One Year Older

“You’re in your early 20s so it makes sense that we’re catching this now.”

“You’re at an age where you have to be cautious.”

“You could open a door that you won’t be able to close.”

I turn 21 in 9 days and I have that same pit in my stomach that forms just before my birthday. This year I think it’s because I am reaching the age my therapist and psychiatrist have emphasized is a “developing” age: The one where the possibility of me being something else grows. Of being schizoaffective. I’m not as of now, but it’s something I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on in case I am. It’s something that I have been trying to deal with in a healthy way, but it’s been clawing at the door in the back of my mind for the past two weeks since I found out. Maybe that’s the reason I want to celebrate this year in a way that I’ll never forget because there’s a looming cloud of fear that is trying to convince me this will be the last birthday I have the opportunity to actually do that.

That’s a thought I have not acknowledged until now. For the past year, I’ve been waiting in anticipation for this moment and yet all I can think about is how much of an inconvenience it is for me. After one day of planning it out the first thought that came into my mind was “Who am I doing this for?”

For me? For my friends? For the idea that I need to be over-the-top in order to fulfill some kind of childhood hole that’s been eating away at me for years? Do I want this or am I trying to convince myself this is something I should want?

I remember for my 20th birthday I had a lot of guilt leading up to it. I don’t know why — or maybe I do — but all I could think about was how guilty I felt. Guilty that I was growing up and leaving behind a part of my life. That sounds ridiculously prolific and trying to hard to be deep, but it’s the truth. One of the main reasons I felt guilty was because I was growing up and leaving a part of my life behind, a part of my life I never thought I’d grow old enough to consider the past. The irony is that today I feel like I am back in that part of my life.

I feel this sense of pressure to prove that I am not the socially awkward, “mature for her age” introvert who needed someone with more confidence and charisma to bring her “out of her shell.” I can’t tell if the plan I had all along was for me or to prove something to myself.

Maybe I’m feeling pressure to heal a part of my inner child that I only recently discovered was broken. I don’t hold resentment, but a cloud looms over my head looking back at it. I’ve spent most of my birthdays alone with my parents or in Flagstaff in mourning for the anniversary of my grandfather’s passing.

My parents and I have always been low-key about birthdays, never going all out for them. Neither of them ever really celebrated their own so I was allowed one birthday party — after excessively begging for one. I chose the age 10 (because double digits were such a big deal) and it was the first time in my life I spent my birthday doing something big. The first time since then I’ve ever planned something was my trip to New York when I turned 19 and even that started as another birthday plan alone. I don’t remember most of it if I’m being completely honest, but I can recall feeling that same pit in my stomach.

Most of the birthdays that I can remember have been accompanied by a trip to Flagstaff. My grandfather passed away before I was born, but his death anniversary is 2/24, the day right after my birthday. There was one year when I ate my birthday dinner in the car on the way up to Flag. Going to the cemetery every year near my birthday was not something I ever thought twice about, it was something that was important for us to do and since birthdays weren’t a big deal anyway, why should I consider it? I only really thought of how associating death and mourning with the day I was born affected me last year. When I turned 20 I remember that guilt — that guilt that I was not going to Flagstaff with my parents to be there with them. The guilt of not holding family as the number one thing in my heart. The guilt of being happy I was alive when my grandmother wasn’t. The guilt that I have spent my life hating everything that I couldn't see the good right in front of me.

I feel guilty knowing that I have never given a proper gift. I feel guilty that I have always compared how friends see my birthday to how they see others. I feel guilty making something about me. This year I feel preemptive guilt, that I will regret not going wild and having fun. Because at the end of the day, I am afraid this will be the last birthday I have the opportunity to do that.

There’s a need to be my own biggest fan because for almost 21 years I have felt that if I wasn’t then no one else would be. That’s the real fear, isn’t it? The fear that if I don’t make a big deal then no one will. If I had an objective third party next to me then would probably explain how irrational a fear that is, but I’d refute with how I invited everyone to summer parties because I wanted a reason for them to invite me to theirs. How I would purposefully stay late at hangout spots so I wouldn’t be left out. How I would convince myself I found a best friend only to spend hours crying over them. I know deep down I am internalizing a lot of anxiety that has little validity with the people I have in my life now, but I can’t shake the feeling and the more it stews in the back of my mind, the harder it becomes to convince myself it’s all in my head.

