Unapolagetic

Where to even start?

It's almost Thanksgiving and, though I have much to be thankful for, I'm sad. This probably isn't helped by the mix of angry Lorde tracks and indie break-up songs I'm listening to at the moment but it's hard to find an outlet for my sadness that doesn't involve yelling at people and consuming a lot of chocolate. A year ago if I was feeling the least bit emotional I would have hopped onto blogger and poured all that shit into an essay about the meaning of life, in which I would give a lot of sound but useless advice. I've tried, but it just doesn't do it for me anymore. I feel like the world's biggest flake writing about how it's important to live every day like it's a gift because that's such an impossible ideal; being happy every single day, never admitting that life is anything other than roses and cupcakes, never allowing for moments of pain or vulnerability. Telling somebody to choose happiness is such a useless line because sometimes, through no fault of their own, they just don't have the capacity to find it. Nobody can live in a perfect vacuum of contentment, no matter how optimistic they are.

But writing has helped me in the past. Sharing my writing and blog posts with people used to make me feel like I was contributing something meaningful to the world, and that I wasn't alone. Maybe it was cheesy and mostly useless, but it was comforting. I want to rekindle the sense of security that words instilled in me, but I also want to do it in a way that feels truthful. So I'm going to talk about some stuff and if it's meaningful to you, tell me about it. I'm trying to reach out the only way I know how.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with anxiety and depression. I've been suffering from both for much longer. At the time that I was diagnosed I had just started to see a councillor because of panic attacks and crippling insecurities that were making it difficult to participate in life. I felt bad all the time; I was convinced that people thought I was ugly and stupid, and that my friends didn't really want to spend time with me. It filled me with dread to go to dance classes every week - usually something I loved fiercely - because I didn't want to have to see myself next to the pretty, thin girls who had been dancing their whole lives. A lot of the bad feelings were tied up in my weight, which has been a source of angst for me pretty much since puberty, but now I started to feel that I wasn't as talented, or as well adjusted, or as likeable as other people. My confidence plummeted very quickly within the space of a few months. I stopped writing, lost interest in piano, and my school work went undone for weeks at a time. I had trouble sleeping at night and couldn't get out of bed in the morning. Most days, I didn't believe that anyone cared about me.

Eventually the madness became too much to bear and I told my parents I wanted to see a councillor, which they were immediately supportive of. I thought it would be easy - spill your problems to a complete stranger, they give you the key to happiness, proceed to life of bliss and contentment.

Yeah, that didn't happen. I don't know if you've ever been through the experience but counselling is hard! You can't really appreciate it until you're sitting across from a woman you barely know, sobbing uncontrollably. There's nothing left to hide behind, everything is out in the open, and it's terrifying. Half the time I couldn't even think of what to say; how to describe the way I felt, why I was angry and sad all the time. Those things weren't definable for me, they just existed. It's something I still struggle to explain.

It's been a while now and I can't tell you whether it's gotten easier or not. Honestly I don't think counselling is supposed to be easy, and it certainly wasn't the magic bullet I thought it was going to be. I still have days (and weeks) where my mind gets the better of me and my thoughts run in circles and I panic and everything falls apart. I've had some really freaking great days too but I wouldn't necessarily say that I'm happy either. Mostly, there are a lot of generally okay days in which I don't feel like the world's ending and I don't feel like my friends would be happier if I stayed at home. "Okay" is a lot better than where I was. "Okay" makes everything else that I want to achieve seem a little bit more manageable. I started writing again, I stopped spending all day on Facebook, I play the piano when I feel up to it. Counselling gave those things back to me. It allowed me to put things into perspective and it helped me accept that there was no shame in depression.

I'm not going to apologize for being sad because being a human is hard. It is hard to wake up every morning and face a world that seems so full of pain and misery. Anyone who can do it with happiness is incredibly fortunate. Sometimes it feels impossible that I'll make it to the end of the day, let alone the end of the week. I always do though, and the world hasn't spontaneously imploded, the people I love haven't told me to get lost, nobody's told me that I'm a spaz for worrying about things I can't change, and I know that even if today was totally horrible, I can try again tomorrow. Hopefully it will be better, maybe it will be worse. Likely it will be more or less the same.

That's okay. I'll keep striving for the good days. Maybe one day I won't have to work so hard for them. Until then I'll go to the counselling sessions, get out of bed in the mornings, eat well if I can, go to the gym when I feel up to it, and listen to as much sad music as I damn well please. I'll put in the effort because I have to believe I deserve to be happy. I will try. Every day. For as many days as I can.

That will have to be enough.