They say change doesn’t happen overnight.

They are lying.

One day you wake up, and you’re older.

And eleven months out of the year, you don’t remember what your childhood bedroom smells like.

At once cold and comforting, always all-encompassing.

And Christmas morning doesn’t feel the way it used to.

Still exciting, just not in the same way.

And you can no longer recall the sound of your high school’s end-of-day bell.

A nuisance worse than your alarm clock on a Monday, yet ticklish, relieving.

One day you wake up, and all at once, things are different.

But there’s so much more you know, now.

You know pizza is better in the morning and cereal is better at night.

You know heartbreak: the real kind, not the feeling you get when your crush doesn’t like you back.

You also know healing.

The real kind, the kind that paints your soul with sunshine and awakens the flowers in the corners of your spirit that you didn’t even know were there.

You know garlic makes everything taste better,

how to iron polyester,

and that before dawn is the best time of day, because it feels like a secret.

And somehow, the sum of everything you know soothes the soreness of your retrospect

.

You can no longer remember what it’s like to be tucked in at night,

But you still know how it feels to wake up in the morning.

Well, guys, it’s over.

No, wait. That sounds way too dark. Let me try again.

Well, guys, all my hard work finally paid off!

Nope. Too juvenile. Okay, one more time:

Well, guys, I made it.

Perfect.

Okay, now that my intro’s squared away, let me get candid with you: exactly one week ago, I finished my first semester of college. And, you guessed it, I have some thoughts I’d like to share.

(Sidenote: I suppose it wasn’t technically my first semester of college, because I finished two terms at art school. But, it was my first semester at a “conventional”, lectures-and-classrooms type of college. Art school was…a thing of its own, so I don’t really count it. Anyways, back to the subject.)

Grades-wise, I did pretty well. Actually, better than “pretty well”. But, I don’t want to get in to that too much; because, for one, you’re not interviewing me for a job, so you don’t care about how well I did on my essays, and (more importantly) I don’t think grades are the be-all, end-all indicator of success. At least, they aren’t for my purposes here.

Instead, I want to reflect on the mental side of this experience.

That right there is a really weird, hard thing for me to say; because, (to put it bluntly) I have a gigantic perfectionism problem. My attitude towards school (and everything, really) has always been that as long as I garnered the desired results, the amount of suffering I had to go through in order to achieve those results was rational. In other words, I figured the ends justified the means (even if the “means” was staying up until 4a.m. studying for an exam, getting no rest, and working until I thought my brain was going to fall out of my ears). Does that make sense?

Basically, I’ve never really considered my mental wellbeing as a thing of importance in my academic success. I always thought, as long as the grades were there, it meant I was doing well. Stepping back from that, trying to reflect on the experience of this semester instead of the results I achieved, is really hard. But hey, it’s worth a try.

The biggest issue I had this term (and, actually, the issue that’s plagued me since, like, kindergarten) is that I push myself way too much. I know, hard to believe, right? The hyper-perfectionist, type-A, anxiety-ridden administrator of a mental health blog pushes herself too much. Sounds fake! But, believe me, it’s true. When I decide to commit to something, I go in. Like, all in. I work my absolute tail off to achieve the very best of results, because I seem to have this idea in my brain that if I’m not the best at something, I may as well not try at all. So, I’ll do things like stay up way too late studying, neglect taking any time to be social or enjoy myself, and get all worked up over the tiniest details of my assignments. And, all that behaviour comes completely out of a fear that if I take even a second to breathe, I’ll turn into a total delinquent who never goes to lectures and is failing all of her classes. However, I know it’s completely irrational for me to worry about that, because even if I was a total delinquent, I’d probably do just fine in my classes anyways!  

That sounds like I’m bragging, but hear me out. I don’t mean for this to sound like, “I’m just such a genius that school is easy for me”. What I mean is: I have a very academia-friendly brain. I test well. I have a good memory. I work well under pressure. Frankly, I’m decent at bullshitting an argument that sounds well-researched. That by no means makes me smarter than any other person; but, that combination of characteristics means I’ve always held up pretty well in the world of standardized testing. If I wanted to, I could’ve pretty easily coasted through high school, and through this semester, getting high 70s/low 80s, without putting in too much effort. So, even though I know school is a place where I can excel pretty easily, I still allow it to turn me into a walking ball of stress every semester. Which, like, what the fuck. Right?

