By: Mental. And Manic
It started with the panic attacks.
Then the withdrawal from family events. Holidays, especially.
Next thing I knew, I was standing in my therapist’s office waiting by the front door, hoping someone would pick me up because I was ready to check into a facility.
I called my best friend. A therapist, though that didn’t really matter to me. I wanted someone to validate me. To let me know it was okay to take matters into my own hands. To do something drastic without it being the worst case scenario.
My boyfriend picked me up from the office. He left work at the beginning of his shift to come get me. We agreed I’d go home and rest under his supervision and decide tomorrow if I still wanted to go to inpatient.
That was the day I hit rock bottom.
I woke up the next day in the middle of the afternoon to a care package of ramen, fried gyoza, and a roll of sushi. My best friend, living hours away from me, had my favorite foods sent to my door. It was the most she could do. She said it was her favorite comfort food when she was feeling the most down, and thought it might bring some love to me, even though she couldn’t be there herself. She was right. For a moment, just a very brief moment, I felt like I would be okay.
I spent days laying on that couch. Crying. Staring. Completely disassociated. No tv show helped me. I don’t think I even said a word to my boyfriend (except for ultimately deciding I didn’t “have the courage” to check into a facility.) We just laid there, day in and day out. He took the whole week off to be with me. Obviously, I did too.
I started to feel badly that everyone else was giving up their lives to be there for me. Why couldn’t I get through this on my own? I started to feel guilty. Depressed. Anxious. Alone. Yet it was the first time I felt like anyone understood me. Like, was this the attention that I needed? Was I being selfish? Was I finally being seen?
The range of emotions and thoughts ran through my mind during those days. “I’m a burden.” “I don’t deserve to be here.” “I can’t even go serve pancakes at the deli, what is wrong with me?” “Is there actually anything I want to live for?”
Then I started thinking about the people in my life and the kindness they’d shown me, directly and indirectly. Somehow, through the brain fog, I started to realize people actually care about my health and safety. One of the biggest concerns I had when contemplating suicide was my value on this planet. What was I good for? Who even cared? It started to become apparent that I had some sort of worth. I might not be able to make it outside of my house, but at least I had people looking out for me, and thankfully a therapist checking in on me daily.
That’s when it all started to shift.
I had a community. I had support. I had people who would love me the way I needed to be loved during this time, and hopefully see me through my faults in the future (though that seemed to far fetched to think about right now). If I wanted to live, I would have to take matters into my own hands.
I went back to work one day the next week. Then two days later, I went in again (for 2 days this time). I was starting to reintegrate back into society. Broken into a million pieces, and slowly, almost publicly, trying to put them back together.
There’s a neighborhood bar I have always found community in. I didn’t even need to drink, I would just go there for the people. The socialization. The fun. My third place (something EVERYONE should have because its value cannot be overstated). I hid from there for a long time, afraid of what people might think of me. I started popping in one day here, one day there. The people there asked about me. They were gentle with me. They knew I was struggling (absence can be quite loud). We talked for days and hours about all the things I’d been feeling or had been going through.
The craziest part? I found out through all of that that people were going through some of the same things. Suffering in silence. Feeling so alone with nowhere to go. I became that safe place for them.
See, it’s these moments that make me feel valuable. Sure, it sounds a little selfish, but it’s what keeps me alive. Sharing my stories, living my ups and downs, my anxieties and depressions, so publicly and letting people know it’s okay to not be okay…something about that vulnerability softens people. It allows them to see me in the way I want to be seen. It allows them to be kinder to me and to themselves (so many of us mask with jokes and performative harsh personalities). And at the same time, it allows them to feel safety in opening up with me about their lives. Their struggles. Their mental health.
THAT’S what gives me hope. That’s why I am here today. Not only on this planet, but as a writer, here, for this blog. To build community around mental health. To build strength in overcoming the things that bring us so deep down we don’t know how to get back up.
The world we live in is not easy. There is unrest everywhere. The last thing we need is emotional and mental unrest within ourselves and feel as though there is no hope.
I am here to tell you, there is hope. There is hope you will get through this. There is hope you will find your purpose. There is hope that your story will impact one person out there and change their lives for the better.
I’m still healing, boy am I healing, but for now, I am happy to know that there are people out there who have helped me through some very dark and challenging times. And I get to be right here to help others do the exact same thing.
If this resonated with you in any way, please feel free to leave a comment below. Check out our resources here if you are in need of some anonymous support. And please feel free to click the link here to share your story so that someone else may feel seen and not so alone.