So…
I'm beginning to wonder if anyone actually reads this blog anymore. There are never any comments, so sometimes it feels like I'm just sending my thoughts out into the universe, hoping they land somewhere.
And that's okay. I started writing this for myself anyway. Writing helps me sort through the tangled mess of thoughts and emotions that seem to occupy so much space in my head.
But if you are reading, leave me a comment sometime. Just say hello. It would be nice to know someone is out there.
Anyway…
I'm not doing particularly well.
My brain doesn't seem to be working the way it should, and lately, everything feels harder than it needs to be.
My psychiatrist and I recently decided to discontinue a medication I had been taking to help me sleep. Unfortunately, some of its potential side effects include weight gain and an increased risk of diabetes. I've been exercising regularly, working hard to take care of myself, and doing what I can to improve my physical health. Yet, despite all that effort, I haven't lost a single pound.
In fact, I'm approaching the heaviest I've ever been.
And that really sucks.
It's frustrating to put so much effort into something and see absolutely no progress. I'm hoping that discontinuing this medication might help. Maybe my body will finally respond to all the work I've been doing. Maybe I'll start to feel a little better about myself physically.
At this point, I'll take whatever small victories I can get.
But my weight isn't really the biggest problem right now.
I'm exhausted. Not just physically exhausted, but emotionally and mentally exhausted.
I'm struggling to find any sort of balance between school, treatment, and life.
My days have become an endless cycle. I wake up ridiculously early to exercise. I go to school and spend the day teaching, planning, managing behaviors, meeting everyone's needs, and trying to be the teacher my students deserve. Then, on program days, I head to DBT, where I spend several more hours working on my mental health. After that, I finally get home, grab something to eat, and usually find myself doing more schoolwork.
Then I go to bed, wake up, and do it all over again.
And again.
And again.
Somewhere in all of that, I'm supposed to find time to rest, spend time with my husband, enjoy my life, make art, and simply exist.
I'm not doing a particularly good job of that.
There is always something that needs to be done. Another lesson to plan. Another responsibility to fulfill. Another problem to solve. Another expectation to meet.
There is so much to do and so little time to do it.
I can feel myself becoming overwhelmed.
I suppose I could ask for help at school, but I'm not sure what that help would actually look like. It's not as though someone can magically reduce my teaching responsibilities or take over all the planning that needs to happen. People can listen, offer encouragement, and express concern, and I appreciate those things.
But eventually, I still have to walk back into my classroom and do the job.
And right now, just doing the job takes an extraordinary amount of energy.
Here's the part that is becoming increasingly difficult to admit.
I'm sad. Really sad.
Life feels hard, and the harder it feels, the sadder I become. Then, because I'm sad, everything becomes even more difficult. Things that shouldn't require much effort suddenly feel enormous.
It's a vicious cycle, and I can't seem to find my way out of it.
I've also been having some pretty terrible thoughts lately.
The thoughts of suicide and self-harm that I've been working so hard to manage have become increasingly persistent. They're louder now. More insistent. They seem to find their way into the quiet moments, and sometimes even into the moments when I'm trying desperately to focus on something else.
So far, I've managed to keep those thoughts as thoughts.
But I'm not going to pretend that it's easy.
It's getting harder.
And that scares me.
I find myself thinking about what would happen if I acted on those thoughts. I know where that road could lead. Another hospitalization. Another interruption in my life. Another period away from teaching, much like what happened earlier this year.
And then there are the practical realities.
I need to work. I need an income. We have bills to pay and responsibilities that don't simply disappear because my mental health is deteriorating.
So I keep going.
I get up. I exercise. I go to school. I teach. I smile. I laugh with my students. I encourage them, support them, and try to create a classroom where they feel safe, valued, and loved.
I put on the mask of the happy, energetic teacher.
And I wear it well.
Most people probably have no idea how much effort it takes to keep that mask in place.
They don't see the anxiety simmering beneath the surface. They don't hear the thoughts running through my head. They don't know how much energy I spend trying to hold myself together while helping seventeen little people navigate their own emotions, challenges, and learning.
By the end of the day, there isn't much left of me.
And yet, the thoughts are still there.
