It's like you're being split open, my mum said. Childbirth. Pain no woman knows until they have been through it themselves. I was at that age when you ask about everything – how are babies made, what happens when you die... I didn't like the sound of being split open. Why were people still having babies if it hurt that much? But mum said that as soon as I was handed to her she forgot all about the pain. Her body healed and she had a brand new baby – it had been worth it.
As I recover from my second episode of anxiety and depression, I am catching glimmers of what is coming next. When I was at my worst, just ten weeks ago, my close friend Emily held my hand and said there would be something good at the end of all this. It is difficult to admit that I was struggling to live back then, even when, on the outside, there was nothing 'wrong' with my life. It's not your fault if you don't understand. I didn't, either, until it happened to me.
It has been up and down, with a debilitating two weeks at the start of it all, back in June. But right now I am excited for the future. Everything feels new, like I have never written a blog post before, never eaten porridge for breakfast, never known the joy of living a simple existence – underneath the dark screen I couldn't see past for so long was this wonderful fresh layer of hope and I can't help but think... maybe it was worth it?
If mothers can give birth and fully recover, with a baby to love and look after, I wonder if I might, too. I'm not thinking about having children anytime soon but I do wonder if I have the ability to bounce back from difficult experiences? Because what I am experiencing now is so much better than I could have ever imagined.
God never gives us more than we can handle, so I've been told. But there were moments, days, weeks when I felt like I couldn't go on, like I would never get better and like I had never felt worse. I knew the pain I felt wasn't from God, but I wondered where he was, why couldn't I reach out to him and feel the peace everyone was talking about? Why was this happening to me, again? But even when every slow second of living felt worse than the thought of death, I kept going.
Setbacks shake us out of our routines and cause a right shit show. Ten weeks ago I was waking up with heart palpitations, my whole body stiff with fear, every limb double its weight. It literally happened overnight,
just like the first time. Simple tasks like showering and putting on clothes were mammoth, exhausting, impossible without the help of my mum or dad, talking me through it all as I cried down the phone. I was scared of everything – of leaving the house, walking to work, of the day ahead, of coming home, how I would feel tomorrow, of the past. The rational part of my brain fought to be heard among all the lies the emotional part was telling me, often to the point of sheer panic and despair. It baffles me, then, that I am now in a position in which I can sit here and write about this horrible ordeal, with some kind of new and improved perspective, when I, the same person, was thinking and believing terrible things about myself just weeks ago.
I was naive, I understand now, to think a prescription for antidepressants would rid me of the depression and anxiety I had experienced in 2013. I never thought I would feel like this again. I thought I had it under control. But really, it was sitting there at the back of my mind, waiting for the right opportunity to attack. Over the years I had put it to one side, thought of it as something I had dealt with and didn't want to talk about or associate myself with anymore. It was easier to get on with my day-to-day life than dig up the root of my anxiety and depression with the help of a professional. But then it came back and I had no choice.
I tried to write when I was in the midst of my crisis, but my brain had stopped working properly. It was as if a switch had been flipped. I tried to read the
blog post I wrote last time I was in recovery, but I couldn't concentrate on anything for more than ten seconds. There was no room in my mind for anything except dark, deep sadness, a feeling of total isolation and melancholy. The joy had been sapped out of everything. I saw everything differently, everything dark. Dull, depressive despondency made everything I usually loved bad. I didn't eat, I didn't exercise, I didn't even want coffee! The only escape was in my sleep, which was irregular and often disrupted with nightmares, anyway. I didn't know how I could have ever felt any different to this.
Everyone says depression isn't a weakness, it's an illness, but it certainly makes me feel weak. It makes me tired, hypersensitive and completely dependent on other people to help me get through each day. I look at others my age who live in cities far away from their family home, who travel the world solo, who are able to cope with everyday life and feel like a failure in comparison. We are encouraged to be happy by ourselves, to follow our own paths, to do whatever we want to do -
so long as we're strong and independent.
This message is everywhere - on social media, in blogs, books, magazines, TV, but it is so damaging. We all need a support network, a community around us, we can't do it all by ourselves.
I'm just going to say it plain and simple: it's okay to be lonely. It's okay to need company. It's okay to need community. It's okay to need friends. It's okay to need love. It's okay to need physical touch. It's okay to want someone to look after you when you're feeling unwell. It's okay to want to come home to a family and not a messy house you share with people you don't know. It's okay not to want to live alone or want a high-powered career, or a career at all. It's okay to want to live one day to the next with the simple aim of enjoying it. It's okay to be different to others your age. It's okay to still need your parents at 26 years old. It's okay to be completely and utterly vulnerable even if your mind is telling you it's not.
I used to look back on my past with some kind of sense of superiority, as if I had it all figured out now with my "proper" job, my stable mental health and the fact that I was 100% independent, living away from home and supporting myself without anyone's help. But who was I trying to prove myself to? I am already accepted, already flawed, already never going to earn the only person's approval I need, because I already have it. Once again I was living according to some made up rules I had set myself to try and keep up with everyone around me.
"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."
– Psalm 139:13-14
It took another breakdown for me to come back down to earth and refocus. What is important to me? Why do I do what I do? What am I living for? Why don't I talk about my mental health more? Why don't I ask others how they really are? Why am I constantly comparing myself to others? Why am I afraid to be vulnerable?
It might not be the obvious route for most twenty-somethings, but I am now living with my parents again in my hometown and adopting a slower pace of life. I have a new job (which I love) and am beginning to enjoy living again – not for anyone else and not by anyone else's standards. I am learning about what I need to take care of myself and my mental health – meaningful human contact every day, community, purpose, serving. I am trying to keep the vulnerable part of me vulnerable, allowing myself to cry, talk about the worries I have that I never thought I would voice – be really real.
Wouldn't it be great if mental health wasn't such an awkward thing to talk about? For me, it's almost as if pretending it's not a problem is exactly how it manifests. So if you're still reading this (thank you!) and you are going through something similar, have done, or know someone who has, I'd love to talk to you about it. Who do you turn to? What advice would you give? Please leave a comment below or email me at whatnaomiwrote@gmail.com.
