Status: Broken

Just popping my head in to say I am not dead (yet) and I haven't forgotten about this place... however, I'm out of commission for possibly up to a month still.

I've broken my dominant arm so typing is a slow, frustrating process. I am pretty good at one-handed typing... with the arm I broke.

 

My mental health -- which of course has never been the most robust -- is nearly in shambles. I wanted to spend the summer catching up on projects and now I'm stuck staring at the wall. Turns out even if you're ambidextrous, there is still a LOT of things you legitimately need both hands for, not just one. Even writing to process your frustration.

When I'm back, I have a story for you about God's timing.

 

...and I'll probably also be talking about trauma because that seems to be what I do here.

Update: Nothing Has Changed (And It Probably Never Will)

I'm tired of being a useless, lazy, stupid, 'entitled,' 'out of touch' failure.

 

I'm in a busy season in my life right now -- a job I enjoy, doing a show that's been on my bucket list since I first saw it in 2018, finally making some measurable progress toward what I've always wanted to do with my life, actually managing to keep up with the household tasks 95% of the time (thanks, meds).

However, despite trying for over three decades now, I have never figured out how to stretch time, or pause it, or beat it, or whatever it takes to pack more activities/responsibilities into every day. And as a result, I sometimes have to prioritise some things over other things. Last week, I prioritised cleaning the kitchen floor over putting away the (already washed) laundry. It's worth noting that every single household chore that I am responsible for got done except for putting away the clean laundry. What did I get for my efforts? An eight-hour lecture that has now bled over into a second ongoing, multi-hour period of silent treatment because I also dared have the audacity to pick the 'wrong' flavour of ice cream for myself.

Yeah. I'm just as confused about this as you are.

I've spent the last 24 hours remembering all those plans I made to disappear, to catapult myself past the wall of sleep, beyond the stars. I stand in our kitchen doing dishes, listing all the reasons I should live... I'm doing a show that I've wanted to do since before I met my husband, I want to go shopping with my best friend again, I don't want to make my parents and siblings have to lose me like that, I want to see all those goals I have set for my dance career get met, I want to see things get better because even after spending thirty years watching my life spiral deeper and deeper into hell with no sign of stopping I'm still dumb enough to believe that it'll get better someday.

I can't talk to anyone about this, I burned all those bridges multiple 'rough patches' ago. Even my best friend snapped at me last time I told her I wasn't doing well mentally, insinuating I was selfish for thinking I was the only person in her life having problems. After that, I realised if I wanted to have any kind of relationship at all with any human being ever, I would have to hunker down and get through depressive episodes entirely alone (my husband made it abundantly clear LONG ago that he was going to be personally offended every time I even alluded vaguely to being depressed). That had worked just fine until now.

Those are all great reasons to live, on paper. But they don't seem to connect with the bruised, bleeding, hacked up remains of my broken heart that's already mangled by third-degree burns. I know logically that those are good reasons, but they don't mean anything to me at this moment, even though I know they do (or at least they should).

Right now, all I can see and hear and feel and taste is how EVERY. SINGLE. TINY. INSIGNIFICANT decision I make is somehow the wrong one. It does not matter what it is, it is always wrong. Even if I ask for clarification a thousand times, everything I do is still somehow wrong. I'm so tired of always having to defend myself and always having to walk on eggshells and giving 275% of myself every single day of my life and still being reamed out for 'not even trying.'

It's just like freaking college all over again. I very nearly didn't survive that. I'm not sure I have the energy or desire left to survive this too. What's even the point? The longer this goes on, the more likely it seems that nothing ever will actually get better, and there's no big reward coming for hanging on to breathing like this.

So how much of my blood do I need to spill to make right the wrong I have done by existing?

Exiting Sleep Mode

One year ago this month, I clocked out from my fast food job for the last time.

I had managed to get somebody to pity me enough to offer me a summer job which wouldn't further damage my already-destroyed back, and I wanted that job so bad that I worked both that job and fast food for a week because the new job could use me that early and I wanted to work my full two weeks' notice and leave fast food on good terms with the management (it paid off... maintaining their respect has already helped me along in life since then).

