Another Mask to Wear

So…I've been struggling lately. Really struggling.

My anxiety has been building for a while now, fueled by the demands of teaching and an upcoming medication change that has me more than a little frightened.

School is becoming overwhelming. I love teaching, and I love my students, but I'm beginning to realize just how much energy it takes to be the happy, enthusiastic, patient teacher my second graders need me to be. Every morning, I walk into my classroom, put on a smile, and become "Mr. Pliska." I'm cheerful. I'm encouraging. I'm animated. I'm the teacher who celebrates little victories, makes learning fun, and tries to create a classroom where every child feels safe, valued, and loved.

But underneath all of that, I'm struggling.

The happiness that everyone sees is often a mask. It's the face I put on to keep people from knowing just how badly I'm feeling inside. And wearing that mask all day, every day, is exhausting.

By the time I get home, there's often very little of me left.

Unfortunately, my anxiety doesn't travel alone. It brings along some particularly unwelcome companions: suicidal ideation and urges to engage in self-harm.

Those are difficult words to write, but they're part of my reality right now.

I'm managing, just barely, to keep those thoughts as thoughts rather than allowing them to become actions. I'm using the skills I've learned through months of treatment. I'm practicing distress tolerance, urge surfing, mindfulness, and all the other tools I've worked so hard to develop.

But sometimes, even using those skills feels exhausting.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being anxious. I'm tired of fighting my own thoughts. I'm tired of feeling as though I'm constantly working just to keep myself together.

And I'm tired of pretending that everything is okay when it isn't.

Now, on top of everything else, I'm facing another medication change.

This week, I begin transitioning from Escitalopram to Bupropion. I've been taking Escitalopram for a long time, and at a high prescribed dose, twice the usual recommended daily maximum. My body has become accustomed to it, even though it doesn't seem to be helping as much as it should anymore.

Changing medications isn't as simple as swapping one pill for another. My body and brain have to adjust, and I'm worried about what that adjustment might look like.

Because I've been down this road before.

Back in January, a medication change contributed to a devastating downward spiral. My anxiety and depression intensified, my urges became increasingly difficult to manage, and eventually I ended up in the hospital.

What followed was six months of medical leave and an extraordinary amount of treatment. Residential care. Partial hospitalization. Intensive outpatient treatment. Countless hours of therapy, learning skills, examining my trauma, and trying to understand why my mind sometimes turns against me.

It has been one of the most difficult periods of my life.

And now, as I prepare for another medication change, I can't help but wonder:

What if it happens again?

What if my anxiety becomes unbearable? What if the urges become too strong? What if I find myself right back where I was in January?

I know these are anxious thoughts. I know that worrying about something doesn't mean it's going to happen. I've spent months learning how to challenge catastrophic thinking.

But knowing something intellectually and believing it emotionally are two very different things.

Lately, my anxiety has been so intense that I can barely sit still. My body feels as though it's constantly bracing for something terrible to happen. My muscles are tense, my thoughts race, and sometimes I have difficulty concentrating on even the simplest things.

I worry about what all this stress is doing to my physical health, too.

It feels as though my nervous system has forgotten how to turn itself off.

And frankly, it sucks.

I wish I could tell you that I have some wonderful revelation about all of this. That I've discovered the secret to managing anxiety, or that all those months of treatment have somehow made me immune to the darkness.

But that's not how recovery works.

Recovery doesn't mean that the anxiety disappears. It doesn't mean that depression never returns or that painful thoughts stop showing up.

Sometimes recovery means experiencing all of those things and finding a way to keep going anyway.

And that's where I am right now.

There is no way around this. I have to go through it.

That thought feels overwhelming at the moment. Some days, the road ahead seems impossibly long, and I wonder whether I have the strength to keep walking it.

But here's something I need to remind myself.

I'm not the same person I was in January.

Since then, I've learned an enormous amount about myself. I've confronted painful memories and experiences that I spent decades trying to bury. I've learned to recognize my emotions, question my thoughts, tolerate distress, and ask for help when I need it.

I've learned that two seemingly contradictory things can be true at the same time.

I can be terrified AND I can be courageous.

I can be struggling AND I can be making progress.

I can feel overwhelmed AND I can reach out for support.

I can have thoughts of hurting myself AND choose to keep myself safe.

That little word, AND, has become an important part of my recovery.

So, yes, I'm frightened about this medication change. I'm overwhelmed by school. I'm exhausted by the constant anxiety and the effort it takes to appear okay.

But I'm also more aware, more skilled, and better supported than I was nine months ago.

I don't know exactly what the next few weeks will bring. I can't promise that they'll be easy. I can't even promise that I'll handle every difficult moment gracefully.

What I can do is keep using my skills, stay connected to the people who care about me, be honest with my treatment team, and ask for help before things become unmanageable.

And maybe, just maybe, I can give myself permission to stop pretending that I'm okay all the time.

Because I don't have to be the happy teacher every minute of every day to be a good teacher.

And I don't have to feel strong every minute to be a strong person.

Right now, I'm struggling.

AND I'm still here.

For today, that's enough.