Phenomenology of Exile

A few weeks ago, as the nights grew colder and greenness left Portland, I presupposed a terrible mental breakdown. Every night, I’d lie awake in bed wondering whether or not I was “getting worse”. I analyzed everything that had gone on during the day, recounted extraordinarily minor failures and inflated them to life-defining importance; unequivocal symbols of a person whose mental flaws would render her unable to experience success or pleasure. Every morning, as my clock radio clicked on and NPR updated me on what new horrible things were happening everywhere in the world, I evaluted what new horrible things might be happening to my state of mind. Like a hypochondriac checking for cancerous lumps, I checked my pulse, listened to my breathing, thought about whether I had slept too much or not enough, tried to remember and analyze my dreams, ranked my anxiety and hopelessness in comparison to previous mornings, thought about what I needed to get done that day, thought about which of those things I was late finishing, frustrated/bored with, or daunted by, and soon worked myself into a real lather. If I hadn’t woken up at 7:30 crippled by anxiety, I definitely would get there by 8:30. Gnawing on my fingers and wishing I could leave myself alone, every day consisted of seeking enough distractions to keep my focus away from myself but not so many distractions that I wouldn’t be able to get things done.

This kind of balance is impossible. I’m trying to think of how to describe this to you. It’s like… you have a few variables you need to mentally retrieve information on, compare/contrast/analyze/evaluate/etc, make a decision about, and place meaningfully in the scheme of some larger project. Which is itself a variable, and so on. The vast, interconnected cross-referencing networks of thinking that we apply to everything from massive innovations to making a sandwich. Anyway: picture a near-infinite number of tiny librarians all shuttling around retrieving this information and processing it. But there’s a catch: they can’t bring you any information that could potentially remind you of failure. And failure’s a broad term… it could be an actual failure, a perceived failure, a distorted memory of failure, or–most likely–a veritable choose-your-own-adventure novel of how you will fail at whatever you are currently trying to think about doing. This is a game of ontological Minesweeper. This is taxonomic self-mutiliation.

To lessen the impact I have on myself, twice a day, I shook varietal pills from their case (a green plastic snap-lidded number with white lettering for each day of the week, a case that I associate purely with AIDS, geriatrics, and/or some kind of humiliating tipping point at which an individual is on too many medications for their feeble mind to keep track of). I always experienced the same two feelings very strongly while I did this: first, I felt a sense of purposeful wellbeing, as when I pay bills or apply moisturizer. Second, I reminded myself that I was sick in a vague, chronic, secret, uncurable manner. In comforting myself, I was filled with shame.

Out of impatience, out of exhaustion and a sense of urgency as if there was only a small window to head off this imminent mental collapse, I raised my dose on all of the medications much faster than indicated. Something to keep in mind is that the pharmacological reuptake of serotonin necessitates a period of drought. The inadequate concentration of serotonin congregating between receptors becomes even less sufficient. Functioning with very little, one is confronted with the task of functioning with even less. Nobody knows what’s even going on, but apparently serotonin concentration impacts both obsessive disorders and depression.

So, for the second time in over a decade of taking psychotropic medications, I got side effects. I got ALL of the side effects. Heart racing, insomnia, yawning, trembling, nausea, dry mouth, constipation, dizziness, anorgasmia, anxiety, confusion, drowsiness, and depression. To fix my mind, I willingly sacrificed almost everything else in my body. Over and over I told myself that it was worth it. I gritted my teeth and bore it like an athlete or soldier. Soon I was relying on a cheesy series of platitudes to work past the discomfort. Once I had an unfortunate intersection of side effects and started to vomit while yawning. “No pain, no gain!” I thought. Cheerfully, even. For a few days I got charley horses from the slightest amount of activity. Sleeping was the worst: I’d toss and turn all night and wake up feeling lame up to my eyeballs. “It’s like Listerine,” I thought. “If it hurts, you know it’s working.”

Despite being able to rationalize, understand, and weather upsetting things privately, I have never been good at including others in that process. A lot of energy goes into handling difficult things alone, and people who get really good at it seem to lose their ability to reach out to others for help and support. This is a really traditionally masculine trait. Unfortunately I do not have any of the other qualities that would back it up. For example, a horse or motorcycle or dog tags or even just a poignant moustache. I have this persistent thought about the moustache. Which is that it lurks above the mouth like a tiny octopus that snatchs emotions from lips before they may be spake.

