Edit The Sad Parts

There’s no Waterloo of the mind. Rather, the reclamation of my brain happened over a span of several years, piece by piece; there is no exact moment of triumph. I claimed little victories, like not getting anxious over staff lunchrooms, or wearing clothes that stood out (purple pants!), or letting silence remain golden rather than filling space with self-deprecation. Something like a war; nothing like a war. Starts, stutter-steps, backpedals, sprints, crawls, but no definite finish line. There doesn’t need to be one.
I have a pair of socks with lighthouses on them, and they mean very much to me. For years, I looked for beacons in life while adrift at sea. These mostly materialized as people who I thought could save me when I was disinterested in saving myself. I couldn’t spend my entire life this way; I had to be able to fix myself.
I was the lighthouse all along. I’m my own beacon. I love those socks (such a silly, but effective thing) because they remind me to let my light shine bright, even on the darkest nights.
I haven’t written about myself in over a year. The stories and drafts I left myself read as though someone else wrote them. Titles like The Flowers I Hold in My Hand Are Snakes and low and Like Normal People Do. During the last post here I insisted I was running out of time at 23 years old.
The brain bugs were running out of time. I wasn’t. I put in work on my brain, and I mean work. This took me years, and I’m impressed at where I’m at. Now, I’m the calm voice in the room. My heartbeat, my breath, my emotions, are under my control.
I don’t drink coffee anymore, and I’m about 95% certain this was near the root of my issues. I started every day less so energetic, and more so anxious at double speed; I was a record playing at the wrong speed. I drink tea instead, which tastes better, is gentler on my gut, and doesn’t really stain my teeth. Plus, my moods are better and my energy level is basically the same. Remarkable what happens when going from bitter to bright.
Mental illness robs identity. For years, I identified closer with that state than anything else. In my head I was always “Joe with the broken brain” even in situations where I didn’t want to be. I’m not really that anymore; I’m still figuring out who I am, what I’m capable of, how I get there.
Rough stretches still happen, but I’m now better at choosing positives over picking at old wounds. Just last week, I had a very rough stretch of days; I didn’t have a “normal” day all week. Instead of sulking or emotionally withdrawing, I threw the negativity in the rubbish and analyzed what did and didn’t work (always write things down!). Then, I went on with my day unfazed; the pumpkin drawings wouldn’t tape themselves onto the cabinets at the back of the classroom.
I work in elementary schools. My goal, above all else, is to empower children, and give them the self-confidence I wish I had as a child (and as an adult). I love my job. It’s work, but it barely feels that way. Teaching them has, in turn, taught me to love myself. I love my work (and where it’s put me); if all plays out as it should, I’ll be in the middle of a full-on credential program this time next year.
At its origin point, painting was a soothing activity, a way to be constructively calm. That eroded. Painting became stressful, angry, violent. I broke many canvases in search of a vague “perfect” that I could never find. For a time, I quit it entirely. Life got in the way, I told myself. Supplies are too expensive, I told myself. I’m not inspired, I told myself.
Below is something I did recently. I wasn’t mad, I just wanted to make colors happen. It reminds me of fall.

As I’ve grown, I’ve realized much of the me I’ve been trying to find was there all along.