Since then, I have lived.

I have choreographed three musical theatre productions (in a variety of lead or assistant roles), added four and a half shows to my performance résumé, started crocheting again, reconnected with a couple of friends I hadn't spoken to since before I graduated college, bought a gym membership (and been actually using it), started drawing more often, contributed artwork to a theatre production, finally got meds for my ADHD, started actually keeping the house moderately clean on a somewhat regular basis... and our marriage started getting better immediately because I actually had some scraps of energy left to give my husband at the end of the day. We went from screaming matches every other day to maybe once a month, and even those are shorter and less intense as a rule.

It was literally like waking up from the dead. Even the other remissions I've had from depression were nothing like this. I literally felt like I had just pushed open the casket lid and seen the sunrise for the first time since I left home for college.

Sometimes I go through that drive-thru and I sit at the window and I think about how I used to watch the sun set at night and think to myself, 'before the sun comes up again, I will have to be at work,' and I would be on the other side of that window, my brain in a sort of semi-permanent sleep mode while my body moved through the motions of brewing and crafting coffees almost simultaneously. It literally felt like that job consumed my entire life. Even at only 32 hours a week, I couldn't let go of the stress, no matter what I tried. My life was work, eat, get lectured, sleep, rinse, repeat, every day. By the time I quit that job a year ago, I had literally forgotten how to think. I was a zombie. I had no thoughts, no joy, no sadness, no anger, no hope, no feelings at all. I have suffered from depression since I was nine years old, but this was a completely new level of dreary, drab, and lifeless. At least during my depression periods I could still make art, but during the fast food years I could not. My brain literally shut itself off all conscious thoughts, feelings, and observations in order to conserve energy, because one can literally never have enough energy to work a job like that.

This year, I set a goal for myself to read more books. I set an arbitrary goal of eight books for 2025.

It's barely May and I've read six books. And with every book I read, I can feel my brain waking up, beginning to string words together again, beginning to observe my experiences more, beginning to think again. The books aren't even super think-y and deep, but the mere act of reading is bringing my brain back to life.

I didn't even listen to music in those years. I had no energy. I stopped buying music, stopped importing records from my collection, stopped listening to the music I had, stopped following the bands' websites and social media accounts, stopped participating in the music fan groups I had been a part of.

Nothing existed but work and pain.

I tried to fight back against the encroaching unconsciousness, but that only wore me out more and pushed my brain deeper into complete shutdown.

And now, I'm reading, I'm listening to music, I'm connecting with my husband and the few friends I still have, I'm going to the gym, drawing, dancing, creating art, singing... living the life that freaking college took from me and fast food tried to lock away forever.

Though I don't remember much of those years, I hope I never forget that they happened. I never want to go back to that mental place again. I never want to forget how far I've come and how hard I've worked to get to where I am.

I never want to enter that level of sleep mode again.

Tired

I'm tired of being a failure.

I'm tired of being broken.

I'm tired of everything I do being wrong.

I'm tired of being yelled at.

I'm tired of being told I don't know how to do anything.

I'm tired of waking up in the morning.

I'm tired of the same old, same old.

I'm tired of having nothing left to give.

I'm tired of looking into my future and seeing only pain.

I'm tired of trying solutions and having them fail -- often spectacularly.

I'm tired of trying to find purpose and meaning.

I'm tired of trying to find a reason to fight for anything.

I'm tired of losing those who are supposed to love me.

I'm tired of being somehow simultaneously 'too much' and 'too little.'

I'm tired of crying.

I'm tired of trying.

I'm tired FROM trying.

I'm tired of being broken.

I'm tired of being the black sheep

I'm tired of having nowhere to put this pain.

I'm tired of scrimping and scraping for every penny.

I'm tired of fighting.

I'm tired of having my 'friends' abandon me.

I'm tired of not being able to afford to get the help I need.

I'm tired of having to be strong all the time.

I'm tired of living.