A Gift From My Former Self

After reflecting more deeply on my "rock bottom weekend," I began thinking back to times past when I have felt low.  Even lower than I feel right now.  My first semester freshman year of college I suffered from biological depression.  I went to school six hours away from home, and thought I could handle that.  Obviously I could not.  By Thanksgiving break I had gained 15 pounds and had a panic attack at the ten o'clock mass.  When I got home, my sister called to ask if I was okay.  She said she could tell something was different and wanted to make sure I was adjusting at school.  The thing is, I honestly thought I was fine.  That's the thing about depression, it sneaks up on you, and sometimes you don't know it's there... until it's really there.  I went back to school after Thanksgiving in a downward spiral until Christmas break.  I suffered three panic attacks: one in the bathroom during calculus class, one blow drying my hair in my bedroom before Spanish class, and one on my way to work at the ROTC building.  I felt worthless.  No one liked me; why would they?  I saw myself as overweight, unintelligent, and different.  I began to see myself the way that my roommates told me I was when they were drunk.

"You're so stupid!"

I let them define me and I didn't even know it.  And then I came home for Christmas... and it was apparent to everyone that something was undeniably wrong.  I didn't want to spend time with my friends.  I couldn't sleep at night.  I had gained at least 5 more pounds since Thanksgiving.  I was lethargic, sensitive, distant, and alone in the presence of others.  So my sister stepped in, and I will never feel like I can thank her enough for it.  She told my mother something had to be done.  I flew to Florida to spend my last week of winter break reading in the sun at my Aunt's house, and I received a call from the counseling support center at my university asking if I'd like to set up an appointment; my sister had called them.  I went back to school for one week in January 2011.  I didn't sleep a wink at night and could barely coax myself out of bed during the day.  I met with a psychologist who encouraged me to see a psychiatrist for antidepressants. That Saturday, I got a call from my sister,

"Mom say's she'll come get you."

and that was it for me.  I walked away from school and didn't know if I would ever go back.  I withdrew, packed up, and moved home with no plan and a lot of love.  My family did everything they could to keep it together for me.  I had never felt so low, so incapable of happiness, but my family and my true friends got me through it.  I got a job, took night classes, and tried to get it together.  I exercised, read, and wrote my way through depression.

Looking back on that time in my life is what brings me to my post today.  I found a gift from myself in a file on my computer.  If at the lowest moment of my life, I was able to write this way - to think this way- then I can carry myself through the superficiality of a college break-up with dignity.

A fact: nobody chooses to be broken. It would be irrational to believe that a person makes the conscious decision to feel the unyielding piercing in the pit of her stomach, the relentless pressure building behind her eyes, or the perpetual feeling of emptiness that remains seemingly insurmountable. It has been said that you are always in control of your own fate; it’s a lie. Sometimes the choice is not yours to make, and many times there is a breaking point. The world is silent, sleep is exhausting, smiling is infrequent, and your spirit is broken. Barring natural disaster, the truth is that someone contributes to this personalized, toxic, apocalyptic state. They chose for you. They fueled the earth-shattering, emotional tragedy that inevitably infiltrates every crevice of an already fragile life until the glue had been employed to hold the pieces together is forced to give way to devastation. 

A fact: everybody has the ability to heal. It would be irrational to believe that a person could be broken forever. It has been said that you are responsible for your own happiness; it’s the truth. One day when the world is silent, sleep is exhausting, smiling is infrequent, and your spirit is broken, you will realize that the catalyst that caused this quasi-apocalyptic tragedy is unworthy of grief. The anguish will turn to fury, and eventually to numbness. You will choose to fill the new wound with the same glue that used to hold the broken pieces of your life together, and with time, you will heal.

Started From The Bottom Now We're Here

I've been calling this past weekend "rock bottom."  For three nights in a row I went to my closet,  selected a mostly see through top, applied a little too much eyeliner, and stepped into the tallest pair of wedges I could get my hands on... and then, I drank.  My typical five beers a night quickly escalated to seven or eight, my no-shot-taking policy flew out the window as I drank Captain straight from the bottle, and the box of wine my friends left in my room was considerably less heavy by the end of each night.  I kissed a guy I barely know, woke up in my bed with no idea how I got there, and spent two hours crying to a friend as he helped me out of my heels and into his roommate's slippers so I didn't break an ankle.  I offended a girl I'm barely acquainted with, fell down the hill outside of my apartment, and ate more drunk pizza than I even care to think about.

So, after all this, do I feel any better?  Surprisingly, yes I do.  I am embarrassed, ashamed, hungover, guilt ridden, and definitely in need of some exercise.  However, I've realized that acting out reminded me who I really am.  I am not the person I acted like this weekend; if I was, I wouldn't feel shame or embarrassment.  I let myself lose control of my emotions, of my values, and of my inhibitions.  I am definitely not proud of that, but I needed this weekend to remind myself that I am always in control and responsible for myself.

In relationships, from what I have learned, the power lies with the person who cares less.  At some point in my last relationship, I let the balance tip.  I loved deeper - cared more - and I gave him control.  I tried to want what he wanted, do what he wanted, and act in the way he wanted.  Every move I made was with him in mind.  I relinquished control.

Over the past five weeks, I have done little to regain control and responsibility.  I made excuses for my melodramatic responses to small infractions, my oversensitivity to the criticism of others, and my short temper in the face of controversy.  "I'm going through a tough breakup," I'd think, "it's not my fault."  And everyday, I wish things were different.  Sometimes I wish we were still together.  Sometimes I wish we had never met.  Sometimes I wish that he wasn't in the same state as me, at the same school as me, or at the same party as me.  I don't have control over any of those things, but what I can control are my actions and the way I treat others.  Over the past five weeks I lost sight of the fact that there is never an excuse to knowingly do the wrong thing.  My mother taught me to know right from wrong, to respect others, and to carry myself with dignity.  This weekend I exemplified zero of the things my mother taught me, and there is no excuse for that - not even a broken heart.

I genuinely believe that this past weekend was actually an experience I needed to have.  I am finding myself, rebuilding my life, recreating my outlook, and mending my heart, and sometimes the only way to do that is to start from rock bottom and work your way up.


**inspired by "Beauty in a Breakdown" firstworldthoughts.blogspot.com