When I came to I was standing in my kitchen with my phone in my hand, shoes were on my feet and my face was streaked with tears. I felt my skin burning hot with both embarrassment and rage. I was tugging at my bun to get the hair tie out of my hair so that I could effectively stim myself out of this stupor.
Let me start by saying that “came to” isn’t the most accurate of terms. I was present during my entire meltdown, but it felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it. No matter how many times my brain said, “Stop it Madison, you’re not this upset” I couldn’t lay the feeling to rest and it kept bubbling up and it felt like it was wrapping its tentacles around my brain.
That’s the problem with having mental health issues, how many times can you explain to your best friend sitting across from you wondering why the searing stinging tears are falling from your face, that you don’t know why? You don’t know why it’s getting so out of control. Or why you’re yelling. Or why you’re so frustrated. You just don’t know why. All the auditory and physical manifestations of fear drown out your ability to even think straight.
I wish I could explain this better. Talking about it now, it feels like a distant memory. Something you’ll make sure to be better at next time. But you know sure as shit, the next time that water starts to boil you’ll do everything but put a lid on it.
I feel frustrated even now. I just want so desperately to beg the people I love to try and look past it and pretend it didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t of. But you can’t expect that kind of forgiveness when you hurt someones feelings. And you can’t expect everyone to understand that you don’t have any fucking clue whats going on. Maybe its anxiety? or maybe not. Because I don’t know anymore.
When I feel at my worst, when I feel my most unhinged, and terrified, it feels like I’ve opened up the top of my head, and scribbled with crayon on the blank canvas of my mind.
I wish you could understand that I don’t know whats wrong with me. You being everyone. You being me. You being my partner, my mom, my sister, my family, my coworkers. I think that’s really the hardest part, is that I don’t even know what wrong with me. And I’m starting to give up on myself. Why not cave in, if my mind already is?
I keep thinking I have the answer to it, and that I have finally cracked the code. Just one more day of “self-care” one more day of adult coloring books and incense, and baths and face masks. I try to be self indulgent and pour epsom salt into the running water. But I still have days where I can’t stop my fingers from typing out messages full of backwards anxious thoughts. And I can’t stop my mouth from spewing out words that I don’t really mean. And after all is said and done, I leave myself deflated. and empty.
and I am a broken record. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I try to hand you back the shatters of our conversation begging you to help my glue the sense I lost back together. But you don’t have the glue and apparently neither do I.
