The Ground Floor

I think people assume that those who suffer from severe mental illness like myself are all starting out on the ground floor every day. You know, like typical people do. Start the day off like normal, achieve from there. It's much easier to climb up and achieve your goals, however big or small, when you're starting out on the ground floor as opposed to, say, several dozen sub-floors below.

See, people like me can often feel like it's a mammoth climb just to get to the ground floor every day. Sure, we can continue to climb up from there but we didn't start in the same place as those without mental illness or who have only experienced depression and/or anxiety as a mood state as opposed to an illness.

"Well, I was down in the dumps once too and I made it!" Yes, I believe you believe that's true, but when this kind of thing is your daily reality for years and years, climbing to the ground floor can feel tedious and tiring. Sometimes we have nothing left once we've made it to the ground floor, if indeed we made it there at all. Sometimes we learn how to get shit done in the sub-floors. Sometimes we're so sore and tired that we don't climb that day at all.

I just can't climb out right now. The ground floor isn't even visible from where I am.

Showing Up

My mom always said that you might think you know who your friends are, but you need to pay attention to the ones who show up. Those are your true friends. My boyfriend also told me last night that the reason I haven't been hearing from many of my friends in the last three months is because I made my friendship inconvenient for them. I removed myself from events and groups where they could most easily access me, and perhaps my friendships were maintained by convenience and they don't really miss me, but miss what I did for them. I don't think either of them are wrong, but it makes how I feel and what I've been thinking more painful.

Sure, some people have reached out, and others have stuck by me. I've even formed newer, closer bonds that either didn't exist or weren't nearly as close as before. Still, most have seemingly disappeared from my life altogether and that hurts. I knew it would happen. I said it would happen. I tried to prepare myself for the inevitability, but it didn't protect me.

I miss my friends so much, and the sting of betrayal and foul stench of hypocrisy is more than I can bear. I'm sure many of them feel justified in their decision or neglect. I'm wrong. My husband is wrong. They have never turned a blind eye just because it was inconvenient or scary for them to take a stand that one time. They can't recall a single thing I ever did for them, just how quickly I dropped what I was doing or how I was feeling to support them. They can't even see how checking in on me might mean the world to me.

I've mostly felt guilty for all of my thoughts. People have lives. It's my responsibility if I built up my relationships in my head to be more than they were. Maybe I'm just not as good as I think I am. Maybe I don't deserve anything.

What I've noticed is that most of the support I get outside of my husband are people who've known me for a relatively short period of time, or don't know me very well at all. That's scary, because I don't have a very high opinion of myself and it just feeds the tapes inside of my head. I'm not good enough. I've never been good enough. The more a person gets to know me, the more disposable I am. I'm worthless. I've always been worthless.

Logically, I know it's not true. I can think of times I hadn't shown up and the complicating factors. I know that there are obvious exceptions to the hare-brained theories my depressed mind is coming up with.

I can't stop it.

I kind of don't want to.

I've not been okay.