It doesn’t make any sense that I know I don’t have to put in much effort in order to do well in school, but I still let it stress me out so much. Theoretically, the fact that I have a school-friendly brain should be a source of comfort; it should let me relax every once in a while, instead of forcing me to hyper-focus on every last detail of every last assignment, petrified that this will be the time I completely miss the mark.

I suppose that’s perfectionism kicking in. I could get decent grades without really trying, but “decent” isn’t enough for me. I want perfect.

Have you ever excitedly brought home a test with a score of, say, 97% and had your parents take one look at it and reply, “where’s the other 3%?” I’m like that parent, but to myself. So, despite being naturally inclined towards the world of academia, I still push myself beyond my limits. That’s something I’d like to work on, going forward.

That being said, this semester wasn’t all bad. As mentioned, I definitely fell into my familiar patterns of letting school control my life a little too much, stressing over the minutia of every project. But, I’m pretty proud of how well I handled the stress. This semester really taught me how to prioritize self-care in the midst of unbearable business (If that doesn’t sound like a sentence pulled straight out of a motivational speaker’s Instagram caption, I don’t know what does. Yikes.) But, when I say “self-care”, I’m not talking about scented candles and shea butter lotion. Actually, what I mean is that I genuinely took really good care of myself this semester, and that allowed me to be in the best mental state possible in order to achieve maximum success.

For example, most days, I knew I’d have to me up really early in order to get to class on time. So, while I’d always work on homework in the evening, I set a clear bedtime for myself to ensure that I’d get enough sleep to be alert the next day. This prevented me staying up until all hours of the night freaking out about whatever assignment I was working on at the time. I worked, yes; but when it was bedtime, it was bedtime. At that point, I had to be content with what I’d done. Also, I started meal prepping healthy lunches, which allowed me to both stay on budget and feel like I had enough energy to survive the sometimes 18-20 hour days I was working. (Meal prepping also helped with some of my food/body image issues too, because I consistently felt full and permitted to eat the food I’d prepared. So, another win there). I also managed to work in some form of exercise almost every day, which I think really helped mediate the anxiety. Seriously, if you’ve never thrown on some ANGRY music after a long day and just run until your stress headache subsided, you’ve gotta try it. It’s fantastic.

Above all, I think that was the biggest success I had this semester. I time-managed my ass off in order to both succeed in school, work on the side, and take care of normal human responsibilities. And, I’ll be honest, it felt good. I know it’s annoying when people are like, “I started working out in the morning and meal prepping and staying hydrated and having kale for dessert and now I feel amazing #gains #riseandgrind #thegrindneverstops #perseverance #ithinkimbetterthanyou,” but doing all that stuff makes me feel good. So, I think I’ll keep doing it next semester, in combination with finding ways to keep my anxiety at bay. I feel happy, and proud of myself, and accomplished. That, more than anything else, is an indication of how well I did. Even more than any number on any test.

That was pretty sappy already, but, at the risk of getting really, really sappy, I encourage you to find some things that make you feel good, too. Even when you have a thousand deadlines to meet. Even if that “thing” is watching an episode of an anime before bed. Do it, I don’t care. It won’t fix everything, but it might make you feel less insane.

Also, some news: I got a new job! Which, I guess, is another indicator of success in my new program. My school’s student government hired me as a content writer. So, as of January, I’ll be both working and studying on campus. No more selling lotion and candles at Bath and Body Works! I’m really excited.

I’ll keep you guys updated on that whole situation as it unfolds. But, I thought you should know, since we’re almost like family at this point (Jeez, what is with this sappiness? Must be the time of year).

One more thing before I go: this is the last time you’ll hear from me this decade. Ooh, doesn’t that sound so dramatic? Also, I’m definitely not the first person you’ve heard make that joke this month, so, sorry for the cheesiness. What I mean is that I’m gonna take a bit of a break, from everything, while I go home for the holidays. It’s been a while since I focused only on myself and my family; I think some quality time is pretty long overdue. It’s in the spirit of self-care, yenno? How on-brand of me!

Don’t you worry, I’ll be back at it, posting poems about how I’m sad and writing blog posts about how I’m sad and telling stories that make you sad and, just, generally embracing all things Sad (again, very on-brand of me) on Janurary 10^th. But, right now, it’s time for me to reflect, regroup, and celebrate a successful end to 2019. I’d encourage you to do the same.

Happy holidays, guys. Stay warm out there.

