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| Aint my school perdy |
I feel motivated.
I feel fresh.
I feel ready.
And it's a pretty good feeling.
And I've been happy. My mood has been brighter. And I just feel good.
Most of the time anyway.
Why the sudden 180 from the nightmare that was Christmas break?
Over Christmas break my parents had said a number of things regarding my experience with mental illness that, above all, hurt my feelings. Which, yes, sounds very childish. But true.
And I feel horrible that I'm still quite pissed/hurt by it.
Because truthfully, I do have the most supportive parents ever. And they're doing everything they know how to help me me. To try and support me. To get me through this.
I am not unaware of how worried my parents are about me. And I sincerely feel apologetic for it.
And I know that the things they say are well-intentioned, but that doesn't help with the sting that the words leave behind.
What makes it harder is that my parents' opinion of me matters a lot. I want them to be proud of me. I want them to be okay with me. I don't like disappointing them. And while this sounds obvious, I mean it on a deeper level. That my parents' approval holds great weight in my day-to-day life. I always want them to think highly of me. I want to be a perfect daughter to them, because I genuinely believe that is what they deserve. The problem is that it's an impossibly high standard.
Regardless, I just want my parents to think well of me. Or rather, I need them to.
And it can get... exhausting.
You see, when I define myself, I first define myself as the daughter of my parents. They are the most important people to me.
So the words that they say often hold a lot of weight in my mind.
And so, when I'm struggling with depression and anxiety as much as I am. To the point where I needed extensions on 85% of my assignments. To the point where I dropped 2/5 courses. To the point where getting out of bed was a struggle. To the point where going to class was difficult. To the point where I would constantly scream words of self-loathing and self-disappointment. To the point where I can't focus on homework without getting anxiety. To the point where I have to leave my classes because of anxiety.
Don't tell me I am not trying hard enough. Don't tell me that I am not giving this fight a fair chance.
Because I'm doing everything I can to beat this. Because I'm trying my hardest.
And with my mental health in the dumps, sometimes getting out of bed will be the best I can do.
Sometimes making it to the library is the best I can do - regardless of how much work I can get done.
Keeping it together. Not falling apart. That's the best I can do.
So don't you dare tell me I'm not trying hard enough.
Because I am. And you know what? I had to work very fucking hard to accept that.
That this is my best. That I am trying. Because for the longest time, I wouldn't believe it. I wouldn't give myself that break.
Don't tell me I'm not trying.
Because it honestly hurts.
Because I hear that as "You are going through this as a result of not doing enough. Your depression is a direct result of your lack of effort."
Hey. I'm still here. I'm still in school. I'm taking my meds. I'm going to therapy. I'm pushing myself.
So, how dare you tell me I'm not trying hard enough.
Because you, saying that, feels like disappointment. Feels like disapproval. Feels like I am not being a good enough daughter for you.
And if I'm trying my best, and that's still not enough. Well, what can I do?
My mom's telling my to stop talking about my feelings. That I get too worked up about them.
Sure, cool. But just because I don't say them out loud, just because you can't hear them, doesn't mean those words go away. Because the voice in my head is still there. And if I can't talk to my parents about it, then who?
The fact that what I say when having an episode are dismissed because, to my parents, the "depression is talking." When truthfully, I am saying what I mean. How I'm hurt. How I feel. What I need.
And my voice isn't heard.
Forget my emotions, forget the points I bring up. The first thing that they want to know is if I've been taking my meds. Are my meds even working? Maybe I should try some new ones, they suggest.
And it's so frustrating.
And it hurts so much more because it's coming from my parents.
Home use to be my escape, and now all I want is to escape home.
Why do I feel so good right now?
Because I'm not home. And I feel very guilty admitting that.
But on a less dramatic note, I'm loving my life here.
I've taken the list I made last post pretty seriously, and am working towards it.
So far, I've made some DIY wall art. I'll post it next time.
I also have made a set schedule to go to the gym every weekday with one of my friends. She's fantastic. And quite fit. She's patient with me, and totally motivates me. And she's just really cool and rad. And working out just feels... good.
I have another friend who I am doing weekly lunch/library dates with. She's also the sweetest person ever. And she also motivates me to do work. I just... feel productive around her. And she's just a fantastic human being with a big heart.
I'm able to read through textbooks now too! It's great, and I hope it lasts. It sounds silly, I know. But reading was so incredibly hard and impossible for me last semester. So the fact that I'm able to read and study, only stopping because of boring content - not even because of anxiety - is something. A real big something.
I've tried to keep my like super organized, which has been taking time. But it's so worth it. I have a clean room, a clear desk, and realistic goals. Not to mention I'm trying to get in the habit of punching things into my calendar. And it's been a rewarding feeling.
Also, I've been spending quite a bit of time with my Frosh Group. Which is really just one of my core groups here. Every one of them is so pleasant and lovely, and truly are the highlights of my week. They are just such sweethearts, and they put up with me, and we all just genuinely enjoy each other's company. And it just works. I love it. I love them. I love us.
I think at the end of the day I just need to take this in stride. My therapist and I will work on a letter to send to my parents, calmly explaining to them what I need from them. And confront the whole situation in a less hysterical way that I've been doing. Which I think will help me be at peace with myself. Because as it stands, I just find myself doing a lot of things to avoid thinking about my parents. Or specifically, pry on the hurtful things they said.
When I'm alone, walking to class or whatever, I do feel these waves of sadness. Like I need to cry or release or something.
It makes me nervous that this happy spell won't last as long as I hope/
But I hope to prove that thought wrong.
Remember, self, one thing at a time. Take it in stride.
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