Ever since I started an Anti-depressant a couple weeks ago now I’ve felt like a new person. Like a dark cloud has lifted. Like I can get through my days easily without having to worry about the wave of emotions taking me off track. Dragging me down to lay on the couch because something horrible came back into consciousness to knock me out of my day. I can handle things so much better. I found myself asking, “is this what it feels like to be normal?”
But the thing is I’m not normal. I’m far from it actually. I’ve started evaluating myself a little more. Observing silently while another part of me takes action. “Why am I so hyperfixated on this?” I ask myself. I am the only one who cares to solve this puzzle of me after all. I’ve realized that when I start to like something or become interested in something I become engrossed in it. I almost do it to the point of obsession. It’s like maybe this one thing I’ve found will finally hold all the answers. Or maybe part of me worries that I’ll lose myself again. I felt lost for a really long time now that I’m looking back on it, so now when I find something I enjoy I get almost immediately fearful it will abandon me. It’s funny to think about because these aren’t things that anyone else even has any control over. These are things like reading and finding treasures while thrift shopping. They are making jewelry and forcing myself to write this (even though I enjoy writing it still seems to be the one thing on this list I love to avoid).
Well, I suppose that’s not true and that’s the whole point. For 6 months I could be writing every day. I’ll dream up future scenarios of what I want to accomplish, where I’m going, what I want to do with writing. I even had vague thoughts of re-enrolling in college. Then I moved on. Thrifting, that has become my new obsession. Finding vintage treasures. Understanding their worth. Endless videos of research. I can barely fall asleep at night while I think of my schedule that I’ll fit in for the week. Wasn’t it Albert Camus who said this was the key to life? To do whatever it is that you like to do that prevents you from ending things.
This made me think a bit more deeply about my hyperfixation surrounding my new hobbies. If I’m honest, there are many reasons this focus on myself feels uncomfortable. It feels like it could be taken away at any moment. That this life I’m building could be ripped away and I’ll be forced to live the life I was living before. I remember those last months before the pandemic hit and I was still working in an office every day. I hadn’t healed one ounce of trauma, was silently addicted to adderall. I was a ticking time bomb and I did blow. And the aftermath wasn’t pretty. It’s now taken years to get myself to a point where I’m regularly leaving my house more than once a week. Where I have hobbies that are growing. Where I have a newfound respect and zest for life that I never really thought I would have again. So why do I stop myself when I get excited? Why do I feel I have to be careful? Do I always take it too far? Is it really all or nothing with me? It’s felt like my whole life has been spent with other people standing in front of me in the line of priority in my mind. Now I’m standing right next to my son. I make sure his needs are met, and I meet mine every single day. I’m not bothering anyone. I’m not asking for anything, no one is coming to me either. It’s like this unspoken break happened when I broke down. No one came around once the people pleaser was gone. But still I’m left with this question, why does living for myself feel so wrong?
I feel like I have to find the answer, that I know I could very well be a whole slew of things. Bipolar, autistic, depressed, adhd. What it goes back to time and time again is not that I have a problem with my neurochemicals, but that my sensitivity was weaponized against me. I think of how just removing one person from my life, my mother, has changed literally everything. The craziest part is she didn’t even live anywhere near me since I was 20. For 15 years she continued to damage my brain from 1,000 miles away and I let her. That’s how desperately I wanted to be loved by her.
The point is, I made a conscious effort to really try to love myself since my birthday this past year. I quit smoking, I’ve worked out regularly, I’ve been consistent with the things that make me happy. I dont tolerate anything less. I’ve made feeble attempts at this in the past but I was never willing to set these harsh boundaries with the people in my life. The thing I’ve learned is that you really don’t need many people, if anyone else, to be happy. Once you have to make those concessions with yourself, with your time, with your thoughts, beliefs, voice, it chips away at something more than I can describe. I used to think it wasn’t necessary to hold a strong conviction, that it was more important to keep relationships in your life. Now I realized I don’t believe that at all. That I would rather spend eternity alone than another day in my former hell.
The Girl Without A Face 