Mental Health: Mental Illness + Disaster Fatigue = Stagnation on ‘Roids

Coming at you live from a bad day. I slept for 12 hours, too exhausted to get up when my alarm went off after the generous, allotted ten. Could-barely-lift-my-head-exhausted. My contact case, typically in the bathroom drawer, was on my nightstand when I woke, indicating some type of night time ~activity~ AKA sleepwalking. I assume moving around unconsciously contributes to what seems like unqualified exhaustion, but why the hell am I on the move in the middle of the night? I don’t think risk of night rearrangement of toiletries is on ashwaghanda’s side effect list.

I’m so upset and feel so helpless about what’s going on in our world. I thought the mildness of New York’s last winter was a fluke, but I haven’t seen any snow in the forecast. Even when there is a rare flurry, it’s been too warm to stick. In Australia, 500,000,000 animals are suspected dead as of two days ago, and I can’t bring myself to google current numbers. The ecosystem is up in flames, and we’ve got an evil Twitter tyrant wiping out an evil military tyrant, causing the populations of their respective countries, America and Iran, to spiral into a hole of fear, worry, anxiety, and devastation as we collectively presuppose the unrest to come. People, often low-income, choice-less people, will die because idiots are at the helms.

I was emailing with an Iranian friend, checking in on her and her loved ones given the latest. While she and I go to school together in NYC and she and her husband are currently in Dubai (where they live), her parents and family are in her homeland, Iran, and these are just regular people subject to the whims of a violent general like Americans are regular people subject to the whims of the erratic star of The Apprentice.

All over social media are horrific images of what’s happening in Australia and begs for money to help the country stop the destruction, somehow, and salvage what they can. My $5 feels like a drop in a bucket that couldn’t extinguish a single match. Meanwhile, Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, sitting on an estate of billions of dollars, sent their thoughts and prayers.

As a privileged white lady, I have the luxury of logging off all social media / internet for a day, or a week, or whatever, and my world seems unchanged. I know that if I do something like that disconnection, though, I won’t forget that the chaos is still seething beyond my bubble, that the skin of my safe cocoon isn’t and wasn’t ever as thick as I thought. It’s all connected, and it all matters.

Political, environmental, or even just compassion fatigue paired with the spoils of mental illness is a real doozy. I crawled out of bed and the sun started going down in every sense, orbitally, mentally, emotionally, motivationally. It’s hard for me to sit here and write out this worry and devastation and, again, I’m privileged that I’m able to even process and record feelings while so many others are in survival mode.

It’s come to the point that sitting still makes me a part of the problem.

But, I’m mentally gridlocked, and a helpless, infuriating stagnation has descended upon my days. It makes me want to go back to bed, but I’ve got a book to write. We’ve got a world to fix. I’ve got an in-laws’ house to move out of. I’ve got a carbon footprint to offset. I’ve got golden retrievers from the Yulin meat festival to rescue. I’ve got word impeccability to employ and practice. I’ve got guilt about my homeless brother to carry. I’ve got black Americans to champion. I’ve got the exhaustion of feeling like an ant pushing a rock uphill to overcome. I’ve got the worry and very real consideration of whether it’s a good idea to bring a baby into this world to ponder. I’ve got people in my life who don’t think climate change is real, or believe it’s simply biblical destiny and are complacent. I’ve got the reputation of being alarmist, of being too sensitive, of being a snowflake. I’ve got major depressive disorder and anxiety disorder. I’ve got too many plastic bags, too many things I feel guilty about dropping into a landfill-bound trash bag day after day. I’ve got the knowledge that the U.S. military does not properly re-assimilate or care for veterans, resulting in proportionally more deaths by suicide, and I have guilt that the people who read this for mental illness knowledge, community, or solace are getting none of those things today because I’m having a crisis.

And I’m one of the lucky ones.

There are days when I don’t know where to turn, how to cope, or how to move forward. Today is one of those days. Today I feel damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

I just finished reading Lindy West’s The Witches are Coming, and near the end she addresses this very fatigue with a droplet of hope in regards to all the exhausting current issues we face.

Build it into your day. Every day you call. Every day you write a letter. Every march you march. Tax yourself. Protect your community. If you’re waiting for a grown-up to come fix it, stop. Be your own grown-up. Be your own president.

[…]

“…this world is beautiful and worth saving. Do not despair. Despair is the death of action. Go, act, fight.”

The Witches are Coming by Lindy West, p. 231

There is always a day, crystalline, tantalizing, diminishing behind us, that was just before the point of no return. When we knew, but we didn’t act. If only we could go back. Well, today is that day. Tomorrow is that day.

The Witches are Coming by Lindy West, p. 257

I’m surrounded by rich, white people. I am a rich, white people. My surroundings are disillusioned and inappropriately calm, and I do not accept it. Sometimes I need a day to grapple with both my own demons and current events, and while today is that day, tomorrow is another, another chance to restart, redirect, recalibrate, refresh the fuel to fight.

cousins @ 2017 DC Women’s March

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.

More on Bummed Out Baker:
Mental Health: Productivity
Mental Health: Suicide Looming
Mental Health: Spiral


Do you love Bummed Out Baker? Want to help keep it going? Support me on my Patreon. Your contribution means more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website to find the form. Follow Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild, Facebook for mental health articles and discussion, and Twitter for sassy or informative tweets.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

Mental Health: The Sad Clown: Part 3 (Final Installment)

This final installment of The Sad Clown makes me cringe. It’s dramatized, saccharine, and all of it’s true. There is some blood, and there are some guts. So, proceed accordingly. As always, thanks for being here.


After Ashley broke eleven bones at Alex’s hand when he drove them into three telephone poles, I painted her toes while she was immobilized in the hospital. By freshman year of college my nail polish collection had expanded beyond clear, and I used an iridescent purple, the same color as her candy painted Mustang GT that had just gotten ripped to pieces by the jaws of life to get my brother out of the driver seat. He was meant to be dead on arrival to the hospital, but he wasn’t ready to leave life yet. He had many more years of traumatic offerings for himself and his loved ones. “And many more.” It was like the classic birthday wish gone awry.

Alex’s femur was sticking out of his left thigh and his blood alcohol level was three times the legal limit. He was losing blood too fast. He’d knocked out the power to an old folks’ home and his helicopter chariot landed in their lawn to whisk him away. Awakened by the disturbance, old people began to shuffle outside, wind blowing their hair off their necks and foreheads as they saw a helicopter leave them to reconcile the remnants of the bloody, powerless disaster.

“Bailey, wait.” My dad grasped my shoulders, bracing me physically and emotionally for a disconcerting sight. “The way Alex looks is extremely upsetting. But, just remember, it’s your brother. It’s just your brother.”

It.

[read full piece here]

More on Bummed Out Baker:
Mental Health: The Sad Clown: Part 1
Mental Health: The Sad Clown: Part 2
Mental Health: Painting with Words


Do you love Bummed Out Baker? Want to help keep it going? Support here. Your contribution means more to me than you’ll ever know!

To subscribe to Bummed Out Baker by email, scroll all the way down to the bottom of the website to find the form. Follow Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild, Facebook for mental health articles and discussion, and Twitter for sassy or informative tweets.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, please call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.