What I Would Have Written If I Was Brave

I keep thinking back to World Mental Health Day. I keep thinking what I would have written if I was brave.

I would have written that this is hard. That behind all those cute explanations of self-compassion and love I made lies a person that just doesn’t know how to do it. My brain has a hole in its bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza, and any love I put in just comes dribbling out. I think I act like someone who loves themselves, and these days I’m getting good enough to feel it sometimes, too. But my base state, the state I have always lived in, is the one that tells me I’m not good enough. Call that by whatever label you want, the end result is still a lifetime soaked in shame. Right back to kindergarten, when I remember hating myself for being able to read better than the other kids. Right back to memories from third grade that still make me put my fist in my mouth. Because my brain has spent years telling me I’m not worthy of love, I’m not worthy of other people’s kindness, and I’m certainly not worthy of my own. I’ve been in therapy for 13 years now. This is a wound that will never fully heal.

I would have written that this is hard for the people around me. Living with me ricocheting off the walls in a mania, going days without sleeping or eating because the ideas come that thick and fast. Or the ones who have to coax me through a depression, when I’m convinced I should just walk into the road rather than suffer another moment in this world. Even when I’m not suffering in any tangible way. I don’t have to be; the suffering comes from within. For the people outside watching that, it’s an ordeal. I know they want to shake reality into me. I know they want to shake self-love into me. I know that they’ve tried and they can’t.

I would have written this is hard nearly all the time. I’ve been struggling with an uptick in symptoms the last two months, but I haven’t talked much about it because it’s a “temporary” situation, even though I have no idea if I’ll ever be a normal person again. Normal is defined as functional and not scared out of my wits at what my own brain is doing. I don’t spend a lot of time that way. Mostly I feel like I’m running to catch a bus that is always just slightly ahead of me, so all I can do if I ever want to catch up is to keep my head down and charge forward and hope. Mostly, though, I feel like I’ll never catch up. That I’ll always be fighting an uphill climb just to stand in one place and feel safe. That’s what I would have written, if I was brave enough. That even though lots of people love me I still consider suicide in some half-assed capacity every week. You don’t need to worry; I look after myself. I know how to combat the urges. I just don’t know how to stop them coming.

I would have written this is hard. Hard to write this and admit that things are as bad as they are. Hard to write my normal and see it for the abnormal it really is. Hard to have all of you see me and know me not just for a mentally ill person, but one who isn’t always winning the fight. Of course, some fights you don’t get to win. You knuckle down and you settle for a draw. And I’m content with my draws. I worked hard to earn them. I’ll never fully win against these things, because they’ve been fighting me longer than I’ve been learning how to fight them. I will always have a bipolar, autistic, traumatised brain. I’ve learned to love it, after a fashion, but it will never make my life easy. And that’s what I would have written if I was brave. That it will never be as easy as I made it sound in my last post. I will always be fighting to stay on this earth. Even if you see me happy and healthy and striving, there will always be a battle going on underneath the surface.

But there’s something else I should have written. It’s a note of hope, because giving yourself hope is bravery too. My life is a battle, and battles are hard — but it’s also a love story, and love stories, at least, are easy. From the outside, I can see my story for the self-romance it is. Learning to love myself against the odds. It’s the kind of romance we need a lot more of, the kind that lights up the world. But it’s not the kind of romance that exists without a lot of other people to help it along. My life is hard, but I got lucky — lucky to have the support and resources I need to come as far as I have. Far too few people get the opportunities to make a love story like this come true. Mostly, the stories of mentally ill folk don’t turn out well. And they should. We ought to have more stories where people get the help they need. It might not lead to a happy ending, but it could lead to happier lives. And that’s the kind of story worth investing in. The kind of story that takes collective action, the kind where nobody’s left alone. The story of people beginning to love themselves and get better against every note of caution in the world.