It really is all in my head. The fear of “losing my mind’ before I get to 22. The fear of guilt and disappointing the people in my life. The fear that I am only loved for the stories I tell. The fear that I am alone in this world and the fear that I am okay with that. The fear that one day everyone around me is going to realize that I am not deserving of their love.

The first time I watched Bojack Horseman I remember the lines “You didn’t know me. Then you fell in love with me. And now you know me.” That stuck with me like a piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe. A nuisance that you pretend you can’t feel but it squishes with every step. I am afraid that as I am known, I will be less loved. I know in my heart that this is not true, but as I have grown and reflected on who I have been and who I am now, I can’t help but pinpoint every moment where I have been a shitty person, and how am I to deny that those things aren’t who I am?

I turn 21 in 9 days and I am afraid — yet excited. Despite the overwhelming overshare of feelings, I am doing better than I ever have before, and you would think with that thought, I’d have more faith in the idea that I will be okay.

Shopping with Your Mom

I went clothes shopping today by myself for the first time in a while.

Going to a mall is not an easy feat and I’m sure many girls in their teens and twenties can agree. It’s daunting knowing you’re about to enter poor lighting and ill fitting outfits that bring out every insecurity that has ever crossed your mind. Often times you leave each dressing room with a sense of defeat and disappointment.

That’s why I used to hate shopping with my mom. She would be a mom and pick out articles of clothing she deemed more appropriate for a 16-year-old and make comments about how each piece looked on me. When I was younger all I could think of was that she thought I looked bad in them and that she thought I wasn’t pretty enough to wear the things I so desperately wanted to. I had convinced myself that she only saw everything that I hated about myself.

It’s homecoming season for high schools — at least I’m fairly certain of it — because as I tried on a variety of skirts for a Halloween costume, I overheard overlapping conversations between mothers and daughters that felt all too familiar.

“I just don’t think that a skirt this short is the best option.”

“Why don’t you think this looks good on me?”

“Try on the dress I picked out for you please.”

“It’s going to look horrible.”

Growing older and having had time to become the woman I am now apart from my mother, I can understand her more. I can see the good intentions behind her poorly phrased suggestions and critiques. She never saw me as the reflection I saw in the mirror, but she saw the way that world would perceive me and wanted to protect me from that — as shitty as that reality is, it’s the truth.

I wish I could go back and tell my teenage-self to not be so mean and defensive, to not take everything as a personal attack on who I was. I wish I could go back and stop myself from instigating every screaming argument we had in the car on the way home from the mall. I wish I could hug my mother tighter instead of locking myself in my room for hours. I wish I could go back and be more appreciative of what I can see now.

I love my mother with everything in me. She is my inspiration and role model. She is the reason that when I went into each dressing room today, I did everything I could to focus on the beauty that I saw in the mirror instead of the faults and imperfections.

I Miss Art

I don’t know when it happened or really how but I lost my ability to create art.

I have always been an artist at heart. To create and curate is liberating and livening. I love to see the way simple strokes of paint and words and phrases and photographs and frames come together to convey something so meaningful it makes you stop and think. But somewhere in my timeline I lost the ability to connect the dots and produce a manifestation of my inner thoughts.

I came to this realization on a recent visit to the Scottsdale Center for the Arts. I was there to film a project for my job and it was the first time in a long time that I was able to focus on a piece of work. The exhibit was a wall art installation of three artists coming together on the impact of humans on the world. As I took in the piece and looked at each carefully thought out paint stroke and pencil sketch, I was reminded that I used to have a dream of creating something just like it. I used to dream of being a renowned artist whose work was displayed in museums and galleries.

And I had forgotten about that dream. It wasn't like I had given up on it but more so let it fade away as my creative side dwindled down. When I came to this realization I was confused because it wasn't like I had lost love for it or my passion slipped away, it was something else.

