I have written several openings to this post about my
struggle with mental illness: The day I was put admitted to the psychiatric
floor, I did my hair. OR: One day, I decided to count the number of lies
I told, and got to thirty before I was home from school. OR: At age 22, I threw the
kind of hissy-fit you’d expect from a toddler, because my friend had to go to
work; snot and tears thinly coated my face. I was shaking—I was screaming. The problem
with each of these options is that then of course I have to tell a story, and I
hate each of those stories. The stories
that begin with those sentences embarrass me. They exhaust me and they make me
feel like maybe the people who know them will disappear from my life.
The truth is that as involuntarily as developed Cerebral
Palsy shortly after birth, I developed at some point in my early life, an
unrelenting fear of the people I love going away. It is anxiety that is so enveloping
that admitting to its existence in this way is making me feel slightly sick. I
have a loving family, and although my childhood wasn't without loneliness or
pain, it didn't cause this. Most days of my life have been free of reasons to
complain. My anxiety is as close to innate at something can be without meeting
the word's definition. I am surrounded by wonderful people, who I know love and want goodness for me. I want my friends and my family who may read this to
know, they did nothing to create this in me. My supporters are the only
reason that now I live, usually happily, with my anxiety.
Nobody built me this obstacle, but I certainly did not
choose for myself. I do not want to feel like an elephant is sitting on my
chest when I have to ask for help. I don’t want to close my eyes and remember
everything I said in the last month while my throat feels like it’s shutting in
shame. I wish my stomach thought of honesty as the best policy. I have sought effective help, and I am okay. Lots of times,
I’m better than okay.
Because I have physical challenges too, I hope I can offer a
somewhat unique prospective on these matters. I know undoubtedly that the last paragraph I
wrote would be superfluous in a piece regarding CP. Society understands that I
can’t change my legs, my balance, or the way my voice sounds when I get
excited. If a stranger tried to imply that I could, onlookers might call them
crazy. It’s different with the other
stuff. With the other stuff, explaining that at times I am helpless to it makes
me the crazy one… I promise you on my puppy, I cannot control either condition.
This of course does not mean that I am not solely responsible
for my sometimes absolutely horrid behavior while in the throes of my anxiety. Like it
would be stupid and selfish of me not use a walker and to make everybody wait
around while I crawled, it was stupid and selfish me to go so long without
seeking help. Humans act stupidly and selfishly when they are trying to avoid
being judged-- being labeled. The irony is not lost on me. Monsters, as they say,
live in the dark.
Here’s hoping the
world turns the lights on soon.