Since my moustache is not substantial enough to store emotions within, I do sometimes mention things to my friends. Just for the sake of complaining, though–I know that they will listen but never really understand. Like I’m describing being kicked by a camel. “That must have hurt,” people would say, abstractly picturing a fat hoof on a knobby piston smacking against a body. A cartoonish bubble would say, “POW!” I’m a bit afraid of my friends’ opinions of me but over the years I have flattered myself with the idea that, with a pinch of self deprecation and a dash of humor, occasional venting won’t label me a Debbie Downer. Someone to be avoided. Even as a problem-riddled individual, who should have empathy for others like myself, I will avoid a person who talks excessively about their issues. It is unpleasant, boring, and self-centered. It is why therapists exist.

“My suffering is hilarious” is a tactic that works great in social settings but does not work at all in professional ones. I can’t tears-of-a-clown my way through a bunch of blown deadlines. Humorous delivery styles, which keep my friends from being alienated by my ailments, make coworkers and clients think I’m not taking their projects seriously. They’ll get confused, impatient, frustrated; even angry. They’ll think I’m lazy, unreliable, and lose trust in me and esteem for me. Knowing I’m letting them down, but feeling powerless to meet expectations, makes me feel shittier and shittier about myself. Can you guess there this is going? Yeah, a regular oroborus of failure. A pathetic self-recrimination loop. And all of it burning in my throat; inexpressible.

Usually this is the point where I quit a job. By “quit” I mean “stop going and wait to get fired”. I never even go back for my stuff because it would be too embarrassing to revisit the place containing all the people whose positive perceptions of me I’ve blown to smithereens. It reminds me of applying to college this spring and needing to write a supplemental essay explaining the extenuating circumstances of my high-school years. “Without it,” my advisor confided, “Nobody will know how to interpret the plunge in your grades. They’ll think, ‘This girl got into drugs or something’.”

There aren’t supplemental essays at work. So I end up letting people think whatever they want. At one job I was fired from after disappearing for 4 days to ride out a particularly bad patch of anxiety, I later found out that everyone decided I was an alcoholic. Even if people deduce that I have some kind of mental illness, their assumptions carry a stigma borne of ignorance, exaggeration, gossip, imagination, and fear of the unknown. Anorexic, bulemic, homicidal, suicidal, schizophrenic, whatever: people can convince one another of anything, especially without any information. “Did you ever notice how she never ate lunch?” someone might say. “One time I came into the bathroom and I swear to God she was talking to herself,” another person might contribute. “Quiet people,” another armchair expert will assert, “Are bound to flip out at some point.”

And so, lately, I feel many things are going wrong. By December, half of my closest friends (and by coincidence the two with whom I felt most secure) will have moved away. A frantic effort to create new friendships has done little for my relentless insecurity. Making new friends makes the healthiest of us a bit nervous, and here I am attempting it in the middle of some kind of meltdown. Trotting out my best smalltalk. Smiling. Leaving the house.

This tailspin will possibly destroy my job security. My job is the one thing I’ve had going for me since moving back to Maine so losing that would kind of be a real kick in the pants. It’s November, so the weather is rainy and cold. Probably I need exercise and sunlight but instead I go outside and three things happen: all of my clothes are instantly damp, each breath smells like I am wearing a face mask of rotten ginko leaves, and my eyelashes freeze. Have your eyelashes ever frozen? It is probably the same amount comfortable as crapping out a fat icicle.

Time toddles on, and the spring semester of school is rapidly approaching. Having withdrawn from the fall semester due to work obligations, the prospect of spring courses was exciting until I accidentally slammed my rocker’s eject button. Since I am unsure of what my work status will be, I have no idea if I’ll attend school full time, part time, or continue to put it off due to the pursuit of interesting opportunities, such as ensuring I have enough money to pay rent.

I am exhausted from sorting, alphebetizing, picking, tapping, counting, avoiding, eating, not eating, sleeping, not sleeping, worrying, beating myself up, cleaning, panicking, embarrassment, guilt, thinking, analyzing, planning, regretting, list making and dry heaving.