Then it hit me. As my fear of vulnerability has grown, it has prevented me from creating those meaningful pieces. I can’t dig deep to produce a work that reveals something of myself if I am incapable of admitting it to myself.

As my therapy sessions have unearthed truths about who I am, I think I am regaining my ability to dig deep within. Or better said, I am learning how to express myself in a way I never thought I could.

Maybe I’m trying to find a pathway in the mess of my life but I think for the first time in the last three years, I actually can see myself living past my expectation of what I thought my life was going to be.

I never really thought about where I would end up after Yale so when I didn’t get in, I lost sight of life at all.

It’s 1 a.m. right now and all of these thoughts are sporadic and nonlinear but they are all just my way of saying that I think I’m having another breakthrough and healing to the point of invorgation and motivation.

Scapegoat

“On one hand I feel like it’s a good thing I’m working on this, but on the other, I don’t think I want to work on this now.”

That was how I ended my therapy session today, bittersweet and a little disheartening. I thought I had moved passed the stage of healing where I was convinced that if I just fixed one thing then my life would be perfect. I thought I had crushed that unrealistic expectation for myself and was moving on to more tangible realities. But the truth is that I simply switched what I thought needed to be fixed.

I’ve come to terms — mostly — with the fact that I will forever be bipolar and have OCD and live with my mental illnesses, but I failed to acknowledge that all my faults and all of my struggles could be because of other factors in my life. I never accounted for the fact that I may have issues beyond my mental deficiencies and that is far scarier to talk through than anything else.

It’s so much easier to deal with your life when you have a scapegoat.

“It’s because of my bipolar.”

“Oh it’s just because I have OCD.”

“My eating disorder caused this.”

Having something to blame makes you feel less eager to tackle the issue because if you take your meds on time and go to therapy every week then that’s enough. But the reality is, it’s not enough, it can never be enough.

I’m working on my relationship building skills now and for the longest time I thought that everyone else was the problem. People were toxic and hurtful and immature and that was why I didn't feel like I had a community. And while yes part of the blame can be placed on the people I surrounded myself with, the majority part falls on me.

And I have been in denial that it falls on me this entire time. I’ve been blind to it.

Facing myself is a lot harder than facing my mental illnesses, because there is no scapegoat. I can’t blame anyone or anything else, just blame who I have been wired to be.

And while this step in my life is a terrifying thing, it is also the only real tangible sign that I have grown. I am finally out of survival mode and am able to tackle the inner workings of who I am. I don’t need to constantly fight to make it through the day, instead I can breathe and focus on who I am and want to become.

For the first time I can see a future for myself that isn’t riddled with worst case scenarios.

Therapy Postgame

I’m writing because my therapist told me to.

That’s not only a fact, but also a line in the play I co-wrote about a person’s experience with medication. Which is ironic on so many levels but mostly because I can’t remember the last time I took my Lamictal…I should probably call my psychiatrist.

Anyways, I am writing because my therapist told me to, and admittedly I do like 30% of the homework my therapist suggests and I almost didn't do this but something in the back of my mind told me it might actually help.

So here I am.

Sitting in an oversized hoodie with Christmas socks on, trying to piece together what I uncovered barely an hour ago in my session.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been to therapy—considering you’re reading this you probably have—but a lot of the time, therapy just feels like you’re talking. It feels like a regular conversation where you talk a lot and then listen a little and leave feeling about the same. But then there are days when you walk out of therapy feeling like you did therapy. While both of those feelings are valid ways to walk out of therapy, the latter is one that makes you want to sit down and do the goddamn homework.

Today was one of those days and I haven’t had one of those days in so long. In the middle of monologuing about why I can’t have intimate emotional relationships, I stopped and went “oh shit.” I uncovered a feeling that I’ve felt for the past two years and didn’t even know I was feeling it.

That sounds really stupid and weird, I know. But it makes total sense.

For context, I am not someone who attaches easily to other people. Establishing relationships, friendships, connections is my least favorite thing to do, because after the first week of acting like the best version of yourself, the reality of who you are starts to creep in. Then at that point it's about vulnerability and truth and no longer about the facade of a person you’ve created.

