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Here’s another night I return to my bedroom, alone, with a face full of streaming tears.
Another night of trying my very hardest to muffle my sobs so as to not let my family hear.
Another night of clinging desperately to my childhood security blanket as I attempt in vain to rock myself back to a sense of stability and control–in vain because I haven’t felt the slightest bit stable or in control for months upon months now.
But tonight all this emotional havoc is not due to my debilitating depression or rampant anxiety; at least not directly. See, I return to work tonight after weeks upon weeks of avoidance, neglect, and downright abandonment. It’s not like my job is the hardest in the world, or even terribly exhausting or despairing. I really used to thoroughly enjoy it even. I work with/for seniors. It’s hard not to feel some sort of satisfaction upon the care-taking of such vulnerable and appreciative people. But everything sort of changes when mental illness comes knocking.
Not only does it rob you of every last ounce of energy, enthusiasm, and capacity to experience pleasure. It takes away your ability to feel yourself capable of maintaining yourself enough ho complete even the most menial tasks.
Tonight I’m returning myself to the environment I fled across a whole country to avoid. As if I could flee from the monsters within my head. In all honesty I’m downright terrified and really only writing this to avoid spiraling back down into the depths which catalyzed me into running in the first place.
But my dear family thinks I can do it. They have faith in me, even when I haven’t the faintest shred of it for myself anymore. These past few weeks, the only thing that has been keeping me going is their unwavering faith; their certainty that I can beat, or at least manage (because one can’t really say they have beaten an internal affliction as they would a physical one. You don’t so much beat mental illness as weather the brunt of it) these monsters in my head.
My father, the upstanding Corrections Officer who cannot for the life of him voice his true and vulnerable emotions due to a childhood plagued by the domineering cruelty of an abusive, alcoholic father, went to the city to buy me a new pair of running shoes for my return. Hoping, I’m sure, that maybe they might provide me with some shred of silver lining to look forward to. Or just something to look down upon in my weakest moments and remember that there are people cheering me on.
My incredibly nurturing mother giving me the biggest bear hug yet and telling me how very proud she is of me. Upon my claim that I haven’t even done anything yet she looked deep down into my eyes and told me, “Yes, you really have.”
It’s little things like this; her asking if I would like her to stay up with me until I’ve got to head off even though I know she has trouble sleeping already and she’s got to be up early in the morning herself. Or my little brother showing me seemingly endless funny YouTube videos just to keep the gripping anxiety at bay; these things make me believe that maybe, just maybe, I might actually have half a chance here. That maybe my story won’t end tomorrow, next week, or even next year by a couple good slices to the wrist or a swan dive off our local bridge.
Tonight’s been like most other nights for me recently; tear-soaked pillow and puffy eyes, but the reason behind the tears is oh-so-different from my usual angst. And maybe just because I know that I have a family full of love and courage waiting back for me here, I’ll just be able to manage it.
I’m really not sure. Heck, I’m not sure of anything anymore, but I’m really going to try. And even if I’m not trying for myself anymore, I think that’s okay. I’ve since given up my past grandiose ideals of man existing solely for himself. Life has a way of breaking a person, of tearing down ideals and crushing man’s spirit. When the monsters inside a person’s head won’t stop screaming and their wounds won’t stop bleeding, anything that enables them to get up and battle it out another day is something to be proud of. Mental illness has broken me, but I don’t think it’ll break me. See I’ve got the best family in the world backing me up. They believe, with all their might, that I can do this. So maybe I can. Maybe I just will.
About the Creator
Little Wanderer
Independent scholar & world traveller
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