Do people “get over” or “beat” mental illness? Or do they, like me, just manage it? And sometimes by “manage” I’m talking barely manage. This has been one of the longest weeks of my life. I started feeling sad for some stupid reason: waiting for Kris to try on clothes at the mall. She’s so beautiful. I wish she knew it. But, like me, mental illness is an asshole to a lot of people and for some reason her flavor of mental illness beats her over the head with what seems to me and anyone else who would look at her as nonsense. She’s thin, got a cute little caboose and the best personality in the entire fucking world. And she chose me to be her best friend. Although I prefer the term “soul mate.” She makes me laugh all the time and has even showed up at my house with a DVD and ice cream at 10:30 at night when she knew I was having a bad case of the mean reds.
Anyway I sat there in the dressing room looking at myself in the cruel cruel mirror and fought tears until I could say goodbye and get into my car and let go. That was Tuesday. And I was mostly fine. Upset for no reason at all, and certainly nothing that she did.
Wednesday I started thinking about the new job responsibilities I’m about to take on this summer. I started training with my work roommate Tom, another member of my little circle of crazy. Not because he’s crazy, because he’s not, at least not like me; but because he’s one of the few people I can be around when I get like this that it doesn’t bother me to be around. I started focusing on the fact that I’m taking on all this extra work, that I won’t get a raise, and not because my boss is an asshole or anything, because he isn’t. He’s completely amazing and always so good to me. It’s just one of those things that can’t happen and that’s ok too. I know it’s ok. I know I’m well compensated and I’m not alone in my finances like I was for so many years. Bear takes the best care of me, financially and emotionally. And plus he’s just a funny mother fucker and I could not be luckier to be the one he chooses to share his most intimate and hilarious moments with.
I’m so blessed, to use a Jesus Jumpers word. It’s true, I am. So why is it that I focus on the little bit of negative the mirror showed me and the little bit of negative my job made me feel and then let unleash the unhealthy fury of my dark passenger? I can’t have a raise. And I can’t quit and not just because I love my job. Where else am I going to go and make what I make doing something I’m great at? I’m not very good at a lot of things. For reals. I can make popcorn like a mother fucker though. Come on and take the Pepsi challenge with that shit and I’ll win every time. But there’s this shitty asshole inside me pointing out that I’m fat, no matter what color my hair is or what cute shoes I just bought. Pointing out that I’ve gone as high as I’ll ever go in my job; that the minute I take over as a warranty administrator, any look the Brass ever gave me with consideration of an office manager or service manager job is gone. I’m taking a step back instead of forward.
And why do I have to remind myself that that’s ok? I love being a WA. I love knowing that my techs and service advisors will have a good paycheck because of me; because of the effort I put into it and because I love them all like the little asshole kids I never had. The few times I’ve filled in for Tom this year I’ve gone home happy. I’m doing what I’m good at and what I enjoy. So why am I seeing a wall? Why I am I seeing that this is the highest my mountain will ever go? That I’ll look around at those other mountains around me and watch as they grow and I stay the same (except for when my ass gets too big for my chair and I’m forced to push a fucking love seat into my office.).
Why all the self loathing? Why can’t it just stay locked up somewhere and let the happy person that I usually am just be? I know good things about me. I do. Lots of them. I’m fucking awesome y’all. Unfortunately I’m also and always will be “not good enough.” For me. Or no one. Fuck I don’t even know. I just know that the reason I take xanax and love it is not because it makes me feel good. It makes me feel nothing. And at times like this that’s all I want. To feel nothing. Thoughts like that can get a fluffy girl like me into trouble.
So I’ll get my hair done because it makes me happy to do so. I’ll spend my evening with Bear because he always makes me happy and makes me feel safe and secure. And I’ll wait for this shit to move on down the road for a while. Because that’s all I can do. I can’t beat it. I just have to manage it. Try to work with it. Try to be one step ahead of it. And when it gets the better of me, as it eventually does, I just have to dig my heels in and ride the angry shitty wave into smoother waters once again.