On good days like yesterday, the day starts with relief, which brings hope for an easy mental health day. Or at least as easy as it can get. I manage with little effort. I don’t feel heavy trying to last until sleep. Productivity seems possible and presents itself as so. Social interactions aren’t trying, not using up what little energy there may be.
Other times a day can start off good, manageable, hopeful; then I feel betrayed when what I thought was a sturdier foundation cracks and crumbles more and more until the end of the day I sit on debris. A sugar statue melted away easily by rain.
I’ve realized Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is a great analogy of my struggle. I fight to keep from turning, from losing myself for good. My energy, all the effort it takes to resist. How can you fight from becoming something else when the effort itself is driving you towards it? I’m exhausted trying to find a cure, meanwhile I am becoming not me, losing what makes me me. If a final transformation happens, I won’t be me. I’ll be gone. So what self-destruction I inflict is to get away from myself. It means I gave in, I couldn’t fight anymore. The closer I come to understanding, the closer it seems I will become it, the more it makes sense. How easy it would be to let the rock roll back and end me? To let myself be whittled away and stop trying to rebuild? Can I be salvaged?
Do you wage war against the salty sea?
When it savagely licks your bow,
do you blame the gods you cannot see?
Yelling you will not cow.
Or when navigating waves of hits,
do you laugh when they miss?
The chaos is not a new friend.
Not even if it is your end.
Perhaps you bark a bitter laugh
hearing that others have never seen worse?
Glaring at their easy path,
Do you look downcast and mumble a curse?
Optionally, battle-weary through your trudge
you offer solidarity instead of judge
with wont for what cannot be controlled;
the treasured calm, the reckoned rolls, the inexorable tumolt
I wander my wasteland where wells of water gush forth life.
Where drops of water even offer respite.
Air of despair, dust of self despite;
escape is nowhere in sight.
Mirages appear, although in here they are real,
and are a peer
and a step
into what should be here.
I’ve harvested each moment of productivity, competency, happiness, worthiness; though my hands are weak I squeeze what nectar I can to sip on for the immediate days while I still scavenge on the way. That is me taking it day by day.
For those who feel cured after taking medication after however long, for mental illness,
then you stop taking it
are you cured?
Or do you go back and forth until you think it has stuck?
Do you ever consider that a fantasy, a hope?
My medication isn’t my white flag I waive daily
They are the life-saving pills I take daily to not be
starved of attention
picking incessantly at my face
overflowing with guilt
lacking monetary sense/spending copiously
Of course I would love for all of the to go away! In a point of my life, it did. When I was pregnant with my daughter it went away and when she was almost 3yo, it came back even worse than it was before.
Is medication not something that manages mental illness? Like how meds manage diseases? Those diseases don’t get cured but they can get managed.
Tell me how does one control what can’t be controlled? Deal with the unknown?
Does to “get by on your own” mean to scrape by like how I could go from paycheck to paycheck, barely getting by?
Does it have to do with pride? Does it make you feel less of a person?