Working sanity

Growing up there was a notion my father drilled into my head: “Don’t ever quit a job before you get another one.” It was one rare nugget of practical advice that either of my parents had ever handed me to prepare me for the world. Perhaps because it stood out so much, I took it to heart.

Just as I can be an excellent student in school, I can be an excellent employee, because I crave approval. It's almost embarrassing how much I desire it. I’m not an ass kisser. Don’t get me wrong. But I like to be acknowledged for my strengths in a way that’s nearly as desperate a child seeking parental approval.

That’s why, when my mind began to consume itself with a static I didn’t recognize, I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to do my job much longer, and the shame was sickening. But I couldn’t think clearly enough to work. This wasn’t one of the usual bouts of depression and anxiety I was used to living with. It was a dark caul rapidly engulfing my brain, shutting down reason and higher function leaving me with only base, aching emotion with which to navigate the days. The din in my head was deafening. Somehow, I could still sleep at night, but only because I had to sleep to keep from losing it completely.

Contributing to the din was my father’s voice in my head: DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. DON’T QUIT YOUR JOB. YOU’LL BE A LOSER. A LOSER. IF YOU DON’T PULL YOURSELF UP BY YOUR BOOTSTRAPS YOU’LL BE A MOOCHING LOSER PART OF THE UNWASHED MASSES OF TAKERS AND BUMS.

Oddly, it was his addition to the din that probably pushed me over the edge. It was yet one more reminder that I would never be good enough, never be good enough, never be good enough. No matter how much work or effort. With no sense of foundation and self, I simply crumbled from the inside, the pressure from the world imploding me into dysfunction. That’s how I think of myself now: In some sort of “function.” I’m either dysfunctional or functional, each day somewhere else on the spectrum. Exceptionally functional days are sweet like sunshine in my heart. Low function days are crushing. Mostly because I don’t get much done. Literally dysfunctional. Like a broken appliance, sitting on the kitchen counter, wanting to be of service, but unable to work.

So I quit. After three and a half years, I quit without another job lined up, and without any real plan. It was terrifying and dehumanizing. Still is.  

And I’m lucky. So lucky. I know that. When I didn’t know where else to go or what else to do, I headed straight for our local mental health center, and we had the funds to pay for that. But I saw people there who clearly couldn’t afford it. I saw a woman in obvious distress come in seeking help, who’d never been there before, telling the people behind the desk that she’d been told she could be seen immediately. The people behind the desk told her that simply wasn’t true, and my heart broke for her, but I didn’t allow myself to feel it. I blocked it out. But I knew it was a scenario playing out daily, in Every Town, U.S.A. People go to mental health facilities all the time needing immediate help, but immediate help simply isn’t forthcoming, unless one goes to the ER. How did a nation that claims to be a leader in the world get to this place? I wonder.

I don’t have to work right now. The loss of my salary to our household is inconvenient, but not impossible. It hurts so much to think about the alternative, that I might be a single mom forced to try to function and work and be the only parent to a child, that I simply can’t imagine it. I can’t go there. I don’t have to, so I won’t. Because it hurts to think about. And right now, my goal is to not hurt. So I try to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay. I have that luxury.

The election has been excruciating. I do read about it extensively, but I cannot tolerate watching any of it on television. Something about seeing and hearing the words come out of the faces is beyond overwhelming.

Every day I get up and I try to do something. I try to create. I try to write. I try to schedule interviews for my freelance writing work. If I can’t do those things, I cook. I clean. I try to be useful and make myself worth something. Yeah, I still think I have to work at being “worth something.” I may never let that go. After all, even if your ass was living out in the woods, you could sit there and try being “worth something,” but unless you actually move your butt and gather some firewood and berries, you’ll die. So I may always link being worth something to doing something useful. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.

Thankfully, the din is gone. It took about a month of truly resting for the first time in years. The static quieted a little more each day, and now my head is mostly my own again, clearer than it’s been in a long time. I’ve since figured out that the din was part of a particularly nasty manic episode (mania doesn’t always feel good), and the other symptoms of bipolar 2 have finally explained my rapid cycles of depression and feeling so fidgety and irritated that I want to peel my own skin off and be someone else. Or worse, punch someone in the face. To achieve the quiet, I had to let almost everything go. I’m not trying to please my parents (whom I’ll never please) or a boss or even my sweet husband who never asked me to prove myself, but somehow I’d convinced myself that I needed to. I’m just selfishly taking care of me and reconnecting with my kiddo, because in the din, I had pushed her away. I pushed her away because I was afraid of hurting her. Turns out I hurt her anyway.

I’m not sure where I’ll end up, but for now, I’m learning to build a person from the ground up. It’s a lot of work.