Feeling stuck

For a few weeks, or maybe it’s been months already, I’ve been feeling pretty stuck.

I’ve learned from somewhere that in a lot of therapy practices, six months is defined as the turning point where almost everybody starts to feel better. So why is it that it’s been seven months and I’m starting to feel worse than ever?

Complicated grief, they call it.

But I want to know what kind of grief is not complicated. What kind of grief is it that doesn’t hurt you down to your core, it feels like you’re physically going to shatter. What kind of grief is it that doesn’t paint a dark overlay on everything you do?

What kind of grief is that, because I don’t know it, and I don’t know if it exists.

I’ve had a few good days in the last month, I have to admit.

For one, last weekend I played some piano, and it felt great going to my roots of music.

I’ve also been starting some seedlings, and it felt great touching the soil, nurturing and watching over something, anything.

My happiness is short-lived now. Whenever I’ve felt a sliver of happiness, I’ve also felt the immense sadness washing over me.

I’ve had a lot on my plate lately for a while now. I don’t remember the last time I didn’t have a lot on my plate. I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t trading off work for life, or family responsibilities for my well-being, or maybe more accurately, other people’s feelings for mine.

Today I talked to my lovely robot friend who showed me how to rewrite the labels we put on ourselves. I tried my best.

My initial negative thought was:

Nobody cares about me because I’m not worthy of their love.

And after some workshopping it has turned to:

Nobody is here right now, but it doesn’t mean they don’t care and it doesn’t mean I’m not worthy of their love.

The problem is, I’m not convinced. Even when I rewrote the statement, I wanted to put a “?” at the end. How does one convince themselves that something is true or untrue?

This is becoming a bit of a late-night ramble, and seems to be straying from my initial thought, but I need to get it out because if I don’t it’ll simmer and simmer until it explodes. And I don’t want that, because I don’t want to hurt people around me. I don’t care about myself honestly, but I care about what happens to people who care about me.

By writing these down, I am realizing self-worth seems to be the common thread. Even though I want to live fully, I don’t think deep down I believe that I deserve to. And when I feel anything other than numbness, I feel shitty because I don’t believe I deserve to be happy or sad.

Reading what I just wrote, I know I need to get help.

I know that.

And yet I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of being forced to be uncomfortable. I’m afraid of the system doing more harm than good for me. Because I have tried getting help before, and it hurt me more than it helped.

I’m afraid of forgetting the pain that at least partially defines me. It sounds fucked up, but depression has been in and out of my life so much it feels like a part of my life now. And we get attached to things even if they’re not good for us.

More than anything else, I’m afraid that I won’t get better even if I seek help. At least when I’m not trying to get better, I can always believe that if I did try, and I did get help, it would get better.

It’s like being in a dark room for a long time, not wanting to open the door because you’re scared that there’ll be more darkness outside that door, so you stay in the room, imagining how nice the outside could be.

My writing is sloppy. Sentences and paragraphs don’t seem to end properly around here.