I’ve always had this issue and for about 5 years I thought it was just because I had unresolved trauma from bad friendships in the past or it was because I’m an only child so I do better alone. And while yes those probably play a part in it all, it all boils down to fear.

Not the fear of rejection or abandonment—which I believed in at first—but the fear of someone knowing me. The fear that someone might actually break the surface of my psyche and know who I am.

That’s probably one of my greatest fears.

I came to this conclusion after my therapist asked me about a guy I was freaking out (in a bad way) over cause I thought he might like me. I proceeded to talk about two more guys I had been talking to since then and how I crave and value attention instead of the person giving it. This prompted me to spiral into how if I ever became enamored with someone I would drag them into my future psychosis—which I don’t have right now so that’s totally rational—and I’d kill them on a six month heroin bender.

If you’re still following, I promise there is an actual conclusion.

My therapist responded with why I felt like my bipolar disorder—which again does not inherently mean psychotic—was the defining factor in my hypothetical relationships when I am more than that singular diagnosis.

This is when the paint started to peel away and I talked.

I said I knew that was true, I am more than my mental disorders and I could prove that to myself because I had developed coping skills for my OCD and anxiety and was able to live without feeling embarrassed or ashamed by those parts of me. But those parts of me are internal, isolated within my own mind. Needing to a ritual to calm my thoughts doesn’t really affect anyone but myself.

However, my moods and whether I'm hypomanic or depressed can affect the people around me. And the foundation of good, healthy relationships is consistency and communication.

So how was I, someone who is inconsistently erratic and hyper and depressed and melancholic, supposed to foster a healthy relationship with anyone?

I’m leaving out a lot of in-between details and other onion layers that fell away—I went over my allotted hour—but the point is that I am realizing that I am not only afraid of someone knowing me but also that I may not be able to be known.

I may not be able to even create the relationships I’ve avoided for so long.

I’m writing because my therapist told me to and I feel a little better.

Grief Has No Expiration Date

I’ve always enjoyed a good podcast and recently I started listening to Anderson Cooper’s podcast, All There Is. It focuses on grief and while I’m barely two episodes in, it’s given me a lot to think on.

I lost my grandmother 6 years ago in June. I was 14 when it happened and I don’t think I ever really dealt with the grief of her passing. I remember I wanted to write this profound reflection on her death. I believed that if I could turn one of the worst moments of my life into something artistic and productive then all that pain would have a purpose. As if I needed a purpose to feel angry and sad and lost.

I never wrote it.

I always felt like it was ‘too late’ or ‘not good enough.’ My grief was defined by arbitrary rules I put around it because I was too afraid to face the fact that I had lost her. I never told anyone, aside from maybe 1 or 2 people. I never expressed that I was going through a loss.

Was I supposed to? I don’t know? I don’t think so. Everyone in my life knew she lived with me and held a prominent place in my life, but announcing she was gone felt performative and unlike her. I didn’t want to make a spectacle of her death that garnered questions and pity from people I never really spoke to. Also saying something meant it was true and real and something I needed to face. I didn’t want to admit that she was gone and that I was hurting.

When I did grieve and opened up to people I felt so uncomfortable, like I was forcing myself to grieve a certain way. That time in my life was already difficult and now I was trying to navigate a life without her. I was pressured to be vulnerable with people and I lightened my grief for the comfortability of others. I wish I had been more genuine and honest with people I really trusted and felt myself around. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel like I still need to face my grief now.

Or maybe I would.

It’s not a linear thing, it’s not a beaten path. It’s not anything I am familiar with. Grief over a lost loved one is something that I cannot wrap my head around. Every time I think of her and those feelings, I feel 14 again.

I’m not really sure what I’m doing or even saying. All I know is that this is the first time I am really addressing my grief to myself. The first time I am really allowing myself to remember and accept. They say there are five stages of grief but they don’t tell you that you’ll go back and forth between them for the rest of your life.

To anyone that has lost someone, recently or not, it’s okay to feel and it’s okay if your process of grieving looks different than what you think is ‘the right way.’ There is no right way, there just is.

