WHEN I get up in the morning there are three things I do in a particular order: One, I take a large swig of water. Two, I plop a tiny circular pill into my mouth and swallow. Three, I pray that the thoughts aren’t quite as loud today.
This routine is inadvertently followed by the thought, “You have to function today.”
Growing up, I thought about my mind as a set of cogs, screws, and wires that have complex inner mechanical workings. An automatic switch would be pressed if I was feeling joy so my eyes would light up. Negativity could be minimized with a few repairs here and there. If the system was breaking down, I could give it time to cool off, and everything would eventually function as it should. I liked the simple and direct analogy of structures in my mind undergoing repairs. It feigned the illusion that intellectualizing all my emotional problems would solve them, and that there was always a direct answer.
As the years went by, however, it then became a question of how complex such simple emotions would get. What happens once I couldn’t find a solution to the irrational?
I never realized that my relationship with my emotions and thoughts was unhealthy until I grew older. My thoughts raced constantly with some more pleasant than others, and others being downright demeaning—not to anyone else but myself. As a default, I practiced what I could to “repair” myself.
Breathe to four, hold to seven, exhale to eight. Name five things you see, four things you feel, three things you hear, two things you smell, one thing you taste. Exercise more. Eat healthier. Get social support. Close your eyes. Meditate. Think less. Focus.
Yet nights end with, “Just go to sleep, the demons will be gone when you wake up.”
Unsurprisingly, they weren’t.
I could never help it when the self-hatred planted itself. I hated when my breaths frequently got shallow, and when the fear, panic, and distress poured in all at once. I felt completely disconnected from my body and what I expected of myself, and I felt that I was living in a hollow shell of myself.
In the past year, I was diagnosed with clinical depression and anxiety. Something so nonlinear frustrated me even further, and between the rumination, excess worry, and loss of interest, I continued to swim the way I always did even while drowning, until I sank again… and again… and again.
I started taking prescribed medication three weeks after diagnosis. While there was the initial hesitation that came with taking a new medication and fear due to the stigma around it, I agreed. The truth was that this little pill helped me find myself again without the veil of depression and anxiety—and why would there ever be shame in that? For the first time in months, I rediscovered the parts of myself that I had buried underneath all the remains of fear, melancholy, and irrationally harsh self-criticism. I saw myself again.
The medication was a great help, but managing mental health can never be confined to the pill I take every morning or the therapy in between. Behind these are the countless times I’ve lost my footing trying to build habits for the first time, the fragility and strength of my own will, and the endless support I’ve received from family and friends.
T0 this day, I still practice all the aforementioned “repairs.” From breathing exercises, to mindfulness practices, to physical exercise, to seeking social connection, and many others. They do work and help minimize attacks and episodes, and they help me remember that to both help yourself and to ask for help is essential. And so I try to open up a little more, ask for help, and forget the complexities for even just a little while.
Honestly, it has taken years of both small and drastic wins and losses to imperfectly recover, because perfect recovery may never be attained. Instead, I progressively take steps in the right direction and work on harmful default thoughts to make my own mind a safe space for myself. Take it one step at a time, and if small steps are still too big, take even smaller steps.
Humans aren’t machines with faulty wiring and rusty cogs in need of quick fixes. I didn’t need fixing. “Fixing” was a word I used to punish myself while the efficiency and productivity of my struggling system was a faulty measure of my own worth.
Healing is never a linear process, a quick repair, nor is it a subsided migraine after a good night’s sleep and a 10-milligram pill. I take it in my stride to cope day by day as I no longer focus on linearity, but slow and realistic progress with those I love and care for, including myself. I sit with patience and understanding in the solace of my own resolve and grief, and in the hope that there are better days ahead.
And when I go to sleep at night, there are three things I do in a particular order:
One, I lay down. Two, I turn off the lights. Three, I close my eyes.
This routine is now inadvertently followed by the thought, “You did well today.”
