I don’t know what to say about this last week. Only that I feel “less than.” Less than functional, less than joyous.
I started a new job recently. The people I work with are wonderful human beings. I feel less than wonderful. I feel like an interloper in someone else’s life while sitting amongst them. A disabled girl trying to pretend that she’s a professional woman.
I was extremely frustrated at my job, as I was in training and nothing was making any sense. Point A was not meeting Point B. Everyone else seemed to have a greater level of understanding than I did. I was frozen by my inadequacies and had a full-fledged panic attack despite taking my medication. It was masked by silent weeping in the darkened room and resulted in me almost confessing that I am trying the best that I can, but I am in fact disabled.
And I ask myself, as I often do, am I really? Aren’t you just being a tad melodramatic? And my tears, often silent as they speak volumes, seem to be the only answer.
Totally went emo on y’all again.
I want to snap back into myself, into a time where I was fully functional. But when would that have been, exactly? I’ve been symptomatic since the age of five. I used to have all kinds of rituals to mitigate my stressful and unwanted thoughts. Medication helps a great deal but frankly, not being normal is all that I know. I can pretend with the best of them but at the end of the day, I am a fraud.
The only way I know how to write is to be true to myself. Shouldn’t life imitate art in this instance, I wonder? Should I come out of the crazy closet, so to speak? Even with the many skeletons and spiders roaming around in there? What is the healthiest choice?
The healthiest choice is to continue the struggle at all costs, of course. My anxiety has stolen volumes from me, and I’m not going to let it take this, too. I could even have the opportunity to shine. This is dependent, of course, on not giving up.
So, I’m going to fuel myself with coffee and do the best that I can.