Waiting.
I want them to go away.
I want to feel normal again.
But I've been thinking about what normal actually means for someone like me.
With my history of childhood trauma, my version of normal has never been particularly typical. I spent much of my life developing ways to survive experiences that no child should have to endure. I learned to bury feelings, disconnect from painful memories, anticipate danger, and protect myself from things that felt threatening.
Those strategies helped me survive when I was younger.
But here's the problem.
The things that helped me survive my childhood are making it difficult for me to live my adult life.
The coping mechanisms that once protected me are no longer serving me well. In fact, many of them are actively contributing to the anxiety, depression, and emotional distress that I experience today.
And replacing those old patterns with healthier ones is incredibly difficult.
That's part of what I'm working on in therapy and DBT. I'm trying to learn how to respond to life differently. I'm trying to recognize when my thoughts are distorted, when my emotions are disproportionate to the situation, and when my brain is reacting to something that isn't actually dangerous.
But understanding why something happens and being able to change it are two very different things.
I can recognize my maladaptive schemas. I can identify the negative thought patterns. I can explain how trauma shaped the way I perceive myself, other people, and the world around me.
I can even tell you which DBT skills I should be using.
But knowing all of that doesn't automatically make the feelings disappear.
Sometimes I think my brain is still living in a world where danger is everywhere.
Something happens at school. Maybe it's a difficult interaction, an unexpected responsibility, a change in plans, or simply another demand on an already overwhelming day.
For someone else, it might be a minor inconvenience.
For me, it can feel catastrophic.
My brain immediately sounds the alarm.
The old patterns take over. The anxiety escalates. My thoughts race toward the worst possible outcome. Suddenly, something relatively small becomes an enormous threat.
And the frustrating part is that I often know it's happening.
I know my reaction is bigger than the situation warrants. I know my brain is interpreting something ordinary as dangerous. I know that the emotions I'm experiencing are being amplified by years of trauma and deeply ingrained beliefs about myself and the world.
But knowing doesn't necessarily stop it.
It's as though my brain has a smoke detector that goes off every time someone makes toast.
The alarm is deafening, even when there's no fire.
And living with that alarm constantly ringing is exhausting.
I wish I could turn it off.
I wish I could convince my brain that I'm safe now. That I don't have to spend every waking moment anticipating the next disaster. That I don't have to keep defending myself against threats that aren't actually there.
I wish I could simply experience a difficult day without my mind turning it into evidence that everything is falling apart.
Most of all, I wish I could find some peace.
I know recovery isn't a straight line. I've written about that before. I've spent months in treatment learning that progress and setbacks can exist together. I've learned that two seemingly contradictory things can both be true.
I can be making progress AND still be struggling.
I can be grateful for my life AND feel overwhelmed by it.
I can love teaching AND recognize that it's taking more out of me than I have to give right now.
I can want to live AND be frightened by the thoughts that keep intruding into my mind.
All of those things can be true at the same time.
But knowing that doesn't make this particular stretch of the journey any easier.
Right now, I'm tired.
I'm tired of being anxious. I'm tired of being sad. I'm tired of fighting with my own thoughts. I'm tired of feeling as though every ordinary responsibility requires an extraordinary amount of effort.
I'm tired of surviving when what I really want is to start living again.
And perhaps that's the most difficult part of all of this.
I have worked so hard to get better. I've spent months in treatment, confronted painful memories, learned new skills, challenged old beliefs, and tried to rebuild a healthier relationship with myself.
Yet here I am, still struggling.
Sometimes it feels as though my brain is working against me, almost as though it's trying to destroy the very life I've worked so hard to build.
But I also know that my brain learned these patterns for a reason. It was trying to protect me when I didn't have the tools or the power to protect myself.
Maybe now the challenge is teaching it that we don't have to live that way anymore.
I don't know how long that will take.
I don't know when things will start feeling easier.
And I certainly don't have any profound words of wisdom to wrap this all up in a neat little bow.
What I do know is that I'm still here.
I'm still trying.
I'm still showing up, even on the days when showing up feels nearly impossible.
And for now, perhaps that's enough.
I just wish it didn't have to be so damn hard.