My depression and anxiety are a thousand times worse when I'm menstruating.
At least a part of my depression and anxiety is in direct relation to the fact that I haven't worked through everything in my past.
I'm a stuffer (meaning that rather than work through something, I'll stuff it down and pretend it doesn't exist), and that is in direct relation to how I was raised2. My mom always tried to talk to me when I was upset about something, but I was never really good at articulating what I was feeling, and so I'd eventually shut down and just start screaming and crying. My dad...my dad's response to most emotions was either, "shake it off, kid," or, "stop wearing your heart on your sleeve." My dad was my hero (until I was a teenager), so I went with his method. And thus began the stunting of my emotional development.
I was in my thirties when I finally found the words to describe how I'm feeling and what I'm thinking. It took a lot of talking to people with similar diagnoses, and a lot of talking to people with similar upbringings and early adulthoods, and a lot of talking to people with similar life experiences. I did all that talking online because I can't handle being in a setting where I have to talk to a group of people face-to-face about my life.
One of the things that I've noticed, since beginning this journey of healing and learning to cope, is that my mental health goes in cycles. And it's not even really connected to anything, as far as I can tell. I thought, once upon a time, that it was just my period, but then I'd start to break down in the middle of my cycle. Then I thought it was certain dates, but I'd start to break down on dates that have nothing to do with anything. And I finally had to accept that until I figure out how to recognize triggers and the onset of depression, I was going to cycle out of control.
The day I started this post (it's been a few days), it was because I saw Danielle Brooks post a video to participate in the #cycleschallenge on Instagram.
Danielle Brooks is one of my favorite people. The sheer amount of talent in that woman is astounding. The love in her heart shines through everything she does. And her foray into body positive advertising and stylish, comfortable clothes for plus size women did my heart in. She's just such an amazing woman.
But this post kinda hurt my feelings. It's not Danielle's fault. She's honestly just trying to help. And I'm sure, for her, reminding herself not to go in cycles does help. And she has the right to cope however she sees fit. Only she can decide what works for her.
It's not the fault of the challenge starter (Jonathon McReynolds) or any of the other participants, either. And I want to make perfectly clear that I'm not upset with any of them, least of all Danielle.
But here's the thing:
No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to control the cycles my mental health goes through. I think I've worked through something and healed, or, at the very least, figured out how to cope, and then a month, a year, five years later, WHAM! It smacks me in the face and knocks me to the mat all over again. And I'll go back to my coping mechanisms, and try to work through it again, but the old coping mechanisms don't work anymore, and now I have to come up with new ones.
It's exhausting. And it's not really something I can control.
The same day, Big walked downstairs to see me mopping and sobbing.
I was sobbing because I've finished editing part 2 of my short story series, but I really need someone else's opinion on it. It ends in a weird place, and I know it ends in a weird place, but I can't decide which way to go with it.
Basically, what's going on is, since I'm writing the story from the POV of different characters, part 2 is a sort of "prequel," and it runs into part 1. Obviously, I don't want to rewrite all of part 1 and make the reader read it all again, but I also know that I need to make sure it's clear that part 2 is ending where part 1 begins. And I'm pretty sure I stopped in the wrong place, but I can't decide if I need to write more, or back up.
I'd sent the story to Big the day before, but he's crazy busy. With Intel announcing that they've known about a critical bug that causes security problems for something like 15 years, and Cisco announcing that they've known about a critical bug that causes security problems for a few months, and then BOTH companies releasing bad fixes, and then releasing better fixes, he's been working most nights. Then he was asked to be on call an extra weekend because one of their customers was holding an event that required extra resources. And of course he's got all his normal, everyday work to do still on top of that. And he's technically on call every day because there are some things that only he can do (some of his coworkers are in the same boat), so there hasn't really been many days since Christmas that he's been 100% work free.
He hasn't really read anything, lately. His favorite author has some new stuff out, and he hasn't had a chance to read any of it.
But that's not what my mind was saying. My mind was saying, "See? He doesn't give a shit about your writing. He gave you hell about taking so long to write part 2, but it was just so he had something to give you hell about. He drops everything and runs to read new stuff from his favorite authors, but not your stuff. Nobody likes your stuff. Hell, nobody likes you. You're stupid. Your writing's stupid. Stop wasting everyone's time and get a fucking job like a normal person."
And none of that is true. I know none of that is true because I'm with him pretty much all the time, and I know he hasn't read anything in weeks because his brain is so full of fuck that he can't focus enough to read. I'm not stupid. I do dumb things sometimes, but it's not because I'm stupid. It's because I'm human, and humans do dumb things sometimes. My writing is good, even if it sometimes takes months of perfecting a piece before it reaches the level of good. And while I don't have a crowd of eleventy million friends, I do have some, and they are great.
But my brain just wouldn't stop. No matter how many ways I said to it, "That's not true," it just kept coming up with more shitty things to say to me.
I was mopping because I figured then Big wouldn't see me sobbing, and I wouldn't have to explain to him that my brain tells me bad things about him and I have a hard time making it stop. I didn't expect him to come downstairs.
And really, that's fucked up. He's my husband. He loves me, and he wants me to talk to him when I'm feeling down. But I hate it.
I. Hate. It.
Crying uncontrollably over things I know are not true but I can't make myself believe are not true in that moment makes me feel dumb and weak and immature. I hate being dumb and weak and immature. And having to admit to someone else that my brain is telling me things that I know aren't true but I can't make myself believe that they're not true makes going through those moments that much harder.
And then Big said, "You have control of your brain. Just tell your brain to stop."
It sounds so easy, doesn't it?
"Okay, brain. You and I both know the shit you're saying isn't true. So just shut up, already."
If that worked, I wouldn't have been sobbing in my kitchen.
If that worked, nobody would suffer from mental illnesses.
1. I started this post a few days ago. I did, in fact, start gushing blood later that day, and I have been spotting ever since. So much for "regular" periods, I guess. ↩
2. I was the first child, and I was sometimes a difficult child. I don't think my parents always knew how to handle me. Ultimately, they did the best they could with what they had. ↩
2. I was the first child, and I was sometimes a difficult child. I don't think my parents always knew how to handle me. Ultimately, they did the best they could with what they had. ↩
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