The Next One…

In the 24-ish hours since I have first posted, I have not gotten any better at titles. I feel as though whenever I have an idea of how I organize my posts, they may actually be somewhat witty or meaningful to the article. But until then, I will accept that these titles have no meaning and serve necessary text I need to fill before posting.

In my day of mostly laying in bed feeling depressed, I have had time to think on what I don’t want to do with this site. I don’t want this to be something I write at the end of the day to rant about the way that having anxiety affected my interactions with my peers or how depression keeps me from living my life.

Ex.: Oh my gosh guys, I went to go get coffee today and the barista told the guy in front of me to have a nice day, but not me. Is it something I said? Did I not say something? Should I stay to see if she said it to the girl behind me? Does she know something about me? Should I know her name?

Thats an extreme example and my anxiety doesn’t work like that in pointless interactions like that. It generally acts up in regards to relationships and people that I care about. But the gist is that I don’t want this to be an emotional outburst where I rabble on in circles. That is how anxiety is strengthened and how I crash and spend the next 24 hours trying to feel safe in my bed.

I also don’t want this to be a depressing biography that goes over events that I feel have had a negative impact on who I am and that I wish never happened. That is equally as pointless because I can’t change any of that.

Ex.: When I was in 6th grade, I liked this girl and thought she liked me back, but then she told me in front of a lot of people she didn’t like me and that made me insecure.

Again, an extreme example, but isn’t it crazy how stuff from 6th-8th grade never really leaves the forefront of your mind? Granted, context may be necessary in some cases, but if I wanted to replay traumatic experiences, it would be a lot easier to just stare off into space for five minutes instead of spending an hour writing it down.

I previously mentioned that this is not my journey’s beginning, but something that I have gone through for quite some time. While it is unfortunate that I have had to spend so much time and energy feeling like I’m not worth the time and energy, it has allowed me to practice reflection and attempted understanding. While my understanding is often hindered by my depressed fog, reflection has allowed me to figure out where I’m stuck… just not why.

One of the things I have thought of is what is the point of knowing the why. If I go into a computer repair shop cause my computer won’t turn on, I am much more concerned with leaving with my computer turned on than leaving with it turned off knowing that manufactured obsolescence is a bitch.

But as one of my friends recently told me, thats not how fixing works. It’s a process and I won’t just be fine in one day. Talking about it will make me feel better.

The only problem is that I feel like I’m not suppose to talk about it.

The image that I used in the last post was one of having a gun pointed to my heart. If we are having this conversation of “what else aren’t you telling me?” then here is what I will look like. You’ll see me look up from whatever it is I’m doing, close my eyes for a few seconds and press my lips together. My hands might clench into fists or grip each other. Then I will open my eyes, I will look into yours, and I will not say a single word.

This isn’t a tactic of intimidation, this is what I look like as a hostage of my depression and anxiety. I feel physically incapable to tell you what I really want to say and I wish that I could.

A few weeks ago, I returned to a place of anxiety after being away from it for a long time. I was shaking all day, my mind was racing, and I could not calm my mind to save my life. I cancelled dinner plans with a friend that evening and told her I was on the edge of freaking out and I didn’t want to lay all of it on her. I then proceeded to sleep for 5 hours. I wake up late evening to feeling like my mind was completely hijacked. It told me to not talk to anyone, don’t ask for help, go drive to the parkway and figure this out on your own. So I did that. As I was leaving, my friend who I was suppose to have dinner with, let’s call her Lauren because I don’t want to use the names of anyone I know, calls me. My mind just completely rejects the idea of answering and tells me to just let it go to voicemail. As I drive the 20 minutes to the parkway, I just feel my phone blowup. Text, text, call, text, call, text, text. I started to feel overwhelmed and felt I was digging myself into this hole I couldn’t dig myself out of. I would have to explain myself to so many people, answer texts apologizing for not responding, and all of this while trying to lie and telling everyone I’m alright and not backsliding into a bad place. So I get to an overlook on the parkway, park the car, and just try and pray. I do this for about 10 minutes and I realize that I need help. God wasn’t going to send an angel in my passenger seat to bathe me in holy light. So I look at my phone to see that Lauren has texted me a few minutes ago, demanding I call her back. I realize that of all the people I could call, calling her would be the scariest one, but also the best one to do. So I call her and she picks up, voice filled with concern. I tell her I’m sorry. Thats all I feel like I can do. She asks where I am, I tell her, and she comes on her way.

During the time she is on her way, I just sit there in fear. I start going through the scenarios of what happens when Lauren arrives. I imagine her seeing me and starting to scream at me, telling me that I’m selfish and to never do what I did again because I worried everyone. I imagine her telling me that school isn’t the place for me right now and that I should just go back home. I imagine her hitting me and crying because I made her worried and sad.

Then out of my peripheral vision, I see Lauren’s car pull up. I just keep looking at my wheel because I don’t want to see her disappointment or for her to see my shame. She comes up to the window and knocks. I look up and she beckons me to open the door. I close my eyes and do so, ready to receive whatever I deserve.

She hugs me.

I had hugged her plenty of times, but at this moment I felt so undeserving of any sort of kindness or love that I had to hold back from crying. But I didn’t want to let go.

I confess that whenever I find myself needing comfort and feel alone, I try to conjure the memory of Lauren hugging me that night.

After a bit, we start talking about what’s going on and why this came upon. I talk to her about how I don’t know what’s going on and that I feel ashamed of feeling this way. I thought my dark thoughts had left me, I wanted them to have left me. I told her about how I feel like my life won’t be as long as others; that at 30 I wouldn’t want to continue living.

After comforting me and talking with me for a bit, she asked me what else there was. That feeling came over me of “yes, but I literally can’t tell you,” and I was able to tell her that. It took 10 minutes of me looking at her and of her stubbornly sitting there in silence before I was able to tell her. It felt like I had to grab the words from down my throat and pull them to the top.

I hate that feeling and I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t want it, but its there. It feels like I’ve been conditioned to not tell people what is wrong. I have to try and pretend like everything is alright and put a smile on for everyone. I want everyone else to be okay, so I’ll be okay for them.

It seems that acting like that has caught up to me as I don’t have the energy to be okay anymore.

But from that experience, I understood that when I am like this, I have to be completely terrified in order to feel peace. I imagined that God wouldn’t send an angel to sit in my passenger seat and give me peace, but apparently he had one that I could call and would come take care of me.

It’s through this writing that I hope disarm that gun on my heart. I’ll be able to share with those I care about what I want to tell them. Until then, I don’t feel like I’m living life. I feel like I have child restrictions and that certain parts of this strange, wild world are just cut off from me.

But it is late. Rest is important for me to understand this. Sleep well.

– Nic