Reflecting On The Worst Few Months Of My Life

Starting back in February, so many things in my life started changing, and at a rate way faster than I could handle. In February, my first serious relationship came to a pretty ugly end, and I had no idea how to even start getting over it. And I still don't think I do. In March, I was trying to get used to my newfound solitude and handle work, school, and worsening panic attacks on usually four to six hours of sleep a night. Soon, all of this exhaustion manifested into physical symptoms. A few bouts of vertigo and one hospital stay later, I thought I hit my limit. In April, when I was starting to feel like myself again, I struck up a relationship with someone new. He was really everything I had wanted, but the military was going to call him away, so things had to end.

Now I can very honestly say that the months since this February have been the absolute worst of my life so far. I'm a pro at handling one thing at a time. But this had just been one thing piled on top of another at a rate I could not handle. Most days, I just felt stuck. I knew I had to get work done, but didn't want to do it. At the same time, I didn't want to sit around, but didn't know what to do with myself. I had the urge to do everything and nothing simultaneously and it was eating away at me. I was stuck. I knew that I wanted to live and I still do, very much. I just didn't know how to "be".

I used to get mad at myself for crying so much. I can't lie, I really used to hate myself for it. I was an adult with a great family, a great group of friends, and a roof over my head. Why was I so damn sad all the time? I shamed myself for feeling the way that I did, ultimately making myself feel much, much worse. My dad likes to call this a death spiral. One bad feeling, and pretty soon you're in a deep pile of shit that you can't get yourself out of. Death spirals are bad. And crying isn't necessarily good, but it most certainly is a necessary thing. I let others invalidate every emotion that I had, but I knew what I was going through. I was going to make myself okay at the pace that was right for me, and it took me a long time to learn that crying is a necessary part of that.

It also took me a pretty long time to learn that asking for help is actually an okay thing to do. Honestly, I still struggle with this, because I am the kind of person who will never ask for help, even if I need it. But I have found that sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is vent to someone who doesn't know a single thing about you. It's really refreshing to hear that you're not crazy. Silent brooding in an endless circle of self loathing and tears really doesn't make things better. Anxiety, depression, and stress are genuine problems. People like to pass them off as laziness or a need for attention, but problems of the head matter just as much as problems of the heart. Through this whole ordeal, I've learned that a healthy brain can make for a healthy body, so getting that help to better myself is nothing to be ashamed of.

At this point, I'm not at all afraid to admit that I'm not okay. In fact, I'm so gloriously not okay, I can't even joke about it. I still get upset when I think about how good things were with my first boyfriend, and it still hurts to think about what I could have had with the guy that came after him. I cringe at the thought of what the future might hold for me and I still panic whenever I have to get behind the wheel. I strive so hard to keep myself afloat and when it gets to be too much, yes, I cry about it. It's perfectly okay to not be okay at all. And that is, in fact, a weird notion, but that's exactly the kind of stuff that life excels at.

Right now, I admit that I'm not okay, but I also admit that I'm getting better. And, more importantly, I admit that I am still very much alive. These past months, I've learned that that I can take a lot more punches than I originally thought I could. My face is still metaphorically beat to shit and bruised beyond recognition, but I'm still swinging. I'm pretty proud of that. I'm proud that I'm probably going to finish writing this, see a picture of my ex on Facebook, start crying about it, and still be able to move on. I'm confident in my knowledge that the tears will one day stop, the bruises will one day heal, and these past few months will some day turn into memories.

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