The Line Between Meaningful & Meaningless

We’ve all been there before. Looking out a car window on a rainy night while your parents talk about something in the front seats while your mind drifts off thinking about the profoundness of the moment you’re in.

You imagine yourself in a movie, a period-piece drama where something so fantastic has just happened that it creates a tiny pit in your stomach because you’ll never leave an impact on the world as incredible as the imaginary scenario you have just created.

I think there’s a beauty in that shared experience. The details may vary across people but the premise is the same: searching for meaning. You trying to escape the supposed mundaneness of your own life. It’s hard to imagine being sick of routine at 11 years old but the fear of “unexcitement” is petrifying.

We spend a lot of wasted time trying to figure out how to make ourselves more impressive and more meaning as if life is not worth living without a profound and exhilarating meaning. I’ve spent almost 20 years with that little voice in the back of my head screaming at me to “make something more of my life.”

Who even measures that?

In the past year I’ve come to the conclusion that the time I spend wishing I was more impressive could have been spent being impressive. Being myself.

I know, it’s kind of a stupid and simple observation that borders a cliche but at the same time it’s so true. I am sick of feeling like I can’t enjoy my youth and my life because I’m not constantly striving to be exceptional.

A few months ago I was at a friend’s birthday party and caught up with an old friend I hadn’t seen since high school. They lived in the house and had always been an honest person. They looked me in the eyes that night and told me that a lot of people in our grade were afraid that I was going to burnout. Not just burnout but essentially be dead from exhaustion at 30.

That conversation probably passed by them in an instant and was forgotten almost as soon as it was said. But it’s stuck with me. I was always on, always at 110% because I was afraid that if I stopped for even a second, I would just be wasting space.

Wasting life. I was a full believer in the idea of Newton’s First Law: an object in motion stays in motion—probably the only physics thing I know. But I refused to believe that I was capable of being worth something if I took a break.

Flashforward to now and I am coming out of winter break, the first winter break, the first break I’ve had in years where I did nothing. For a full month, I slept and partied and that was it. If I was to stereotype myself I’d say I was a degenerate with no aspirations.

But the thing is, I do have goals and things I want to achieve. Just because I’m not “on the grind” 24/7 doesn't mean I don’t want it. The idea that has consumed me for the majority of my life is idiotic. You shouldn't have to kill yourself in order to reach your goals. Instead of burning out every few months and needing something to shock you back to life, you can find balance.

I’m far from being there yet, sometimes I feel like I’m compensating a little too much for the time I spent working and working and working. But at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter, because I am working towards balance.

I want to be able to achieve my dreams but be alive enough to enjoy them. I want to look back on my life and have memories of actual joy and happiness where I was only focused on what I was doing and not what I wasn’t.

I hate the idea that your life needs to be this huge prolific thing that exists to leave an impact. Sure there’s some benefit to the idea you can make a change, but there’s a much better way to think about it. A way that doesn't make you feel like a piece of shit whenever you sit down to watch a movie, or stay out past 3am, or eat your weight in ice cream. There’s a way to hold yourself accountable and lead a meaningful life without hating every second of it.

Whenever I look out a car window now, I think about the story being written at that moment. The little thoughts that float through my head and the little raindrops that glitter off the glass. My moments have meaning because they mean something to me, and for now, that’s enough.

Rolling Up a Hill

How many times have I started writing with the same word on my mind: again?

Here I am again, thinking that I had beaten every obstacle in my life only to get struck down immediately. This may have been the longest manic episode I have been on, for two and a half months I bounced between fully manic, hypomanic, and a little bit about normal. Up until the last few days of this period of pure bliss, I felt invincible, which yeah is the entire definition of mania, but I thought that I had figured out how to tell.

I thought that I had a grasp on how to gauge when I was slipping into one or the other. For God’s sake I have a fucking calendar that I color in each day to track. I keep forgetting that it’s barely been a year, that I’m not supposed to have a firm grasp on it yet, but how am I supposed to go through one of the biggest transition periods of life while trying to also keep myself from slipping away into my own mind?

How am I supposed to figure out how to live while also figuring out what I’m doing with my life?

