A little over a year ago, I sat down and penned a heartfelt post of my struggles with mental illness, specifically my experience with postnatal depression (PND, for easier reading). Since then, I’ve tried to write more about how a woman, specifically a mother with an often debilitating, invisible illness, overcomes the daily struggles of her life. But I can never find the right words, or I do but feel that no one will relate. I have crippling self-doubt and while I’m not afraid of criticism, I am a perfectionist. I want things to be perfect because what is the point of doing this in the first place, if it’s not perfect? I leave no room for being human.
My definition of perfection is vastly different to what I think a lot of people believe it to be. But then again, that is very subjective and I’m probably wrong. I’m a messy, spontaneous, daydreaming perfectionist. I like to think that I don’t take myself too seriously but I am dramatic, in my own way. If I feel that whatever I am doing isn’t the best it could possibly be, I give up. It’s not that I can’t complete the task or not understand how to, it’s because I can’t be bothered to motivate myself to push through the barrier. I think, “Why does this have to be so difficult?” I want things to be laid out in front of me, systematically lined up with footnotes in case things become unclear. I lack determination to bulldoze through the hurdles. I’m not entitled or afraid of hard work. I am capable, more than capable. But I am lazy. And boy, it has taken me so long to fully realise this and accept it.
Let me put it this way. I am at the bottom of an apple tree and I can see the reddest apple close to the top. It’s round and shiny and I can just tell that it’s the crunchiest apple I’ll ever eat. But then I realise that in order to get it, I have to climb the tree, possibly break a few branches from swinging, and face the possibility that I might fall. I know I am able to climb the tree but my anxiety has presented me with all the plausible (but highly exaggerated) ‘what if’s’, and I begin to doubt that I’ll even make the first branch. But, then I hear myself say ‘You’ve climbed bigger trees, get over yourself!’, and I regain some confidence. I start to look for alternatives to climbing the tree and remember I have a ladder. But the ladder is a fair walk away and it’s getting dark. By the time I come back with the ladder, I’ll be climbing in the dark. So I reluctantly give up and go home.
And so goes my self perpetuating madness.
And so, this is me accepting it. Writing this out in whatever form it comes and learning to let go of trying to be perfect. This is me pushing through the barrier of not being able to find the words. This isn’t perfect, but it is a beginning to understanding my potential and hopefully reclaiming it and reaching further.
I think the appropriate place to begin is where I left the last time. I believe it was last September when I wrote about trying to overcome my PND, which I am happy to report is well and truly hurdled. I’m unhappy to report that I accidentally deleted the post, so that’s gone now, forever lost in the void. I felt a surge of happiness, especially in regard to the response I received. I was grateful that people were messaging me and thanking me for being open and honest, because they too know the sting of battling the black dog. It comforted me to know that I am not alone, even when I am in the thick of a relapse. I felt as if I had made a difference and started a conversation. I wanted to continue it too. I thought about where I could take it and what I could say. But then the anxiety kicked in and I lost all confidence in myself and the message I was trying to share. I felt that people would consider me boring, repetitive or attention seeking. Such is the stigma associated with mental illness.
It’s only now, 8 days deep into insomnia, where I haven’t slept more than 30 hours in the last week and drinking a cider at 1:30am, that I have the courage to put this into words and let me tell you, I am scared. This is actually happening thanks to my dad, who gave me some words of advice about pushing through. So, thanks dad.
If you were to ask my sisters what kind of person I am, they’d probably tell you that I’m nice and friendly, but not to get on my bad side, because I’ll rip your soul out through your nose. One of my sisters told me that she was scared I’d kill her in her sleep when we fought as kids, because I scared her that much. I’m really not that bad but I obviously leave an impression.
I say this only to demonstrate that I generally don’t care about what people think of me. Generally. I put petrol in my car last night in my pyjamas. I literally do not care, when I don’t concentrate on the fact that I put petrol in my car, in.my.pyjamas. And when I have moments of self-doubt, I try to remind myself of this. Sometimes it works, sometimes it makes things worse because I obsess over all the times I’ve been a total cow to people for no reason. It’s taken me a year of second guessing, backspacing the intended blog entries I’ve written, and thinking that what I have to say is not important to realise that I am amazing, in my own way. I have value and I don’t need someone to tell me that I do. What I write isn’t indignant, although I can be indignant. I know what I have to say resonates with people, because they’ve told me so! I just need to learn to be kinder to myself because it’s only then that I can write with the intent I wish to share.
And this is me beginning this. I will be writing more, discussing my struggles, and speaking of my experiences of dealing with bipolar, depression, anxiety and everyday life as a mother and wife – not because I am pious, but because I wish I had someone who was honest, open and real with their struggle. If nobody reads it, that’s cool. And if only one person does, reaches out and feels safer knowing that there is life beyond mental illness, that’s also cool. Really cool.
This is my therapy. Writing helps me to focus and calm the insane monkeys, squeaking in my head. It gives me clarity. See, even now I feel as if I need to justify myself! I need to start living up to my name a little more (HAAAA) and start to have faith that I am not as hated as I believe I am, and even if I am – who cares?
Faith x
Lucent Madness 