What Happens Next?
I’ve been struggling to write the maiden voyage of blog posts, so I’ve decided I would like to expand on two previously published social media posts from December 2020, rather than flogging myself for lack of creativity right now. The amount of deliberation that brought me to this point has been painful and I’ve weighed the options a million times and lost sleep, so today is the day this will go live. I’m sure there are typos and errors littering the screen as you read on, but I’ve made a decision and am taking action and that’s enough for me.
The first post was originally written to commemorate seven years without a drink and the other reflected on the previous year. Since my frustration with social media itself has been a catalyst for wanting to create my own website, I think it’s fitting. I have felt quite constricted on social media for a while now, as if I’ve outgrown the space. At least that’s how it has started to feel on Instagram, the platform I had previously felt the most comfortable being vulnerable and building community on. Of course on other platforms you can share more freely, in terms of character allotment, like Facebook or Twitter, but the comments from random people who are mindlessly scrolling and trolling are not my target audience. I’m also aware that training an algorithm isn’t rocket science, but right now my objective is to write, unencumbered by my own expectations and judgement of how well I’m stacking up. I want to be able to connect with people who share similar values and create an environment where we can work together in a productive and healthy way to support our common goals of mental wellness and leading a truly fulfilling life.
I talk about mental health, addiction, sobriety, grief and loss all of the time but that does not mean I’m depressed every moment of the day, nor am I fixating on negative things (although, sometimes, I am… humanity’s a trip, huh?). In all honesty though, I have a wonderful collection of coping skills and resources that I have gathered over the years and make time to practice daily, therapy I’m privileged to have access to weekly, and a medication prescriber I check-in with monthly. I bring this up because I can sense a bit of pity seep out of well-intentioned comments whenever I talk about these things online, but I was diagnosed with a mental illness at 12 years old. I’ve had enough time to process what being mentally ill in this world means and how you can be treated because of it, I am okay. Pity should be reserved as a direct response to the fact that our society has chosen to continue living this way, constantly promoting the idea of shaming ourselves and neighbors for responding to daily encounters with a vast emotional range (that we choose to see and name as negative or unacceptable). Life is hard enough and those experiences in particular should be talked about as a way to work through them and to build community with others who understand the dire need to process and unpack what is it they’re going through.
Honestly, I only have the confidence to continue to talk about these things, because of how many messages I receive from friends, acquaintances, regulars, and internet pals thanking me for sharing my experiences with things that are undeniably uncomfortable. Each of these folks understands and relates to some really hard shit and often they feel deeply alone. They send me messages privately rather than in the comments section, much of the time, because these are topics that we’ve collectively assigned to live under an umbrella of stigma and shame. Although I have been sober for a long time now, it’s only this last year that I have begun to actually take care of, connect with myself, and work on my mental health in a way I deserve, and what I’ve discovered in the process has changed my perspective and given me a glimpse of the a light at the end of the tunnel regarding what anxiety recovery can look like long-term.
Twenty years ago I was mis-diagnosed with bi-polar disorder. After 11 years on every kind of mood stabilizer, adult antidepressant, heavy and addictive benzos, anti-psychotics and therapists that wouldn’t listen followed by a decade of defiantly avoiding mental health services at all costs, (aside from two emergency room visits that we will get into later). I had been riding the understandable, but not entirely helpful, nothing-makes-me feel-better-so-what’s-the-point-in-trying wave, without any medication or support until the pandemic brought the foundation of my identity crashing down around me.
Sunday, March 15, 2020 the restaurant industry shutdowns began. For over a decade I had been a self-proclaimed workaholic and it wasn’t even serving me well, but I didn’t know any other way to be up until the very end. Throughout my twenties I had secretly lived by a Lady Gaga quote since my early twenties when I came out of an unhealthy and abusive long-term relationship with my high school sweetheart,
“Some women choose to follow men and other choose to follow their dreams. If you’re wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn’t love you anymore”
I was battered emotionally and physically and took the words to heart and willingly let them set the stage for how I developed my personality and career from there on out. The humor of a slightly progressive, yet completely heteronormative quote shaping the early adulthood of a closeted lesbian is not lost on me. For the next several years I worked and drank, and drank and worked, becoming deeply entrenched in my own misery of lying to myself and unsuccessfully trying to drink it all away.
