I wrote over the weekend about how I feel like a fraud. That is because I’ve once again taken leave from work and what seems like most of my life for a disease that is cyclical, but I have trouble accepting its recurrent nature. I’m in a depression that followed a manic period and I cannot help but feel like I’m disappointing my loved ones, my friends, my coworkers, and my employer. This is due in no small part to my extreme extrinsic motivational system, and a desire to constantly be doing something.

Admitting that the best things for me to do are an occasional walk, watch a funny show, eat a healthy meal, and have a pleasant conversation feels like a debasement of my character. I should be able to do more, but even just one of those minor activities completely drains me. Too much of myself is wrapped up in what I do, what I accomplish, and what I produce. I have to be especially careful of this blog right now because of my tendency to dive into work, whatever that may be. I’m trying very hard to limit my writing to what I feel is therapeutic, much like what I did in my Treatment Life post series while at Skyland Trail in 2019. As hard as it is to accept that this is all a process (a truly annoying one to keep going through), writing about it does help me process this annoying process.

Not disappointing people is a deeply-rooted part of myself. I am not sure when this idea came into my core way of being, but ever since it did I’ve relentlessly attempted to ensure that people have an exceedingly good opinion of me. This operating system that I’ve cultivated since childhood means I can make some pretty incredible stuff happen, but the effort drains the life out of me. When I’ve finally got nothing left, I feel horrified at the idea of resting because people are counting on me to do things. I judge myself on my utility to others. Combine this with depression, and possibly Bipolar II (we’ll examine that in a future post), and you have an individual who is genetically pre-disposed to feel awful and has learned to feel even worse when not being productive.

My fiancé loves Ru Paul’s Drag Race. It is not my kind of show at all, and there is usually too much going on for me to really understand what is happening, but each episode ends with a query that I’ve been posing to myself quite a lot:

“If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell are you going to love anyone else?” — Ru Paul

That quote is the underlying basis behind every type of therapy I’ve ever engaged with. Since having this question asked of me through several seasons I’m forced to admit that I do not love myself right now. I know that I have, and I suppose that means that I can do that again, but I’m in a tough spot.

I hurt myself again, I hurt those close to me by withdrawing into myself, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve hurt my advocacy work by not asking for help when I needed it. The space between my ears is a bog of disappointment. It has been helped my the comments of friends and readers alike who do find value in the words I write, but I feel like I have a very long road to trod to develop some of those comments for myself.

In any case, I hope you, dear reader, know how deeply I appreciate your time and attention to my ongoing story and attempts to refine the narrative of what recovery from mental illness looks like.