Another Day

“I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me;

all day I feel it’s feathery turnings, it’s malignity.” – Sylvia Plath

I have been “officially” fighting my demons since I was 13 and diagnosed with agoraphobia. I’m sure the anxiety set in much earlier though. With a long familial line of mental illness and an unstable childhood, I was the perfect breeding ground for anxiety, depression, OCD and eating disorders. All of which have shown their faces at various points in my life.

I am 28 now and have been through countless years of therapy. CBT was the best form, the most practical, and the most helpful – for me at least. It’s been years since I have been in intensive therapy, although I should have kept it up all this time. I didn’t realize how incredible it was until I stopped and had to face how sick I am. I take medication which insurance refuses to pay for, so I pay $135 every two weeks to stay sane. I’m trying to find a new doctor now, but having been through the whole system before as a teenager, I am very wary of them. I know this disease so well, I know myself so well, and I need someone who will listen to me. Trying to find quality care and help when it comes to mental health is a struggle.

As with most things, living alongside anxiety and depression has been a rollercoaster ride. There have been years where I have felt great and happy. Within the last two years, something changed. My nephew attempted suicide twice, my aging father was diagnosed with heart disease and I accompanied him to doctor appointments. My boyfriend and I moved into an apartment with a horrible landlord who wouldn’t leave us alone. I accepted a new position within the same company that called for more responsibility. Over the course of time, all of the walls I had built up to keep the irrational thoughts out came crashing down. I was back to how I was in the past, anxious to get on the bus, anxious to leave the house, anxious to talk to anyone, feeling hopeless and helpless. What is the point?

I am what you would call a “highly functioning sick person.” I get up every day and go to my full-time job, which is very demanding and customer service oriented. I can smile and nod while my insides crumble and jellify. I know that I can’t keep this up for much longer. I have become defined by my illnesses and no longer know who I am. The only thing that allows me to get through each day is medication and I am taking too many of these on a daily basis to numb myself out from my reality. I am unhappy in my job, unhappy where I live; unhappy with what I haven’t accomplished in life and regretful when I think of how many things these mental illnesses have gotten in the way of.

I will never be “normal.” I will always live alongside this ache in my chest. I will always feel less than, I will always be fighting to function while everyone else goes about their business. Inescapable, potent. Dependency and manipulation. I know there’s a way out – therapy, different medication, a comprehensive plan that would get me where I need to be. But juggling all of that along with needing to work full time to keep a roof over my head feels insurmountable. I’m just tired, you know?

I hope that someday this society will be able to be more open about mental illness. I think we want to tell ourselves we are enlightened and nonjudgmental, but these issues are still spoken about in hushed tones. I also hope that receiving care will become less of a struggle. It’s bad enough fighting your own mind while also trying to navigate your way through a broken system.