In 2013 I came out of the closet and gave up the bottle within three days of one another. Never did I tend to myself with any kindness or self-compassion, I simply put my head down and worked non-fucking-stop for the next six years assuming this was the adult thing to do, yet I still did not recognize the main flaw in my life’s motto. Who could have known we were going to live through a global pandemic that would shake even the sturdiest of industries to its core.
So, what does the workaholic do when they are no longer allowed to work? Well, have an absolute breakdown, of course! I went through all of the motions of the deeply depressed and simultaneously wickedly anxious for a few months. Weeping into my meals, binge eating, smoking way too much pot, not eating at all, lacking the energy to shower or get dressed, sheer terror for the situation developing around the world with the virus, but also the social unrest rocking my own neighborhood and the sound of the hovering helicopter by the end of May was just all too much.
I was exhausted and knew I was reaching another breaking point and after the first emergency hospitalization of my thirties at the beginning of 2019, I lived in fear that my mental health would plummet yet again. Leading up to this hospitalization, I had been working six days a week for six months straight, sometimes I didn’t even have a single day off per week. I had a panic attack that lasted for three fucking days. I went into the emergency room and through tears, I gestured to myself as I uncontrollably trembled, begging, “Please, help me make this stop. This hasn’t stopped in three days”.
I was absolutely terrified that if I wasn’t able to find adequate mental health help this time around, I would find myself, “stuck” yet again. In a city with limited mental health resources with clinicians all too familiar with saying, “I’m so sorry I wish there was something more I could do, but our funding has been cut, the resources just are not there. Here’s the suicide prevention line”.
Luckily this time was different and I was able to connect with a therapist that accepted my insurance and happened to be taking new clients. Even though I was officially in the system, my relationships still suffered and I started to realize that the way I was living was no longer sustainable, but it wasn’t until months later I realized, that it never had been to begin with. Fortunately, I have found support through two wonderful mental health providers who listen to me and know that I am an expert of my own experience. Treatment works for me in a way it never has before and that alone is worth sharing in celebration.
I’m privileged to have access health insurance and have been back in therapy and on an anti-depressant (for almost a year now) and through some really serious soul-searching work (I’m talking about the mean, gritty, nasty stuff) we now know that (at 33 years old) I do not have a mood disorder at all. I had been living with undiagnosed and untreated social anxiety, agoraphobia, and the subsequent depression that accompanies both for two fucking decades.
Luckily all of that work brought me to art in an attempt to understand what I was even feeling inside my own body, and for the first time in my adult life I began the most honest and sincere quest for self. What do I like? What activities do I enjoy? Who the fuck am I? What a delightful array of questions! I’m answering them one day at a time because somehow through art I was coaxed back to writing. Now I know I’m going to be okay, because I can untangle my world through words once again. For me to work toward a life with the reward of freedom from myself, I would like to explore and understand my agoraphobia on a much deeper level, but in this first post, I want to address it very vaguely based on a recent conversation with a dear friend.
They mentioned to me that a while back they had experienced feelings of jealousy regarding my knack for homemaking and penchant for posting about it. Luckily in this case, they came to understand that it was a misplaced uncomfortable feeling so they acknowledged it and made peace with it, but hearing this story was eye-opening to me. In my own self-sabotaging pursuit of perfection I may have unintentionally withheld details about my life that would serve to inspire rather than simply flaunt.
I share photos of my home because I spend most of my time here, there was a point where I was terrified that I would become homebound as a result of my mental health (and I occasionally still have that thought). Now, more than ever, I wish I had shared exactly how much of my home is second-hand and has been collected over many, many years. So when you do see my home (online or one day in person again) please feel free to ask where I got any of the weird pieces or random eclectic home goods & wares, or if you can have a plant cutting or succulent propagation. I just want to share some of my space with you.
After all, I am a bartender at heart, career service industry professional for almost 17 years now and I am used to having important emotional-support conversations in person, on a daily basis, with a variety of people from every walk of life. Customers, regulars, friends, former partners, you name it- across the bar, in the corner of a restaurant, or over a smoke break in an alcove hiding from the rain. Since it’ll be a while until we have the opportunity to continue uplifting our friends and neighbors in person, I am trying to send even more reminders that we can get through this.
There is nothing shameful, or worth apologizing for, when it comes to mental health, substance use/abuse and overall wellness. Being home because of the restaurant restrictions that have lasted all year have given me so much time to reflect on my mental health, sit with my sobriety, and take some real steps forward that are necessary to living a fulfilling life long-term and I know now, more than ever, that I’d like you to join me.
Let’s get vulnerable <3
