Recently, I haven’t written. By recently, I mean three months. I’d like to think that I haven’t been writing because I’ve been thriving, I’ve been busy and my life has just been so damn great that writing has no longer become a necessity. This blog tends to be a place that I write to when I break down and can’t think to do anything else but let my tears stream onto my keyboard in despair.
So, if I haven’t been writing, I’ve been doing well. Right?
Wrong.
On the surface, yes, it seems as though I’m doing quite well. My grades are as high as they’ve ever been, I’m doing work that I’m passionate about, I found an incredible co-op for the summer, I moved up into an executive position of a club that I hoped I would be in by my fourth year and I am surrounded by people that I love and who love me unconditionally. You must be thinking, wow Sophie, things must be going so well.
They aren’t.
Since the start of January, I have had an immense difficulty simply living my life. Yesterday, my day started off with me waking up at 1:45pm. I didn’t have the will to get out of bed until 2:15pm. When I did climb out of bed and make some oatmeal, I sit down in the kitchen and read a Facebook post about International Women’s Day that someone beautifully dedicated to my Mom. I cry. Hard. Then, I climb back into bed at 2:45pm until 3:30pm thinking about the most random and dark thoughts. When 3:30pm came, I get out of bed, put on a large sweater and packed my bag for a meeting I have downtown. On the bus, I cred some more. I made a post about my mom for International Women’s Day for my Instagram story while choking back tears, making sure that I didn’t draw too much attention to myself so that the homeless man with a twitch sitting next to me wouldn’t notice.
I tried to pull myself together, I told myself I am doing my best, I am making an effort, and I am going to this meeting because I will not have my emotions get in the way of my success. Ever.
I got to the meeting and waited. It feels as though nobody showed up on purpose, to spite me, that I am not wanted, and I held back tears. Rationally, I know that it was an honest mistake that nobody told me that there wasn’t a meeting this week. I went to the bathroom and cried some more, hoping that the sound of the hand dryer will drowned out the sounds of my tears.
I cried even more at the bus stop in the rain.
On the bus home, I saw someone that I know and made small talk, praying he didn’t notice my puffy eyes. I can’t let people know how I feel. I am not broken, I am thriving with my big-girl job and high grades and people that love me.
I got home and crawled back into bed.
I wish I could say that this was the only day I felt like this. I wish that statement was true, but these days happen and I can’t say that they happen once a week, or once a month because it varies. I wish that a year and a half after my Mom died that I could day that I’m doing just fine. I don’t even need to be doing well, just coasting would be nice.
People around me don’t notice because I don’t let my grief get in my way of going to class, attending meetings, and talking to people at social events. If you looked at my resume, there would be no indication that this is the way that I feel.
I am not okay.
I’m aware that I’m not okay. And that is okay. Because this means that I can take the steps to get help, to not get better, but to manage these emotions and not let them build up so much.
This is not a cry for help. I am not looking for people to swaddle me and tell me everything is going to be okay. I am not asking for anything from posting this online.
People say don’t post about your weaknesses on social media because it’s personal. Well you know what, if nobody talks unapologetically about poor mental health in fear of being seen as inferior then we really aren’t helping to stop a stigma are we? I am a prime example of being a rock on the outside and crumbling on the inside.
I am not afraid to say that this is one of the low points. I am not afraid to say that I am still at a place that rips me apart to even think about my Mom. Isn’t that a little messed up? Yeah, it is. So what.
Here I am, broken into pieces, trying to pick them up. On the other hand, what’s the rush to pick them up. Maybe one day I’ll be better, maybe one day I’ll be worse, maybe one day I’ll be able to accept that this is my new life. For now, all I can do is manage.
People like to talk about the success stories of overcoming struggles in their life, but it’s time to start talking about the bad days too.
Sophie