I’m learning to walk,

But my feet work just fine,

I’m learning to walk,

Sans the guarded confines,

Of adolescent safety, the steadfast watchtower,

Walking through a world that empowers and devours,

I’m walking through interviews, deadlines, projects,

I’m walking up the hill of perfecting rejection,

I’m walking through paying bills, nights without sleep,

I’m walking through working for fruit I don’t reap,

I’m walking through mornings awake before dawn,

I’m walking through breakups, learning to move on,

I’m walking through friendships, insecurity,

I’m walking through debris of a less-evolved me,

my breath and my brain are my new budding legs,

Carry me through the days though it feels like I’m begging to catch my breath

.

To make it stop

.

Make it stop.

.

It won’t stop

.

But slowly, I’m learning to walk.

I always knew that, eventually, the day would come where I would base a post on a tweet. I mean, I kind of did, already: there was that post about my parents that was inspired by a poem I found on Twitter, but that’s not quite the same. This is just, straight up, “I saw a 240-character text post and now I’m going to talk about it.” I really do waste my life on that god forsaken site. 

That being said, this tweet really hit me. It comes from a user named Patrice Caldwell (@whimsicallyours), and it says this:

My therapist: talk to me about how you reward yourself for your accomplishments?

Me: reward? *stares blankly* why would I do that? I’m not gonna celebrate for doing what I’m supposed to do

Her, takes off glasses: oh boy

Whew. Did that ever hit me. For real, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since I saw it this morning. Why? Well, until I came across this post, I didn’t know rewarding yourself for your accomplishments was a thing people did. It’s a completely new and foreign concept to me. So, not only am I realizing that the absence of self-reward is a problem I have, but I’m also realizing that self-reward, yenno, exists.

Technically speaking, this concept makes sense. For example, when someone I love achieves a goal, we’ll almost always celebrate. And, theoretically, I should be someone I love. Therefore, when I accomplish something, I should celebrate with myself. Right?

So then, why is it so damn hard to give myself credit for all the shit I’ve done?

This train of thought brings me back to my post from a few weeks ago, the one where I reflected on the hardships younger versions of myself got me through. I’m able to give myself credit in retrospect, but never in the moment. Why?

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I’m a huge perfectionist. I expect a lot of myself, constantly. I know that. Thus, a lot of the time, my “reward” for getting good grades, or for receiving a promotion, or for accomplishing a personal goal, is the absence of self-condemnation. It’s like, “Okay, I got an A+. I don’t need to yell at myself.” It’s never, “Wow, I got an A+! I deserve a movie night.”

Now that I’ve got this new insight into the notion of self-reward, I realize that’s kind of a fucked-up way to operate.

This is revolutionary, guys. I know it might seem like not a big deal to some of you, especially if rewarding yourselves is already something you practice. It might feel like second nature to you, but it’s brand new to me. And, I think incorporating this could really improve my self-talk, overall.

It’s hard, though, because since I’ve never so much as congratulated myself for something I’ve accomplished, I don’t really know what should be considered worthy or reward. Here’s an example: let’s say I got a really good grade on a test. For a lot of people (most people, I’d say), that would be something to celebrate. It’s like, “Woo-hoo! I got a 97! Let’s go get ice cream!” Or whatever. But, in my case, I wouldn’t even stop to say “Woo-hoo!” I don’t really recognize anything that I do as an accomplishment. Patrice put it best: “I’m not gonna celebrate for doing what I’m supposed to do.” I feel like excelling in every aspect of existence is something I’m “supposed” to do. I feel like it’s my job. The reasons behind that way of thinking are…something I’ll need to discuss with my therapist, most likely, but the main point here is that I don’t know what I should reward myself for. It’s hard to reward yourself for your accomplishments when you don’t consider them accomplishments in the first place. Does that make any sense?

Maybe that’s the best place for me to start. Maybe celebrating my achievements is too big of a step for right now. I mean, hell, I feel guilty when I take 15 minutes away from homework to make myself dinner; I can’t imagine buying myself a bottle of wine to celebrate an accomplishment.

 So, okay, that’s it, then. That’s my first step. When I do something that I would congratulate someone else for, I’m gonna congratulate myself. I’m gonna validate my accomplishments. Hopefully, from there, I’ll start rewarding myself, guilt-free. But it’ll take time.

Hey, shit, I just took a step towards improving my self-talk. Congratulations, Gabby!

Ew. Feels weird.

