The ironic thing about having a mental illness is that I am unable to see how I am different from everyone else. I recognize that my emotions get out of control and I recognize that I should have more control of my emotions, but I am unable to recognize that the cause is medically related, that it is not just an issue of self-control or lack thereof.
This lack of control and my unwillingness to see the cause of my instability as a medical issue causes an awful lot of self-loathing in my brain.
Today, I am determined to be more gentle with myself. I so desperately want to be a productive woman over and above the things of motherhood that I feel like I am wasting away inside the house. I love my children with all of my heart but I was never meant to be a stay at home mom, it was never something I wanted. I’d be semi-okay with being a work at home mom, but even that is a difficult picture to comprehend in my brain.
So for now, what can I do? I can set mini-goals and set out to accomplish them.
Today’s goals include a clean kitchen and folded laundry, a photo that I like, and this blog post. That’s it.
They’re not exciting goals.
I crave excitement and drama at my very core. Nothing I do these days is very exciting. I don’t know how to bring the excitement I crave into my life, without inviting the drama I very definitely do not want in my life. But that craving– that’s why there’s angst. It’s why I can’t seem to get any laundry done. Laundry is the essence of mundane and I detest the mundane. So, I rarely do laundry.
But on the other hand, what I once thought was exciting really isn’t anymore. I had the chance to go to an art show on Friday night and I loathed the experience once I got there. It wasn’t a scene I care to experience again. The experience fed my inner critic, that voice that tells me, “You’re not good enough, get out of here,” was loud in my head. My nerves were on a thin tightrope and they just about fell off that rope by the end of the night.
I need to find a purpose in this life. Motherhood, while great, isn’t my whole purpose of being. I need something just for me, something that can stand alone and apart from all my brain’s self-criticism and fear. Photography is almost it, but it’s bringing its own demands. I think it’s time to back off photography as a vocation and remember the love of it as a hobby, first and foremost. I want to be a photographer by lifestyle, not just by trade. And I want to not worry if the photographer job itself never happens.
I just want to quit worrying about work. My brain tells me I’m not good enough to work anymore, that I really wasn’t ever good enough to begin with. The situations in which I feel like I might be able to work are so finite that I don’t think they really exist in reality. I don’t do well with people expecting things out of me, so I’ve just about dropped out of life as I used to know it. If I don’t do anything, no one can expect anything of me.
It’s depression talking, I know it is. This whole post reeks of depression.
I think I was born depressed. It’s all I know apart from psychosis.