As you may have guessed from my last post, writing has not been going so great.
The day after I wrote
A Haiku About Writing (which was to procrastinate writing
Sylvestus) I actually had a really good writing day. Two days, in fact. Then it all kind of... Went downhill again.
I don't think I'm as good at coping with stress as I think I am. This is because when I'm overwhelmed with stressors, I don't actively feel constantly stressed and harassed. I feel, generally, what I consider to be normal with some... Exceptions. Brief flashes of white-hot anger over petty things. Alternating days of hyperactivity and lethargy. Bad sleeping. Stomach sickness. Tension headaches and jaw clenching. Itchy-bone feeling. And, of course, the eventual hysterical laughter or tears (usually both) which lets it all out.
With moving house effectively twice in one month, four university assignments due, the Sylvestus deadline, and a few other life stressors/time consumers, I was aware that I should feel stressed, but I didn't really feel it. I didn't even put together all of the above symptoms (which I should be able to by now; it's happened often enough) until, trying to write and repeatedly hitting a brick wall earlier today, I realised that due to the shifting of plots and character arcs I probably wouldn't be able to fit in my favourite one-liner from the original draft - and immediately started to hysterically sob.
This made it click for me that I am, in fact, probably quite stressed at the moment. That's when I added up all the clues and decided that, yes, I am probably repressing my stress but is, inevitably, still there. The cry helped, though, allowed me to step back and see where I was standing. I have to be so careful about my mental health, and it's a constant consideration that borders I think sometimes on paranoia. Am I looking after myself? Am I more stressed, moody, anxious than normal? Am I slipping back into bad patterns? Is taking a nap after an exhausting productive morning instead of downing some caffeine and finishing everything laziness, or self-care? Is doing a forty-minute high-intensity workout even though every muscle already hurts from yesterday's self-care, or dangerous? Has this depressive episode lasted longer than it should have? Is this energetic sleepless period normal, or mania? It seems like every small obstacle I encounter - or every small victory I manage - I'm comparing myself to my highest and lowest points so I can figure out where I stand and prepare for the future.
Last week, I had to call an ambulance for myself. I had been working out to try and combat period cramps (normally I curl up with painkillers and a hot water bottle and cry for the worst few hours, but I'd read that exercise during the start of the cramps, before the worst kick in, can help reduce them) when suddenly the pain got so bad that I couldn't stand up and actually started to vomit. This isn't the first time this has happened, but it was then followed by a painful paralysis in my hands and feet, which started to spread to my face. I felt like I couldn't breathe, which was when I decided that an ambulance might be wise.
My favourite part of this story when telling it is describing hitting the screen of my phone randomly with my numb brick of a claw-hand and by some miracle managing to actually get 999, then trying to describe my symptoms and give my address while unable to feel my tongue or breathe.
It wasn't funny at the time, though. My defence mechanism (and my habit) is to laugh about things afterwards, to turn them into a big funny story, and I think overall this isn't the worst wayof dealing with trauma. But when I was hitting my phone randomly with my numb brick of a claw-hand I wasn't thinking about how funny it looked, I was just terrified down to my bones that I wasn't going to be able to get through, and that I would suffocate, and that no-one would find me, and that I would die alone like this here on the bathroom floor...
The ambulance crew arrived and stayed with me until the symptoms passed. Then they explained: the numbness in my hands and feet had been caused by oxygen overload as an after-effect of the workout, pain, and vomiting, as well as my naturally low blood pressure. I had then begun to panic so much that the problem escalated, and became dangerous. I wouldn't have died alone on the bathroom floor (probably) but it was still not a safe situation.
At the time, I blamed it all on the cramps: anyone would start to panic and make it worse if they had unexplained paralysis and vomiting, right?
This week, I... Concede that my own mental state probably did contribute somewhat.
I tend to go all-out with emotions. Love or hate, misery or joy, glee or terror - I can't really produce anything that constitutes a moderate reaction. This also means that when literally anything happens, my reaction tends to be both polar and instant - which is not always the ideal way to produce a reaction to something that only requires mildness and sensibility.
So yes. Last week I (stoked on by sickening pain but nonetheless in my own fault) panicked myself into paralysis. It's scarier looking back on it that way. It's never happened before, which makes me worry that maybe my mental health is deteriorating back to a very low point.
But then I was packing my clothes.
I pulled off a jumper, and underneath was a broken hanger. It's made of wood, and it's still functional - just the bottom part is missing.