Alright, ladies and gents. The first snowfall has happened, and you know what that means: it’s officially Sad Girl Time, All The Time, until winter is over.

I always find that as soon as the cold sets in, everyone gets overtaken with this aspiration to be in love. It makes sense, if you think about it; it’s freezing outside, it gets dark at 1pm, and thus, everyone wants someone to cuddle up with to survive the long nights. Plus, there’s the fact that the last few months of the year are prime time for cute activities, like baking cookies, binge-watching Hallmark movies, and throwing tinsel on everything. I guess that’s why they call it “cuffing season”.

I’m definitely not unsusceptible to the emotions brought on by the winter season. I mean, dude, come on, I’m a verifiable Sad Girl™ year round. The fact that it becomes socially acceptable to be in my feelings all the time every year around October just means I lean in to my impulses even more. So, I wrote this poem about how everyone (myself included) wants to fall in love in the winter. Happy Sad Season, y’all.

_____________________________________________

The desire to be in love heats the bones and wets the appetite, a hot spring.

Longing to find warmth within another soul that cures that cold that makes the world stand still.

Longing to be held as soft and as steady as the snow that supply coats the city streets.

I am not immune to the human condition; I feel the yearning in my core to be yearned for

.

But I cannot give in to this desire,

Because I love myself so well

.

I love myself so well that I cannot bear to let another navigate me superficially, carving inches inside a heart that is already overflowing.

Only then to be overtaken by the warmth of his soul, the softness of his touch, the inevitability of the human condition.

Only then to soar through the stages of romance, losing myself at every turn, not because of naivety, but because of love’s intrinsic intertwining.

Only then to become swept up next year in winter’s wanting whirl, this time pining not for connection, but for introspection

.

To give in to love means to sacrifice the most intimate, intricate ingredients to my being, parts that used to be reserved for me and me alone

.

I’m afraid I’ll lose myself if I allow someone in

.

But that could never happen,

Because I love myself so well.

I think I’m too hard on myself.

I push myself to be successful in terms of school and life and friends and love, I push myself to reflect more deeply than makes me comfortable so I can share some semblance of wisdom with an imaginary audience online. And I am so, so hard on myself whenever I fall short of perfection in any of the facets of my being.

But rarely do I thank the girl who’s gotten me here.

Rarely do I commend the strength of the thirteen-year-old who showed her face in middle school again after everyone knew she’d been in a mental hospital.

Rarely am I grateful for the fourteen-year-old who survived her own slaughter and was brave enough to accept assistance.

Rarely do I revere the fifteen-year-old who had the courage to run from a boy who controlled her, cut her down, and rewired her definition of love.

Rarely do I honor the sixteen-year-old who harbored every vulnerability, yet walked through life with a wholehearted hungry hope that her happiness was in the cards.

Rarely do I thank the seventeen-year-old with the audacity to follow her dreams.

Or the eighteen-year-old who grew up too fast.

The nineteen-year-old who felt like that fourteen-year-old all over again.

The girl at every age who’s worked too hard for this twenty-year-old to resent her shortcomings.

Because, imperfect, insecure, incomplete, she got me here.

She got me here.

Imperfect, insecure, incomplete.

I think everyone has a musical artist who means everything to them. They could be a childhood favourite, or a parent’s favourite, a phase they went through during a difficult time, or any combination of the three. But, whatever the reason, everyone knows an artist who holds a special place in their heart. For me, it’s Greyson Chance. I’ve followed him since he was a Justin Bieber-esque preteen gaining popularity for his cheeky cover of Lady Gaga’s “Paparazzi”. Since then, though, he’s released a ton of his own stuff, all of which, to use the scientific term, fucking slaps. His music essentially served as the unofficial soundtrack of my coming-of-age years; I’ve got a special memory associated with nearly every song. Basically, he means a lot to me. And I finally saw him live this month.

Okay, chill. I’m not going to spend this post raving about how great the concert was. (Cue everyone in my personal life breathing a collective sigh of relief over not having to listen to that spiel again). It was an incredible experience, yes, but it got me thinking about a larger idea: purpose.

I know I’m biased, but I need you to trust me when I say I’ve never seen anyone more entirely right for what they were doing than Greyson. He performed with an aura so effortless it was almost haunting. Every muscle, bone, and tendon in his body was at total ease. His voice painted the air with the same delicious dissipation as a soft meringue dissolving on the tongue. To put it simply, he fit. So well. And, as I left that night, I couldn’t help but be overtaken with a sense of simultaneous joy and jealousy; he’s done it. He’s achieved that thing that most people spend their whole lives trying to find. He’s found his purpose.

