired. Yes, physically and emotionally and spiritually tired, but tired of my life as I know it. Tired of the cycle. Tired of seemingly doing all the “right” things, and still ending up on my living room floor. I’ve always said that this blog has been not only for me, but also for others. I always write in hopes that I will reach someone where they are in that moment, give them words to their situation or feelings that they haven’t been able to find, to make someone feel a little less alone. Give someone the chance to say, “Me too,” even if it’s just in their brain as they silently read and nod to themselves. That’s always been the goal.

But if I’m being honest, which has been another one of my goals through this blog, I get angry too. I find myself bitter sometimes, resentful, frustrated, that I have to be the “poster child” for mental illness. Rationally, I know that this has all been my choice. To write, to be honest, to share. But I haven’t been very rational lately, and I’ve found myself so angry that I feel like I “owe” everyone an explanation. To use my struggle for good. To look on the bright side of this. To see the purpose of this. Because, honestly, none of this feels “good.” None of this feels like there is purpose, like any good will come out of it. Sometimes I sugarcoat things a bit on here, try to spin things in a positive way, leave everyone with a message of hope or of optimism at the end of each post, even the hard ones.

But, if I am truly going to be honest, this post can’t end in that way. I don’t have it in me. Instead, I’ll say words that are true. I don’t see a purpose for this pain. I don’t see any of this making a difference, any good coming out of this dark, dark time. My reality doesn’t look very bright right now. Even as a great pretender, I’m not pretending very well anymore. I can’t sit here and honestly say that I think everything will turn out ok. That I’ll come out stronger on the other side. Because my reality doesn’t feel or look like that. Instead, it just feels like pain and exhaustion and hopelessness. It looks like yelling at the people closest to me who are just trying to help, pushing others away, ignoring texts, isolating, laying in the dark under a blanket in the fetal position, sleeping through the day or not sleeping at all, appointments upon appointments, and this crippling, overwhelming feeling that this darkness inside me will never leave.

I am angry. I am exhausted. I’m sick of doing all the “right” things, and nothing getting better. I’m sick of pretending. I’m tired of reassuring everyone that everything will be ok, when I’m not convinced. My soul is weary.

So, did I owe anyone this post? Maybe, maybe not, I guess, depending on your perspective. I’m sure it won’t make anyone feel better. I was kind of hoping it would at least make me feel better, but I don’t really think that is the case either. But my hopes are that maybe, one of you can relate. Maybe, one of you will feel a little less alone, or have your feelings validated, or maybe just be thankful to see my name pop up on your newsfeed. And honestly, the fact that I could muster up those relatively small hopes is actually kind of a miracle right now.

Maybe, a day will come when writing a post like this doesn’t take me multiple hours over multiple days. Maybe you’ll be able to scroll through Facebook on a Wednesday night and find more regular posts from me. If you’re one of those sweet people who’ve texted me to get no response, maybe someday my name will pop up on your phone again. Maybe I’ll be able to be at school and make stupid jokes that cause my 6th graders to roll their eyes. Maybe I’ll be able to be out in public and not feel like I’m hiding and avoiding interactions with people. Maybe, if you’re one of my people, you’ll be able to get through a conversation with me without me yelling at you. Maybe there will come a day that I’ll be able to hold my own hope again. Maybe.

I don’t know what the future holds. It’s way too much for me to think about right now anyway. So in this moment, I gave as much truth as I could on this “rare good day,” and that will just have to be enough for now.