“How are you doing?”
I know the social script we all began to follow before we understood what it meant. I know I am supposed to say, “I’m good, how are you?” I know I am not supposed to disclose that I cried myself to sleep last night, or that I had a panic attack so intense this morning I didn’t know if I would ever stop crying. I know I’m not supposed to say that my depression has come back, angrier than before. But I’ve never been the best liar.
“I’m doing alright, how are you?” This is how I respond to customers or people I’m not very close with. At work, if a customer notices that my response wasn’t the correct one, they’ll make a joke about how I must be stressed because of how busy we are that day, never mind the fact that we’re busy every day. Most people don’t notice.
To people I’m comfortable with, I’m honest. “I’m not doing so great,” or, “I’m really struggling with my mental health,” or, “Things fucking suck right now.” It all depends on how bad it is that day.
At the start of quarantine, I knew my mental health would take a dip. I stopped taking my antidepressants (after discussing it with my doctor; please don’t quit your antidepressants cold turkey). I was coming back from an amazing study abroad experience and going straight home. No chance to pick up any of my belongings from Seattle, no chance to see my friends, almost no closure from my study abroad experience. I came straight back to San Diego and began doing classes online. I saw a friend from my hometown once throughout the entirety of spring quarter. I don’t mind spending time alone. It took a long time and some therapy to be comfortable alone, just me and my thoughts. I knew quarantine would be a little difficult, but I figured it would be a small bump in the road and I would get through it somewhat easily.
I didn’t expect quarantine to last so long. Perhaps that’s naive of me, or simply wishful thinking, but now we’re halfway through October and nothing has changed. In fact, things have gotten worse, but the country is reopening like a cure has miraculously been found. I go to class, I do my homework, I go to work where I’m harassed by customers for asking them to wear their mask correctly. I have no free time, no time for myself, no time to take care of myself. In my worst moments, the people I love remind me that I’m not alone. This has two meanings. The first is that they are there for me; the second is that other people are feeling this way. People are starting to say that mental illness is the second pandemic affecting us right now.
You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. You’re not alone. I feel alone. If other people are struggling, why isn’t anyone saying anything? Why are we carrying on like this “new normal” is normal? There’s nothing normal about the apathy we’re showing each other and ourselves in a time when many of us are feeling more vulnerable than we have in a long time, maybe ever.
The first time I really felt like I’m not alone in this was a couple days ago at work. After a few super busy days at Joann’s fabric and craft store, all my coworkers were lagging at work. We were exhausted from the giant crowds drawn in by a 20% off your total purchase coupon, customers constantly complaining about how hot the store is and how long they’ve been waiting (as if we weren’t the ones running around trying to help them), and having to keep on the customer service face when in reality, we wanted to scream.
I left at the same time one of my coworkers did. We aren’t close, we’ve had maybe two conversations. I said I still had a ton of homework left to do—trying to make small talk as we walked through the store and out to our cars together. She said she was proud of herself, that she had finally gotten all her homework done before work, for the first time this quarter. I envied her, but I congratulated her and told her she deserved to rest.
“Thanks. I feel like I don’t remember how to do that. I don’t have any time to myself. Even on my one day off, I’m doing homework all day, just trying to keep up. I don’t have any time to do anything just for me.”
I didn’t tell her about how I’m struggling, but a couple sentences got her to confess to an almost stranger what it took me weeks to confess to myself. I told her I knew how she felt and that I hoped she could do something nice to take care of herself that night. She told me she’d probably fall asleep before she could start anything.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but you really are not alone. Other people are feeling just as burned out, depressed, anxious, and overwhelmed as you are. I wish more than anything I could say that I found an easy solution, that I felt like this for a couple weeks, did one simple thing, and now I’m all better. But mental health isn’t that easy. Recovery isn’t that easy. A couple things that have been good for me to remember is that I’ve felt like this before, and I’ve gotten through it and come out the other side. I’ve done it more than once, and I’ll do it again. Another thing to remember (said excellently in this video) is that healing is continuous. Mental health is like physical health: ever-changing. All the work that you have done counts even on the days where you feel like you’re back at square one. Some days will be good; others will be so painful, you aren’t sure how you’re going to get through it. On those days, you still aren’t alone. I had about three weeks straight of those days. I cried in front of a friend I had never cried in front of before (I am an ugly crier), and she said exactly what I needed to hear in that moment: “How can I support you right now?” When I couldn’t come up with anything, she gave me ideas: going for a walk, doing art, listening to music, watching a movie, crying it out. She made sure I was in control of what was happening in a moment where I clearly felt I had no control.
I am and always have been a perfectionist. I have anxiety and panic disorder and I’m way too hard on myself. My expectations for myself are millions of stories higher than the expectations of the people around me. All of these truths together mean that when I feel like I have no control over what’s happening in my life, I get extremely triggered and feel like I’m back at step one. And when I feel that way, I look for solutions that will have immediate results. If I quit my job, I’ll have more free time. But I don’t want to quit my job, so what next? I keep being reminded to try different things. I used to stop doing homework at 7 PM so I had a couple hours to myself every night. My new normal is finishing up (in reality, being totally burned out and needing to stop but never finishing) homework around 9:30 PM. My mom suggested that I pick a couple nights of the week where I stop doing homework at seven so I have some time for myself. Because I have classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I need to work all of Tuesday evening and Wednesday to make sure my assignments due Thursday are done. So my nights where I’ll give myself some free time are Thursday and Friday nights. I’m starting to listen to audiobooks of assigned books I won’t have to write essays on so I can embroider while I listen. That way I do get to do something for myself, even if I can’t listen to my regular podcast or watch Supernatural while I do it.
It isn’t a perfect structure, and some days, that drives me mad. Some days I can’t help but sob over feeling like I’m not in control. Some days, I go numb and don’t care what happens at all. Finding the balance between those two emotions can be tricky, and feel damn near impossible. But I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again, and I’ll forgive myself on days when I don’t succeed. I’ll let myself feel emotions as they come and cry when I need to cry, and start again the next day.
In conclusion: I’m not okay. I’m really struggling with the current state of the world and my super busy schedule. But being willing to talk about it with people I care about means I know they’re struggling too. We can support each other on days when we have that emotional capacity, and on days when we don’t, we can be not okay together. And in case you’re really struggling right now too, I feel you. I really, really do. Even when your brain tries really hard to convince you otherwise, you are not alone.