The idea of life’s meaning being intertwined with finding one’s purpose is definitely not new, but it’s an important one to me. I mean, clearly – I started writing to you because the thing I thought was my purpose didn’t work out. I’m far from the only person who’s struggled with building meaning into their live, either. Purpose is a huge question to answer: why am I here? Why are any of us here?

That’s incredibly metaphysical; I’d be crazy to try solving the meaning of life in a 1000-word blog post, so, consider this a life update tied in with some food for thought. Personally, I fall into the camp of people who believe life has no meaning of purpose until you give it one – you find something that moves you and go after it. That’s what’s been happening to me recently.

In case I’ve never mentioned it before, I’m studying Public Relations. I really like it, too – it gives me the blend of creativity and structure I was looking for when I left art school. However, as part of the curriculum requirements, I have to take an intro-level philosophy course. I’s pretty base-level stuff: Plato’s Cave, what is Truth, facets of identity, etcetera. But, I have to admit, I’m liking it way more than I thought I would. I didn’t think I’d hate It, but I didn’t expect to look forward to it every week. It could have something to do with the fact that the prof is incredible, but I think, in some ways, abstraction has always interested me. I mean, I was a theatre student for God’s sake. Theatre is, like…the profession of abstraction.

What I’m finding the most interesting about this philosophy course is the little taste it gives me of communication theory. Right now, we’re exploring the basics of major political systems and how humans structure their societies. It’s cool, but, like I said, base-level. I always find myself wanting to go farther with each idea than we ever get to in class. I think the teacher is noticing my interest, too. A few weeks ago, after class, I stopped in to ask him a question, and we talked for nearly an hour about the material. It was the nerdiest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ve never been happier. My prof also told me during out discussion that my level of comprehension and interest in the material is way above the class average. He said he thinks I’d be suited to study some sort of theoretical discipline at a graduate level. Ego-stroking? Sure, but I’ll admit it resonated with me. You see, besides the whole “blending-creativity-with-structure” thing, I also chose to study public relations because I love people. I love talking with them, learning about them, investigating the way they interact and why they are the way they are. I went into this field because I wanted to work with people; I wanted to have more of a chance to understand the intricacies of humanity. I’m hardly a semester in, but I’m realizing that’s not entirely what I’ll get to do with my current degree.

Don’t freak out; I’m not going to drop out again. I like my program, and I want to finish it. I think it could even land me a fairly decent job upon graduation. But, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should take my professor’s advice. I’d love to study sociology or anthropology someday, to feed that part of me who’s so curious about human nature. Hell, I bet you that area of study would even blend well with experience in PR.

It’s just…it’s weird how nothing ever happens the way you think it will. I thought, after leaving art school, that I’d found my new path in PR. And, maybe I have, but maybe that’s only part of the whole picture.

It brings me back to that concert. Greyson told the story of how he briefly left music four years ago (a dark time for all of us), because things just weren’t working out in the industry. But, when he left, he found himself missing it more than he could stand, and felt he had no choice but to give it another shot. I left the theory and abstraction of theatre because I hated it. But now, the theory and abstraction of humanity is making my soul drip with desire.

I think that means I’m on my way to finding purpose.

Wednesday, October 30, 2019

I needed to journal tonight. I shouldn’t be journaling; I have a million and one things I need to get done and they’re all overlapping with each other and making me feel insane with stress. But, I needed to journal tonight. I needed to journal because, well, to be frank, I had a really shitty day. And, the way I handled today made me start to realize something that I don’t think I’ve ever fully understood.

Recovery doesn’t mean you never struggle.

Let me paint the picture for you: I woke up this morning feeling like garbage. I just finished reading week – school resumed only three days ago, but yet I feel more tired and burnt out than I did before the break. Exams and projects are piling up, the dawn of the Christmas season means I’m working more hours than I can sustain, and the colder weather is sending my body image down the toilet. It feels like the end of the semester is light years away. Getting out of bed felt like climbing a mountain. Depression.

