Sometimes, I feel bad for Rick. Because depression is nonsensical, I cannot put into words why I feel the way I do on blue days, and he’s just subject to whatever my brain serves up that day. He wants to help, and cannot, which makes him feel powerless. I want him to be able to help, but cannot connect solution to source. When there aren’t guaranteed steps to take to make my brain shift back to something at least tinged with joy, I feel like a racket. Then, I project my insecurity onto Rick, deciding for him that he’s tired of me and my wealth of issues. He brought a lot into our marriage, and sometimes I feel like I only brought bad stuff. I cannot understand why someone would want to stick around me for life. How exhausting. I don’t even want to stick around me for life. I’m exhausting. And exhausted.
At the tail end of a recent blue day I asked Rick, “Wait, is this why my parents say you’re the answer to their prayers? Cause you took me off their hands?” which cracked us both up. At that point I was starved for a smile.
I know I’m funny, or whatever, but then I think about the other things I am: controlling, bossy (in a bad way), uptight, orderly, sad, someone who sleeps for 12 hours regularly, picky. Basically anything that could be deemed exhausting, I am. My brother and I were talking the other day, and he was going through it that day, too. We agreed that there’s a tightrope we have to walk across every day. If we don’t have our meds, good sleep, quality food, alone time, and a work out we lose our balance and the whole dam breaks loose. Everything you’ve been keeping at bay floods in and you have to grab a life preserver. Sometimes that’s 13 straight hours of sleep. Sometimes it’s three stiff cocktails. Sometimes it’s eating a cheese board meant to share, even though your body doesn’t respond well to cheese… but enough about me. Sometimes it’s legal drugs, sometimes it’s illegal drugs. When you’re grasping to survive, unideal things bob up to the surface, something to grab for a moment to simply make it through. It’d be so, so easy to let that life preserver pass you by and accept your drowned fate. I think that’s what happens when people lose their battle with mental illness. They’re just too tired to grab onto that life preserver, if there even is one, because they know they’ll dip down, pop back up, and have to restart everything all over again.
Sometimes relationships get marred, and sometimes jobs are lost. Sometimes weight balloons, and sometimes loved ones are concerned because you don’t have it in you to answer a text or call. Lifting your head and squinting at a blinding phone screen taps your energy. The more you need to do something to move forward, the harder it becomes to do that one imperative thing. Whether it’s making that call you desperately need to make to a boss, friend, parent, sibling. Whether it’s getting on the yoga mat or elliptical because you know it’ll make you feel better. Whether it’s avoiding writing like the plague, or drafting posts for Bummed Out Bailey instead of piecing together and reworking my thesis and book proposal. The latter is the classic writer’s plight, I guess. But! It’s nonsense to want something so badly, for me it was to have these school years to write full time, and then when you’re gifted with this incredibly privileged opportunity you freeze. It’s infuriating. It’s exhausting.
Some days, I’m just tired of me.
Wednesday posts cover something that’s top of mind for me that week and are written in a short period of time. This means that editing is not strong. While it’s not my best work, it is my best, unfiltered thought.
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If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.