life though

Someone: For what?

In a world where we mostly aren’t in danger, day to day, as long as we don’t play in traffic or jump off something, that’s no longer quite as adaptive.

We got our anxiety from a long, unbroken line of ancestors who were scared enough to survive, and pass on those genes! 

My friend Zak pointed it out: I wonder how that got there. 

I had made the drive less than a month before without noticing it. 

My mom was out of town for the weekend. I took my boyfriend to finally see the Oregon coast. We drank red wine from the bottle and fell asleep together on one couch. In the morning, I couldn’t figure out the coffee machine, so he drove to the next town over and brought back paper cups with a picture of a pirate on the side. We went to the Ripley’s Believe It or Not museum and bought trashy souvenirs from the gift shop and I said to him everything in this moment is exactly perfect and six days later my brother was dead.

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My first semester of law school, I had a mental health crisis. 

 I would sit in class and list things: this desk is real. the highlighter is real. my left thigh has a freckle above the knee so that’s real. 

I have hundreds of photos from those first few months, all from my own apartment. Pictures of the sinks turned off. The stove knobs. The freezer, closed. My key in the door lock. 

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Oregon oaks are marcescent – the leaves change color at the same time as the trees around them, but don’t fall. The dead leaves hang on all winter. When the wind picks up, you would swear it’s raining by the noise of it. 

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Before he died, my brother drove up to Sacramento for an apprenticeship with a guy who made knives. I don’t know everything that happened there, but I know most of the ending.

All the outlet covers pried off all the walls. 

I know that’s where you keep the cameras, he said. I’m not a moron. 

They’re going to keep him 72 hours, my mom said. At least 72 hours.

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We never talked about mental illness. Just sat next to each other in silence for decades. Fiddling with the car radio. Up in the tree.

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Even at the worst of it, I was surrounded by resources. This is a privilege, undoubtedly. It was also profoundly unhelpful. 

Career counselors and professors talked about income potential and market desirability and I pressed my thumbs as deep as they would go in the spaces between my ribs. 

What does it matter how fast I can move, I thought, if I can’t get the hell out of this tree?

I didn’t need affirmations about the ways it gets better. I didn’t need vague promises of support; of “just let me know what I can do.” I needed someone to bring me a fucking ladder.

Someone did. “I will make you a doctor’s appointment right now,” she said. “I will drive you there myself.” 

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We don’t need to be louder or more persistent or more earnest about helping – we need to be more specific. We need to make it as easy as saying yes, because saying yes is hard enough.

My go-to question for a struggling friend used to be, “What can I do for you?” I don’t ask that anymore. 

I ask, “Can I order dinner delivered to your apartment?” I ask, “Is there an email you need to send that I can draft?” “Can I take your dog for a walk?” “Can I find a therapist nearby that takes your insurance?” 

Can I get you a ladder? 

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I was back on Highway 18 right before New Year’s. It was an unusually cold winter for Oregon, the schools had already run out of snow days. We drove at about fifteen miles per hour, leaning forward to see through the fog. 

But there was that tree. Even in the frost, the leaves held fast. Withered. Brittle. 

at the time, i hadn’t read any book assigned to me. ever. it wasn’t that i didn’t like to read. i loved reading. but homework took place in a function of my brain that i couldn’t access. i would sit in libraries or at my desk and just. not do my homework. i spent hours like this, days like this, years like this. just not doing what was assigned to me, no matter the consequences, no matter how badly i wanted to be doing it. i just wouldn’t. and i wouldn’t go to class because i didn’t want to deal with the fact i didn’t do the homework. and then i wouldn’t get the homework. so i didn’t do it.

i remember realizing while i was doing college applications that i had actually, real-life fucked up. that it was permanent, what i had done. that i had a C- of an average and no future to look rosy at. and i still couldn’t make myself do things. i tried to submit applications only to realize i’d shoved off the date to the very last moment. and i was fucked.

it takes me three years and two transfers and three new starts before i am actually real-life trained how to study, how to read, how to enjoy being assigned things. 

and i watch parents of my students yell at students for being the same person i was six years ago: screaming at an A-, confused at skipped classes, punishing missed homework. and these students don’t have an answer. they just don’t do things. even if they want to. and they look at me, confused and defeated and without an answer for their parents. “i just can’t,” i hear a lot, and i understand.

parents don’t like “executive dysfunction” as a reason. “anxiety” and “depression” are often misdiagnosed as “procrastinating” and “lazy”. kids just learn they’re like this. that they’re always going to be. that it’s their fault, permanently. they are surrounded by books they didn’t read. and it doesn’t feel good. it feels like suffocating.

when you’ve got mental illness esp anything related to depression or executive dysfunction it can be VERY HARD for you to be productive sometimes, but. the human brain literally hates being bored and it hates feeling like it hasn’t accomplished anything; sitting around stagnant is just gonna make you more miserable.

“I didn’t foresee any of this. I had OCD - I still have OCD - and very taboo obsessive thoughts that I kept secret since I was 15. In my mid twenties when I was on the other side of decent therapy, I had this overwhelming urge to tell my story. It struck me as really unjust that this was something I, and so many other people, were living with in secret.”

dry shampoo and face wipes are your friend. if you can brush your teeth you’ll feel maybe 2% less disgusting. wash your hands.

smelling nice is gr9, rubbing moisturiser in is Exhausting. perfume, scented candles and linen sprays are way quicker.

try to change your clothes at least every other day. wear sweats or pjs as often as you physically can.

you don’t need to put on underwear if you’re not leaving the house (that goes double for bras and binders)

drink any water that hasn’t been sitting out on your desk for a week. dust doesn’t taste good. stay hydrated. I fill one of those 2 litre bottles in the morning and keep it with me so I don’t have to get up and walk to the sink.

re: cleaning, try and keep one room vaguely clean. if everywhere else is a shit hole that’s fine, but you can go sit in your one tidy space and chill for a bit. it’s fine if that’s the bathroom or just the corner of your bedroom where there’s no crap on the floor. find a tiny space that isn’t horrifying and sit in it.

music helps.

eat a thing. +5 points if it has a fresh fruit or vegetable in it. take out is acceptable if it comes with veggies.

if your creativity curled up and died a long time ago try and find something that at least reminds you what it was like to feel inspired. watch a film, look at some art (probably not your own), read a thing. if that makes you feel worse, just?? don’t think about it??

grounding yourself is actually really helpful. open the window and breathe for 2 minutes. lay down on the floor and feel your whole body (unless you don’t want to in which case: lay down and don’t feel anything except the floor) 

human interaction is Good. text a family member you don’t hate if you have one. message a friend. reply to someone’s personal post with ‘SAME’. make your own personal post asking the void for validation. stare out the window at people and remind yourself that life exists outside of the black space inside your head. whatever works.