I managed to make coffee and get myself dressed, even though those simple tasks completely drained me, and I left for the grocery store. I was supposed to go pick up a few essential items, but instead, I left with chips and a pint of ice cream. I watched cartoons and ate emotionally until my tummy was sore, then started to beat myself up for eating so much junk food. After that, I managed to study for a few hours, but eventually I found myself crawling back into the safety of my bed. I fell asleep almost immediately. I napped partly because what little work I had managed to accomplish thus far took every ounce of energy in my body, partly because I wanted to escape the weight of my responsibilities for a little while, and partly because sleeping meant I didn’t have to listen to my eating disorder chew me out for binging on sweets.

When I woke up from my nap, it felt like my eyeballs were being sucked into the back of my skull. My face felt saggy, my legs were like cinderblocks glued to my sheets, and I could hear my heart beating in my ears. All at once, the stress came flooding back into my temples and the ignorant bliss of unconsciousness faded into oblivion. I decided I would try and do one productive thing today, and started a home workout. Surprisingly, moving my body helped a little. It made me feel accomplished and erased some of the guilt I was experiencing surrounding the snacks I had earlier. Midway through, I got a cramp in my foot. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but as I stopped what I was doing to massage it out, the dam broke, and I began to cry.

For fifteen minutes, I rubbed my foot and cried. At first, I was crying because my foot hurt; that was the straw that broke this camel’s back. Then, I cried because my foot cramping up meant I had to stop my workout, marking yet another incomplete responsibility for the day. By the end, though, I was crying because everything is just really hard. My inner monologue as I sat there massaging my seized-up muscle was a simple sentence:

“Things are really hard right now.”

“Things are really hard right now.”

“Things are really hard right now.”

“Things are really hard right now.”

I stopped crying. Slowly, my foot loosened up, and I finished my workout. I had a shower. I made myself a basic, yet balanced meal of beans and rice and steamed vegetables, and now I’m sitting in bed writing this, still thinking about that mantra from earlier:

“Things are really hard right now.”

You see, for nearly half my life, I’ve been in recovery from something. First anorexia, then depression, then anxiety, and now all three. But, despite this, I don’t think I’ve ever given myself permission to just have a shitty day.

I’m a perfectionist. That fact extends into every aspect of my life, including my recovery. I view managing my mental illnesses as another daily responsibility, the same as brushing my teeth or combing my hair. And so, whenever I fail to keep the negative thoughts and behaviours at bay, I get angry. I get frustrated with myself for failing to be in control of my own head. I feel ashamed that after nearly a decade of therapy and psychiatrists and medication and support, that these diseases still have so much power over me. Then, I begin to feel hopeless. Because, to me, a bad day feels like I’m back at square one. And, if after ten years of recovery, I still have days where I can hardly leave my bed, I may as well just give in to my sickness completely, because I’ll obviously never have the upper hand. In essence, I spiral on bad days. And the spiraling makes the bad days worse.

But, today was different, and It’s because of that mantra. Let me be clear: telling myself that “things are really hard right now” didn’t make me feel better. Even now, after I’m done crying, after I’ve exercised, showered, and eaten, I still don’t feel better. My chest still feels bruised and my head still feels like it’s filled with rocks, the same as this morning. What that recitation did do, though, is remind me that this pain won’t last forever. It stopped the hopelessness, that usually likes to kick me when I’m down, from setting in. It stopped the spiraling.

And that has made me realize that maybe I’ve been looking at recovery all wrong. All these years, I’ve thought being in recovery from mental illness meant correcting all my negative thoughts and nixing all my unhealthy habits and being strong, and resilient, and unfaltering, all the time. That’s couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s taken me ten years to start to realize it, but recovery is taking the bad days when they come and believing that the darkness they bring is temporary. Even if it’s hard. Even if they persist. Even if the bad days make you do things you know aren’t healthy, like pigging out on ice cream as a coping mechanism or napping as a means of escape. Recovery is being gentle with yourself when you fail to stop the depression from setting in, because you work hard god damn it, and nobody can expect you to perfectly handle your responsibilities all the time. Not even yourself.

I don’t feel better right now. I may not feel better tomorrow, either. But, I’m soothed knowing I have my own permission to not be okay for the time being. I’ll come back eventually, it just won’t be today. 

That’s what recovery is all about.

Have you ever seen that graphic that says, “pick 2,” and below it are three boxes labelled “social life,” “career,” and “sleep”? I remember seeing it at one point during high school and thinking, “That’s not true. You can totally have all three, if you just manage your time right.”

Boy, did I not know what was about to hit me.