I remember when it went missing, because I tore it off.
I'm not going to talk about that period of my life too much here. It was terrible. Details don't belong on this blog. But it's what I'm constantly measuring against when I try to figure out my current mental and emotional state. I barely survived it, and if I feel myself tipping anywhere near that level again, I need to do something.
It was the hanger that reminded me, though, exactly what that period felt like. Sometimes I forget; I spend three days irritable and anxious and not sleeping and wonder if I should be worried. But the fact is, I tore that wooden clothes hanger apart in a fit of violent rage that came almost out of nowhere - and I was having those episodes... At least twice a day. For years. Of course you can blame all of the overwhelming stressors from that period, but the actual push was something minor. But I remember what it felt like. White-hot and blinding. I was physically incapable of not lashing out - my limbs moved without my consent - and it was either break something around me, or hurt myself. That's as much as I'm going to say on it. It hurts just to describe it and remember.
Sometimes now, I get hit with flashes of rage over something minor. It's a cue that I'm in a bad place; someone moved something of mine and I can't find it, and normally I don't mind at all but if I feel the need to punch something, I need to be careful and initiate some self-care tactics.
But the thing is, I don't punch things when it happens any more. I don't curl up in a tiny space and blast music through my headphones at full volume until the migraine makes me sick to drown out the rest of the world. I don't shove people away from me and hide in the school toilets rocking and sobbing for two hours.
I might work out to burn off the anger/anxiety, or remove myself from the stressful situation before it gets that bad to listen to some music and calm myself down, or cry for ten minutes on the floor because the dog ate my chocolate orange, but it's nothing like those literal years I spent feeling nothing but alternating anger, fear, sadness, and the blissful relief of complete dissociation.
Recovery hasn't been linear. At all. It's a cliche, but it's an important one. It's what it's hard to remember sometimes. I have a line drawn in my life which divides the Bad and the After. There was some good in the Bad period. There has been bad - a whole fuck-ton of it - in the After; enough that I can't bring myself to call it the Good.
I let myself get so worked up last week that I ended up needing an ambulance. This was a bad thing and I shouldn't have let my repressed stress get that far, but it's been a decent warning.
I haven't torn apart any hangers in a few years, so overall I'm still coping a lot better than then.
I like to take on new challenges, and I like the idea of a life full of pressure which goads me to strive and do better. I thrive in exam conditions. Pulling all-nighters to finish assignments looks glamorous; a schedule full of hobbies, writing, academia, and fitness regimes (and of course a full social life on top) seems desirable; literally driving yourself to paralysis from stress sounds like a laugh.
It wasn't much of a laugh, to be honest. I wish it was, and I told everyone the story that way, but it was just scary and painful.
After my cry about the one-liner needing to be cut, I felt quite calm and relaxed. I had some hot chocolate and a Penguin bar. I finished my Ikea blueberry juice. I looked back at the draft, and concluded that the joke could get re-worked and put into Vol. II, and even if it didn't, I could always hold onto it for another time. Only me and my Sylvestus beta-readers would ever know it was missing.
Then I closed the draft. I slowed my breathing down, and I unclenched my jaw.
One could certainly argue that I need to find my Zen, but Zen is something I slip in and out of, and in this moment, with all these realisations, I really do think I've found it. You need to be hysterical before you can be calm. I always start exam seasons unnaturally chilled, build to a brief breakdown, and then proceed with a motivation and energy I lacked before I let myself get hit with the hysteria.
So... I guess there's a few points to this post. But they're sort of the same point.
Recovery isn't linear, life isn't linear. You will draw a line in your life and say that all came before was the bad, and all that comes after is the good, but they will bleed into each other.
Regardless, you will recover if you try to.
Sometimes it's not easy and you'll want to go back.
Don't.
Sometimes you'll want it all to be over.
Don't.
Sometimes you'll think you can't survive.
You can. You survived worse than this. If the worst is yet to come, then so is the best.
When you forget how far you've come, look back at where you were. It will hurt but it's a good reminder.
Drink water. Give up things that hurt you, including ones you don't want to give up. Unclench your jaw. Go outside once a day. Sit in the dark and listen to music when you have to.
You are a miracle of moving parts, a study in survival.
(credit - the raven boys, maggie stiefvater)
Keep going.
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| My tattoo, inspired by the quote from Maggie Stiefvater's The Raven Boys, to remind me where I have come from |
