Just a small ramble from me.
I've been experiencing some form of anxiety or another for the past year, probably just On My Own Jitters for the most part; I've been renting an apartment in my college city. I had to leave college as my loans weren't covering me anymore, and I'm now 13k in the gutter (my dad even more so as a result of the Parent Plus loan). I struggle to pay it and I'm also struggling to have the payments lowered due to the strange wording in the applications.
My boyfriend and I nearly broke up in January this year; most of it stemmed from my anxiety or depression or whatever it is you want to call it. I didn't want to go outside, I didn't want to do... anything at all, I wasn't the person I usually was. He also dropped a bit of a bomb on me that I'm not comfortable sharing, but... none of this will really make sense if I don't, but I can't share that kind of info on this site.
Anyway, to put it simply, he was... technically cheating, but not, and it was weird and complicated. The thing was, though, that he hadn't done it since my birthday in June the previous year (which is when we were designated serious and steady); but it was tearing him up that he'd done it at all and he'd tried to forget he'd done it. However, he couldn't hold it anymore and had decided to break up to spare me any hurt.
We're still together.
Before I get lectured at for staying with an, ahem, cheater, when I myself have lectured others in the past for such things, I only want to say that the circumstances are personal and to please refrain from judging what we've chosen to do.
We fought like hell. Not even a fight; more a frustrated crying match. Neither of us has ever been capable of being angry with the other, frustrated at maximum, but never angry. The problem at the core was, we couldn't communicate
. So we talked.
We talked for hours.
We talked about the problems.
We talked about nothing at all.
We talked in circles and in spirals and everything came back to him wanting to break up until I was able to get him thinking about something very important: He could have just broken up with me, without mentioning the "cheating" or my emotional distance. He wanted me to know what was wrong, and he wanted us down the line to get back together once we'd figured out what was wrong.
I told him that there wasn't going to be improvement on either end if it was over, because we'd have to both move out of the apartment, I'd be stuck back with my crazy f**king parents (who are now divorced, thank GOD), he'd have to couch bounce with his friends, and we'd be miserable and too far apart to even try to make things work.
And I told him that, no, I wasn't going to forgive him for "cheating." But I could accept his apology, and that I still loved him dearly. The entire time we talked, he never spoke of his own wants - other than he wanted to see me happy and mentally stable again, that I needed someone better than him. He spoke of my nightmares, my worries, my miseries; but he never spoke of them as faults, just as things I needed to overcome, as goals.
I love this man more than words or text or... god, I love him more than anything else I've ever loved.
We decided to agree to disagree on... certain points, at least until morning. I told him that if he felt the need to punish himself, he could. He asked if he could force himself to sleep on the sh*tty sofa, and I said yes - but that if he wanted to come in and sleep next to me, I'd appreciate it.
We watched something ridiculous, I think a Let's Play by Two Best Friends, before I headed to bed. I laid there crying for the better part of an hour I think, wondering what to do, when I heard footsteps and the door creak. Heh, I still remember what he said; he said, "Face, if it's okay, can I sleep in here with you? It's really cold and I don't want you to freeze since the heating's off for the night."
The next day, we talked a little more, sorted things out. It was... awkward, at first, because neither of us wanted to bring up what we'd discussed, but it came out eventually.
The entire week following is a blur. I quit the job I was at, as it was the main source of my problems (lack of sleep, sh*tty moods, nerves, just everything), and began working at a grocery store in the neighborhood.
I'm still nervy. My mother refuses to acknowledge I have any problems and won't give me the number to the psychiatrist she saw before the divorce so I can set my own appointment and I can't spell his name to save my life so I can't find him. I don't really trust the doctors in the city I live in, mostly as a result of the stories of friends who've gone to the therapists and psychiatrists and psychologists, all. I've gotten better as a result of a much healthier work environment, my sleeping schedule has stabilized, and I can actually do the things I've been needing to do.
Now, really, the only problem is money and my panic attacks that stir up once in awhile.
As a final note, I guess, I want to state I've never felt suicidal. Not in the normal way, at least, is what I want to say. Ally of the awesome blog Hyperbole and a Half states my experience over the past year quite eloquently:
And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything. That being the case, all the hopeful, proactive solutions start to sound completely insane in contrast to the scope of the problem.
It would be like having a bunch of dead fish, but no one around you will acknowledge that the fish are dead. Instead, they offer to help you look for the fish or try to help you figure out why they disappeared.
I started spending more time alone.
Perhaps it was because I lacked the emotional depth necessary to panic, or maybe my predicament didn't feel dramatic enough to make me suspicious, but I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing.
It's a strange moment when you realize that you don't want to be alive anymore. If I had feelings, I'm sure I would have felt surprised. I have spent the vast majority of my life actively attempting to survive. Ever since my most distant single-celled ancestor squiggled into existence, there has been an unbroken chain of things that wanted to stick around.
Yet there I was, casually wishing that I could stop existing in the same way you'd want to leave an empty room or mute an unbearably repetitive noise.
She also says that the other problem with feeling like this, is that everyone thinks you want to off yourself. It isn't that I wanted to die; I simply... felt like people would be better off if I was gone. I've had that general thought nibbling on my mind since I was a kid, only whenever I was really upset or something terrible had happened. I thought feeling like this was perfectly normal. I know it's not, now, after years of accepting it and not telling anyone for fear of being told I was in an angst phase, or that I'd be thrown to a doctor who would turn me into a zombie with medication.
Ally also mentions a moment where she can't stop laughing
. Having a moment like that over something insignificant and ridiculous is ridiculously empowering after feeling so little for so long. You laugh at something small; then you're laughing at the fact you're laughing at really nothing; then you are simply laughing because of the fact you can laugh at all
. You can't explain why you're laughing, you just are. Her moment was laughing at a piece of shriveled corn under her fridge. Mine was struggling to kick my socks off while I lay in bed, because I was hot, and there was a snag on my toenail keeping my sock on, and my ankle wasn't cooperating and was holding the sock on the other ankle after I got the first one off, and I was buried under so many comforters that I was floundering around. It was so ridiculous and random and I couldn't... stop... giggling
. I felt so wonderful after just laughing for nearly half an hour over nothing, and my boyfriend laughed right along with me.
I'm still not one hundred percent okay, but things are definitely better than they were that day in January. We're working on getting on foodstamps so money isn't quite so tight, and so we can start saving for a smaller apartment that isn't so expensive. But for now, things... things feel pretty nice. I'm finally doing all the laundry I've been needing to do for months, thanks to my dad letting me come home for a day and a night to do it all. I'm working on a writing project that feels wonderful. I'm making new friends at work, my best friends are coming to Pittsburgh in July for Anthrocon and to just visit, and my best friend from Cali has come a hell of a way since his suicidal stint in July of last year. Things are looking up right now. I hope they continue to.
I also turn 21 this Friday!
Hyperbole and a Half
, warning, some foul language.