Because now, in college, I think about that graphic every damn day. Nothing describes my life better. See, what I failed to take into account when I denounced that graphic in high school is that adults have to take care of themselves. That sounds silly, but hey, I was sheltered. The reality of my life now is that I have to make money, and cook, and shower, and do laundry, and clean, and workout, and run errands, and a bunch of other grown-up bullshit I never signed up for. After that, the time I have left can be split one of three ways: working on school and career projects, socializing, or sleeping. And, it seems like no matter how well I plan out my days, there’s never enough time for all three. Something always has to take precedence, and, consequentially, something else always gets neglected. At least, that’s how it’s been for me. As a result, I fear I’m living a really unbalanced life.

I’m the first to admit that balance has never been my strong suit. I have an addictive personality, which is just a fancy way of saying I should never experiment with hard drugs. Actually, though, it means that when I try something I like, I have trouble with moderation. This manifests itself in a tendency hyper-focus on goals; I’ll pick one aspect of my life and effectively plan everything else around prioritizing that. I become more or less addicted to the routine I develop around pursuing a goal, and I have a really hard time breaking out of it.

Right now, I’m addicted to school. Most people would argue that that’s a good thing, and I agree, to an extent. Now that I’m studying something I care about, something in which I could really see myself succeeding, I feel as though I owe it to myself to put in my very best effort. So, I am. I’m doing well in all my classes, getting assignments done ahead of time, and taking careful study notes at every lecture. But, the problem is, I’ve been having trouble making time for anything else. When I’m not working or cooking or participating in any of the other aforementioned grown-up bullshit, I’m studying. Seven days a week.

Because of this, I can feel myself becoming more isolated and anxious. I keep refusing social invitations in the name of schoolwork. Again, I know this isn’t the worst problem to have, but it’s frustrating. I want to have friends. I want to start getting better amounts of sleep. I wouldn’t even be opposed to the idea of dating – it’s cuffing season, after all – but because of school, I feel like I can’t.

You see, whenever I put my top priority on the backburner, whenever I try to incorporate more balance and variety into my life, I feel like a total failure. There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and when they’re all fully scheduled, committing to anything extra means sacrificing a current obligation. Does that make sense? I only have a limited amount of time in day, and I plan it all around school. So, if I want to do something social, or something for myself, I have to do it instead of something school-related. That thought makes me incredibly anxious. I feel as though I can’t justify doing something frivolous over something practical. So, yes, I’m refusing social things in the name of school. But, it’s because I know if I didn’t, I’d have to live through verbal abuse from myself for days on end.

Furthermore, I seem to have it in my head that I’m only successful if I’m constantly busy. Whenever I find myself with some spare time, I scramble to fill it with extra studying or working, just so I feel like I’m being productive. The stupid thing is that I don’t even know how much of a difference that extra study time is making. Filling would-be leisure time with extra schoolwork might be the difference between me scoring a 90 versus an 89 on my next test. But yet, the perfectionist in me is adamant about that one percent being vital to both my success and my worth. I’ve begun to equate rest with failure. I know it’s bad, but I don’t know how to change it.

I feel like I can’t rest because school is a treadmill. I’m running, and running, and running, and as long as I keep going, I’ll be fine. However, if I stop running, if I take a minute to rest, the treadmill will keep going. That is to say, the weight of my responsibilities doesn’t lessen with the incorporation of a night off. In fact, quite the opposite. Because I stopped, I’ll fly off the back of the treadmill into the concrete wall behind me. It feels like the only way to stay on top of everything is to work incessantly.

I always tell myself that the nonstop work to which I’ve committed is just for a short period, and that once I graduate, I’ll have more time for fun things. But, I know that’s not true, because that’s what I told myself when I graduated high school. That’s what I told myself when I took the summer off to work after quitting art school. I said, “Once this period is over, I’ll really start enjoying myself.” And, it never happens. There’s always something that gets in the way. There’s always another project, another job, another responsibility that needs doing. I know it will be that way forever, because that’s how life is. There’s always something to do. I worry that I’m missing out on enjoying my life because I force myself to prioritize life’s responsibilities at all times, above everything else.

I can’t just stop working. I’ll get too anxious. I’ll get too angry with myself. But, I know I’m burnt out. I don’t want to get to the end of my life and have more memories of working than of living.

Why can’t I let myself off the hook?

So, World Mental Health Day was on the tenth. I’m a little late, I know, but what else is new?

