another day where i can’t get out of bed, try to put off eating for as long as possible, waste the morning. it’s a waste of time because i don’t even sleep in to catch up on lost sleep; i end up just scrolling and filling my brain with nothing instead. it’s funny to look back at old journal entries and find that i was still struggling with the same things four, five, six years ago: screen addiction, alienation from my body, self-hatred, procrastination, appetite problems, depression. maybe it’s comforting, because they’re constants in my life? but i find them more discouraging than anything else. it’s like, after all this time has passed, i’m still like this, i still haven’t found a way out of it.
anyway. discouraging though it may be i search my journals for a solution. there are so many entries i wrote when things were Bad, but maybe there are some i wrote when it was Good, or at least Better, and i could find a word or phrase like “when i did x, it made me feel better!” or notice a pattern where it’s like “when i did x i felt really bad.” that’s the idea, anyway, but when i scroll through my old journals, leaf through notes apps rants, or read old facebook messages, i just end up cringing and feeling that familiar disgust at myself.
honestly, i probably don’t really need to do this, and i probably already have a vague sense of things that make it Worse and things that make it Better. worse: scrolling, social media, seeing other people who are prettier than me on the internet, too much video games, self-isolation, starvation. better: doing chores with your hands, cooking food for yourself, getting up and walking around, cleaning your room, talking to other people and really opening up. these are all really obvious, though. any self-help infographic on instagram or waiting-room mental health pamphlet can tell you that. no need to scroll through tje museum of self-loathing that is your journal.
a note on “really opening up,” though, i feel like i don’t really know how to do that. so many of my thoughts are filled with this violent self-disgust, self-repulsion, self-rejection that i don’t really think telling another person would really help. i would feel like i’m taking up too much space telling other people things about me, and that i’m trauma-dumping or something, and also i would feel really vulnerable exposing myself. and the last thing i want would be for the other person to really reply and say something stupid or vapid or some pithy statement of pity. what i really want to hear is “yeah i go through that too” just so i could feel less alone in all of this. i think the antidote to my recurring feeling of “no one knows how hard this is for me, no one can understand what this is like, no one else feels how awful this is” is for someone to really show that they do know, they do understand, they do acknowledge that i’m trying really hard and it’s okay that i can’t do everything i want to do.
i wish i weren’t, but considering it realistically, with the way my mental and physical health are now, i’m not in a normal state of health. i think i’m sick. medical school is making me realize that i have something akin to a chronic illness, as if i have an autoimmune disease or long-term covid or heart failure; except mine is psychological. it’s strange to grapple with the fact that i have an actual, diagnosed mental illness that is, at times, debilitating to the point where i can’t carry out tasks needed for my job or career or physical health. usually i try to ignore it. i tell myself i just need to lock in and work harder and have the right mindset and listen to a more motivating soundtrack while i study. but on a lot of days, i can’t – i can’t do as many uworld questions as my peers, i can’t make it to school like the attendance policy says, i can’t finish all my anki cards in a day, i can’t feed myself or prep meals for the day. i catch my breath walking to sylvia’s apartment… i get nauseous after i eat. i can’t really live normally, i realize. the expectations are just too high. and i’m really, really tired.
i often wonder if there were some medication, diagnosis, treatment regimen that would fix me, but i have my doubts. i think getting diagnosed with something else would send me into yet another “oh, wow, what’s wrong with me, why wasn’t i born normal” spiral. but i do wish for that: that desire to be born differently. i can’t deny it. i’ve always felt it. i’ve felt it from the day i walked into preschool and realized i was the only one with black hair, since my friends pelted walnuts at me in sixth grade, since i had my first panic attacks before the APs, since the first time i went on the train wearing a dress terrified out of my mind. i’m in disbelief thinking about how other people just walk around and have no trouble with their health, physical or mental – i feel jealous and resentful, even towards people who have never directly hurt me. ryota who is always cooking outside the door, derek who always studies so diligently. and of course the general concept of cis women who get to be born the way the want and get to have kids.
anyway if i think too much about this i go in circles and think “wow, woe is me,” then i’m suddenly brought back to reality in hospital rotations, seeing patients paralyzed from the neck down, people so catatonic they can barely move, lying limp in the hospital bed, can’t even move their mouth to speak, i ask “what’s your name?” and only a croak comes out. i’m really stunned and mixed into my feelings of gratitude that i’m not in that state are more self-deprecating thoughts… i don’t even have it that bad. why are you so ungrateful? why are you having so much trouble?, etc etc, and i can’t really make it shut up.
on bad days there’s a tiny pain, a tiny humiliation to be found in every interaction, when i run into patients like this and i berate myself, when i see someone who i want to look like and get self-conscious, when my voice sounds too deep and low and the nurse calls me “they,” when my hair is out of place and my bangs are cut badly. i just wish all of it would stop. i want so so so badly to be well. i joke about killing myself to alleviate some of the distress because i can’t think of any other way to ward it off. i just talk and talk about nothing, “yes my day was fine,” and write more shitty poetry, “did you do today’s question of the day?” and forget to eat, “sorry for the late reply,” and leave dishes undone.
but on good days it is different. This is all really funny because i had a great day, like, three days ago, and now i’m like this. And in around three days it’ll go back to being Good so it’ll probably end up fine. whenever the dark times are over i can’t help but laugh because none of it ever lasts that long… i think whoever destined me to have bipolar disorder had a sense of humor. or maybe they were religious? all of this self-destruction for the sun to rise again, three days later…
time for lunch
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