Dear Diary, I Don’t Know Why I Feel Like This

I’m having a bad mental health day. Some days I feel more “sick” than others.

Gus asked what’s wrong and it’s so hard to say “I don’t know”. I don’t have a reason. My life is amazing. I have everything I ever wanted and MORE…

But #mentalillness doesn’t give a fuck what you have or don’t have.

Some days are grey. Nothing is bad but nothing is good.

Some days are bright, and I smile and laugh so hard it hurts. On a rare occasion, I feel joy, which feels kind of like someone is ripping my chest open and filling the cavity with marshmallows.

Some days I’m riddled with anxiety and clouded with a haze of depression.

Some days I can’t feel anything at all.

Some days the pain is so bad that I just want to stay in bed and hide.

It’s been like this for as long as I can remember. There’s never been a reason for it—it just feels like a normal function, like breathing or hunger. I can’t control it, no matter how hard I try.

It feels like I’m always carrying a demon, waiting to dig its claws into my shoulders and whisper my failures into my ear. All it wants to do is drag me under, to prove that I am a failure—and right now, it feels like it’s winning. I don’t feel like me.

I know I’m supposed to “redefine what success means”, and I’ve been doing that, but I feel far away from… myself?

No medication or therapy or supplements or anything has really ever helped my lifelong depression.

I’ve been using unhealthy coping mechanisms—working so hard I make myself physically sick, self-harm, exercise regimes, extreme diets, expensive supplements, sex, etc. I’m grateful for my willpower—I’ve been successful in not using booze or drugs.

In the last year, everything got out of balance. We got rear-ended last May and the small neck injury I sustained made my Fibromyalgia flare to its worst level in years. Then I started feeling super anxious; I didn’t want to leave my house because I was so scared I might get hit again. Then it just kept getting worse. Panic attacks. My PTSD symptoms started to flare from the trauma of the car accident.

And now, a year later, here we are.

Five minutes at a time. I can make it through the next five minutes. Yes, yes I can.

Author: Becca Risa Luna

Seattle-based fashion writer and personal essayist. Likes designer handbags, glaring openness, and subtle vulgarity.

2 thoughts

  1. 5 minutes at a time is a great way to keep moving. It sounds like you are very self-aware even if you don’t feel like you are. And that is a good thing to be. I believe it’s when you aren’t aware of how you are that end up down a rabbit hole. You’ve got this! Minutes at a time is still moving forward. Remember that!

    Liked by 1 person

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