Any mental health-related day is always a little weird for me. I don’t normally go to any events or share anything online, because (believe it or not) I’m not overly vocal about my mental health in my everyday life. Surprisingly, the existence of a public spotlight on mental health makes me feel rather awkward. The best way I can describe it is by comparing it to the feeling you get when you walk in late to class in middle school and everyone turns in their desk to look at you. You aren’t embarrassed, per se, but it feels like you’re being put on the spot. World Mental Health Day is like that for me.

That being said, I did want to take this opportunity to talk about something that continues to bug me when it comes to mental health awareness. As I often do on mental health-related holidays, I saw dozens of #endthestigma posts all over social media. People were saying, “It’s not shameful to have a mental illness! Let’s talk about it!” I totally agree; it’s not shameful to have a mental illness, and if you’re struggling, you should talk about it.

So how come I only ever see this type of empathy granted to depression and anxiety?

Truly, it seems like every time mental health is in the limelight, people only bring up depression and anxiety. And, sure, there’s the argument that it’s because these are two of the most common mental illnesses. But, I can’t help but get the impression that it’s also because they’re the prettiest.

Don’t get me wrong, I am absolutely not arguing that depression and anxiety are “pretty”. As a nearly lifelong sufferer of both, I know these illnesses are just as serious and scary as any other chronic disease. But. With the whole, “mental illness is a beautiful tragedy” narrative, piloted by series such as the oh-so-terrible 13 Reasons Why as well as pretty much every young adult novelist on the planet, comes the idea that suffering from depression and anxiety makes someone pitiable, vulnerable, and at times, even desirable. As a result, the stigma around these diseases is lessening, but it’s being replaced with the notion that those afflicted with them need “saving”, like a damsel in distress.

Beyond that, there’s the fact that joking about suffering from depression and anxiety has become a normalized aspect of pop culture. Send out a tweet that reads, “I have no will to live lol,” and you’re nearly guaranteed dozens of likes, or at least a few relatability points. Effectively, it’s become “trendy” to suffer from depression and/or anxiety. This is problematic in and of itself, but that’s not what I’m here to talk about right now. What’s important is that the trendiness of depression and anxiety is, at least partially, further evidence of a nearly eradicated stigma surrounding them.

On the flipside, I’ve seen little-to-no improvement surrounding how any other mental disease is viewed. Even with mental health awareness steadily on the rise, it seems as though anything besides depression and anxiety is still villainized. To illustrate, I have depression, anxiety, and anorexia. (Have I ever mentioned it before?) While I have no problem being open about the fact that I struggle with the first two, every time I so much as bring up my eating disorder, I can feel the air in the room dry up with discomfort. (Actually, I think I mentioned this phenomenon in my post about fatphobia). I still feel the need to hide the fact that I suffer from anorexia in order to preserve the contentment of those around me.

My issue with this selective stigma erasure goes beyond wanting to be able to joke about my eating disorder the same way I do about my depression, though. It’s not lost on me that eating disorders are among the most socially acceptable of the still-stigmatized mental illnesses. For example, diseases like schizophrenia, addiction and OCD are still subject to an unbelievable amount of judgement. To further my earlier example about the emergence of mental illness-related humour online, go on Twitter and search the term “crackhead”. How many memes can you find wherein the butt of the joke is the notion that drug-addicted people are crazy? It’s ridiculous; the same people sharing these things online are the ones posting about ending the stigma on World Mental Health Day.

To be clear, I don’t think it’s anyone’s “fault” that certain illnesses receive more compassion than others. I just think that certain illnesses take more effort to understand, and thus it’s easier to exclude them in discussions about mental health. But, I think that should change. I think if we’re going to truly #endthestigma, we should end it for all mental illnesses, not just the ones that make sufferers act “cute” and “sad’. Next World Mental Health Day, I’d like to see posts about how to tend to a loved one going through a manic episode. I want to read about how to care for someone in the aftermath of a PTSD flashback. I want to share articles that outline the basics of dissociation.

As always, the best place to start with big goals like this is with yourself. You know the saying: “Be the change you wish to see in the world.” Gandhi knew what he was talking about. So, if I could give you any homework today, I’d say to try your best to minimize the ways in which you might perpetuate the stigma around lesser-known mental illnesses. Your contribution could be as simple as not getting scared away when someone brings up their condition. But, I promise you, that little bit goes a long way.

Having a mental illness, any mental illness, sucks at the best of times; we just want to know we’re not alone.