Sandy Unfiltered - February 17, 2023

I’ve been struggling. Well, struggling might not be the right word considering I haven’t been actively trying to “fix” myself. No, I’ve just been leaning into it, allowing whatever needs to surface to do so in its own time. Unfortunately, society is not all that accepting of this approach to mental health issues, but I find that I’m kind of past the point of caring. I’m not okay. I’ve never been okay. I’ve had days, months, and sometimes years where I’ve been somewhat successful in pretending that I’m okay, but I’m not okay. Never have been, probably never will be, and I’m kind of okay with that.

And this is the point when people try to “fix” me. They tell me to look on the bright side. Shake it off. Try harder. Stop feeling sorry for myself. Get out among people. Get some exercise. Stop thinking about stuff. Let it go. Forgive and forget. Move on. And so on, and so on.

Well, for starters, I don’t feel sorry for myself, I’ve forgiven everyone even if I haven’t forgotten, I’m not all that fond of people in large groups (or sometimes people in general), and my current state is what happens when I try to bury the past and avoid thinking about shit. Yes, maybe I should exercise. Maybe I should try to get out of my head more than I already do, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. At least, it’s not easy for me. I can’t flip a switch and stop being aware of life, what’s real and what’s not real. I suck at lying, which makes me a really bad actor, so I struggle to pretend to be okay, and I struggle to act like everyone around me, the ones who seem to be under the wild impression that life is what they see. It’s not.

You know, I’m beginning to question whether I should be writing unfiltered. Most people, when they ask you how you’re doing, expect you to say fine, and so that’s my usual response. People aren’t prepared and don’t know – for the most part – how to respond to a real answer, and that just makes everyone super uncomfortable. I’m fine. It’ll all work out. It is what it is.

Only I’m not fine. I’m nowhere near fine. I’m trying to be. Well, maybe not in this exact moment, but I am technically journaling, so maybe I am trying to be fine by exorcising my thoughts. It’s hard to say really. One thing I’ve learned in my almost 53 years of life is that I can never be one hundred per cent certain that I’m mending or on the right track for good mental health. Today might be a good day, but there’s no guarantee that I’ll wake up that way tomorrow. And as I’ve already said, it’s not something I can force on myself no matter how hard I try.

My current levels of depression and anxiety and God knows what are as high as they were when I was at my worst, back when I was a child, teenager, and young adult. And not to sound hokey, but I think it’s because I don’t have an anchor. If you read my last blog, you should know about anchors. I started to feel safer, and I started to have more good days than bad back when I was with my ex-husband. It wasn’t him per se, but more that he became my safe place, my anchor to reality, my place to belong. Clearly, putting all that on one person – and one that’s not myself – is not a good idea in the long run, and definitely not healthy in the least. It’s actually quite dysfunctional, and definitely codependent. In any case, I’m trying to be my own anchor, but I’m beginning to realize that it only works when my mental health issues aren’t trying to drown me.

I understand that the average person is thinking, “Why don’t you just suck it up and get over it? Get up, get out, and do something.” That is easier said than done for some of us. I can’t force myself to sleep. I can’t force myself to wake up. I can’t force myself to shower or get dressed or leave the apartment. My roommate has to remind me that it’s been a week and I’m still wearing the same clothes and my hair is beginning to look super sketchy. I don’t smell yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And so, I take a shower, and I promise myself, I’ll remember to do it or force myself to do it every day from now on… until another week has gone by and I’m facing the same situation once again.

And it’s not just showering. I have to force myself to floss, to brush my teeth, to brush my hair. Heck, I haven’t used moisturizer in months, no probably more like years, despite having everything I need, and despite my good intentions. I don’t eat much and when I do it’s generally whatever is there and easy. I haven’t cooked in ages. The most I do is throw some beyond meat into a baking dish with broccoli and olive oil and throw it in the oven to bake. Well, I also do toast sometimes, but it’s like there’s no joy left in anything. Was there joy before? I don’t know. I’m not sure it really matters.

My bedroom and my apartment have been a mess for months. Clean – thanks to my cousin – but messy and disorganized because I just look at it and think, what to fuck, who cares. I don’t make my bed until my roommate forces me to. Most often, I sleep on top of my comforter with a blanket over top. I just don’t seem to care. I wake up in the morning and I’m disappointed to still be here. And of course, that makes me feel guilty because there are many who’d like to still be here but are not. Do I want to die? I don’t think so, no, but I’m not sure I want to live either. I don’t know what that’s called or what that means exactly. I just know that I have no oomph.

I can blame the almost three years of continuous flashbacks, and the copious amounts of stress brought on by trauma-inducing life situation after trauma-inducing life situation, but I don’t think I can do that. I’ve been told I have C-PTSD (complex post traumatic stress disorder), which fits. It makes sense. I’m not sure what to do with that information. I’m not sure how to “fix” myself. Do I need to “fix” myself? I don’t even fucking know anymore. Sometimes I think that I’m too weak, but really, when you think about the shit I’ve survived, I’m actually super strong and resilient. I think I’m just tired of all the shit that we call life. I’m tired of the randomness that seems to skew outside my favour, and I’m tired of “looking on the bright side.” I’m tired of not having the space I need to live my way through whatever this is because fighting it is clearly not the answer. I’m just tired of trying, I think.

But I’ll never give up. I never do. Eventually I bounce. Ish.

Honestly, I’ve been thinking that I just need to keep holding on until I’m able to process all the shit I’ve buried and then – one day in the near future, once I’ve thoroughly processed all those buried emotions – then I’ll be good as new, and ready to be “normal.” Today, I’m not sure that’s going to work out. I’ve been processing. In fact, I’m fairly certain that I’ve been processing at warp speed for the past almost three years and I have to say that while there have been plenty of “a-ha moments,” for the most part it’s been like living on a roller coaster ride with no end in sight.

The weird thing about all of this is that I could wake up tomorrow morning and feel fine. Or as fine as I’m able to feel. It’s like there are several versions of me inside me somewhere and I never know which one is going to be in control at any given moment. And no, I do not have multiple personality disorder. I’ve been tested. And yet, these different versions of me have completely different ideas about how to face the day and how to deal with different situations.

I’m pretty sure that Neurotic Sandy is in control this morning, while Responsible Sandy was in control yesterday. To be fair, Responsible Sandy has had a difficult time maneuvering herself into the driver’s seat for quite some time now. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s so incredibly exhausted from being “on” for so long, or if it’s because the other versions of Sandy are finally clawing their way out from being buried for so long. I have to believe that at some point, all these parts of me will somehow come together to make up the one imperfect but complete version of me that is hopefully my truest and most authentic self. Or not. Maybe that’s not going to happen until my next life. It’s hard to say, but I’m fairly certain I’m still here for a reason, so there’s still hope. I think.

So, where am I going with this? Nowhere. I don’t have a plan. I didn’t create an outline for this blog. (I never do.) I just woke up and needed to get some shit off my chest, so to speak. I’m not looking for feedback, and I’m not looking for a saviour, and I’m absolutely not looking for pity. I’m okay. Ish. I’ll be okay. I know this because I always am. At some point, I always come out the other side. One day, I’ll wake up and the sun will be shining and, if I’m lucky, it won’t set for several months. But that’s not today, and that’s okay. If history tells me anything, it’s that I’ll survive this, even if I don’t want to.