I just spent two and a half days glued to my bed feeling lower than I have in so long. I had forgotten just how deep my depression can be, how lifeless I can feel. How am I supposed to keep living and keeping figuring things out when I lose myself into nothingness every three weeks?

I know it’s repetitive and I know it’s redundant and yet I can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’m going in a circle. The only thing that is grounding me and giving me some semblance of hope is that the circle is rolling forward. It’s rolling somewhere and that’s all I can hope I’m doing.

Humor and Human Nature

The cruel irony in my life is that I used to be so opposed to humor when I was deep in the trenches of my mental illnesses. I used to scream at my parents when they tried to make me laugh with a joke because I was so stuck on the idea that if I were to laugh or be happy at any capacity, then I would be diluting the very real and very intense emotions I was feeling in the moment. And god forbid I wasn't constantly in a state of personal reflection where I sulked and sat in my own misery.

Now I use humor as a wall for actually facing my internal self. I guess younger me was on to something in a sense.

Humor around my mental health and well-being is something I have become comfortable with to the point that jokes and quips escape my lips before I even think of them. I almost feel obligated to lighten the tone because I’m afraid that what I really am feeling and want to say is too heavy for any one else to carry with them. And in all honesty, I am probably not wrong to think that. When I have moments of true self-reflection without the constant distractions I have implemented in my life, I realize just how much I have neglected myself.

Sometimes I think what would be different if I was more open to humor when I was younger and more at ease with other’s help. Maybe I wouldn’t compensate for myself now by trying to make it all one joke.

It’s almost human nature to try and find the deeper meanings in life and look for every dot to connect in the end. Suffering makes us want to believe in a bigger plan. That’s probably why I was so opposed to humor, I thought it would hinder me from being able to “truly look within” or whatever the hell my 13-year-old self thought was provoking and influential.

Now I fear what’s at my core and what makes me up. I push aside any real semblance of what I’m feeling in order to maintain a fun and happy mood. I feel like I’ve gone full circle in my growth. Instead of trying to put on a facade of perfection to hide any problems from others, I have deferred to mitigating my own struggle from myself so I don’t have to come to terms with who I am.

Humor is a vast and incredible tool to help us cope, but somewhere there is a line between helpful and harmful and I’m afraid I’m too far gone down the harmful tract now.

Socially Obsessed

Around March/April of this year, I vowed to myself that I was going to take a social media break for the summer. My main focus was deleting Snapchat and Instagram and I think for the month of July I’m going to get rid of TikTok too.

The reason I wanted to forgo any social media for the summer was mostly because I felt burnt out from it. It sounds stupid and for anyone who looks down on Gen Z as internet-obsessed nothing I’m about to say is going to help that, but I was addicted to my phone and the social version of myself that I curated online. Every day I felt FOMO when I didn’t check on everyone’s profile every few minutes or I based my days around waiting for people to respond to me and once I took a step back and processed that, I felt pathetic.

Why was I allowing the likes on a photo or the number of messages I got every day or how many people watched my story to dictate my happiness? And even further, why was I allowing other people’s internet presence to affect what I thought and what I did?

I wanted to take a step away from the constant flood of information and oversharing and happy faces to reconnect with myself and who I was. I know that I’ve become more secure in myself these past few years but I know there is more room to grow in my confidence so why would I stunt that opportunity for growth?

I will admit that the first week was rough. I felt like I needed to let everyone know what I was doing and thinking and I needed to make sure I was on top of everything going on, but now I don't really miss any of it at all. I don’t miss thinking about who was going to see my story or who was going to like my post first. I don’t miss trying to get the best angle on a photo to impress other people. I don’t miss the constant anxiety that came from thinking about what I was “missing.” Because at the end of the day, there is so much more to life than the digital persona you create.

I probably sound like a pretentious idiot who thinks they're “too good” for Instagram, but I know that once my hiatus is over I’m going to use it again. It’s not about getting rid of it all forever, it’s about creating a healthy relationship with it and allowing myself to feel confident because I feel confident and not because someone else allows me to be.

If you can take a social media break, try to do it for a month and I promise you’ll be better off for it. Especially if you were glued to your phone like I was.