What I have learned (unlearned, or may still be learning) from the month of July...
Oh if I could only show you the hidden cost of being high-functioning.
If I could pull from my body, each invisible thread of effort that goes unseen into the fluorescent open, laid upon a stage, to be finely adjusted so; each small increment examined with all high-and-mighty, weighable, measurable, objectivity.
Then you could see the fibers of distress running through these ropes I hang by, the unfolded entrails of all that it takes to be functional.
The effort unseen, the paralyzed pacing around and around the most basic of efforts.
The endless white desert of depression spread out like a thin film, one cell thick, spread to infinity across the night sky.
In each infinitesimally small detail, coiled anxiety that circles and circles and circles, making up the whorl of a tree's inner rings.
The exhaustion that pervades each space, like a congealed mass - movement becoming jelly-slow.
The tired tired tired hoarseness of my voice as I try once more to be heard.
Could I lift 20 pounds? Arms held over my head?
Sure, I can just add it to the weight of the unhealed I already carry.
Can I stand for long periods of time?
Oh my darling, I have been standing in line, waiting, for years.
Do I need a mobility aid or other supports?
No, just the aid of my loved ones when systems continue to crumble.
What holds me back? What graphic details can I give of my incompetence, laid bare like a body splayed open to be picked through and analyzed. There is no room for dignity here, privacy here, just spread your legs and strip bare and you will be judged for how worthy you are of support. A needle plunges into my arm to tell me if I'm unwell. A scale parrots back that I should be fine, it is only if I lose most of what's left of me that an alarm will sound and uniforms will pour out doorways, pin me to the ground, and tell all they know about trauma-informed care.
There is a prize for how easily you can cover the unseen effort that you pour into just being, showing up, appearing "normal." The compliment gifted to you of "oh you're doing so well" and you are, but you aren't and while you take the praise you cannot help but feel that it comes with a side of yet again, reminded that if you were truly struggling it would need to be drawn across your body in plain writing. Bones laid bare - when you're dead, before you would ever even reach the consideration of "sick enough." Your blood and organs would need to betray you before anyone blinked and then, of course, you'd be beyond hope and cast aside as "nothing left to do."
Though I logically know the danger and falsity of this game of Goldilocks, there are times my mind becomes stuck, my flimsy sense of truth begins to turn and turn - I hear "you're incapable," "too ill to participate in life," "you're fine, what's the big deal," "at least you look well," "you're doing great," "your life is really coming together..." Was I ever in any danger? What if this is normal, has always been normal because there is no normal? What is the point of taking up space in desperately spare services if I am well? Am I well? What is well? Am I simply not cut out for life? What is real and who gets to define it? I am not sure I know how after years of being told I cannot, but others cannot do so for me? I am eleven and twelve and thirteen again, told I must only trust authority. Told I cannot trust myself. I am twenty, then twenty four, told it's my responsibility and no one else can tell me what's real until they do and I am under section, told I am not in contact with reality. I am twenty eight, then twenty nine and I am high-functioning, but told I am lacking in distress tolerance whilst working efficiently in a healthcare system burning to the ground. I am too much and not enough and I no longer trust those who say they are trying to help after fighting through endless lines and paperwork to reach them. Trust must be earned and some do earn it in time, but the fear of further letdown is a lingering shadow. I do trust those I love; I am trying to trust myself, but it is hard.
It's just the system the system the system the bloody system...
I will hold out hope for August's lessons.
I will stick close to the edges of where I feel earned trust.
I will escape to the woods, even just for a little while at a time.
- S
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