The Waiting Game

Time is the ultimate equalizer. The wonders of nature and man will be ground to dust, and that dust will fade into the universal uniformity of heat death over trillions of years, according to the current eschatological theories. Time wipes everything clean.

The boughts of anxiety I have been experiencing for the past few weeks have largely subsided. Some of this is due to coping techniques I learned, but I think that most of it can be traced to confronting some of the social circumstances causing the anxiety and working through my feelings.

Left in the fading trail of anxiety is minor depression. The fact is, even once you accept a shitty situation, it still sucks. I am more hopeful than frightened, however. Depression is something familiar to me, and I can more accurately assess it. This seems to be more situational (like the anxiety), rather than the chronic variety that has plagued me in the past (and probably in the future).

What gives me hope? The passage of time.

If you sit back and do nothing, most problems will not solve themselves; however, when you actually put effort into working on yourself and dealing with the problems, time has a nice way of helping you out. It may be difficult to find anything beyond temporary relief from a single therapy session, but when you add up several weeks, the culmilative effect can be surprising.

Like all things, my current state will pass. For that, I am thankful, even if I sometimes look upon my works and despair.

On Shitty First Drafts

Last night I shared the beginning of my current (and longest) piece at the university's writing club. The response was overwhelmingly positive and it was great ego boost. But in a way, it the experience highlighted my issue with the piece.

The first passage of the story flows very well and has imagery strong enough that people commented that they felt like they were really there, looking just over my protagonist's shoulder at the scene. I think it's one of the best things I have written. But there is a sharp decline in quality immediately following it.

Why? Because the first part has been meticulously edited and rewritten multiple times. Most of the remaining story has only had the initial pass of writing it, and as a result lacks any sort of rich details or particularities that establish a sense of the place and action.

It gets worse, though. The story suddenly hinges on a series of coincidences and characters become pawns for the plot rather than entities with the illusion of agency. It has become especially hard to continue to slog through writing it, knowing that not only does it suffer from the roughness of a typical first draft, but the story itself is rapidly unraveling as I reach parts I have planned out less.

One tactic that may help is to try detailed outlining. As it stands, my outline is vague, with events separated by undefined distances—I discovery write between the points. I think that if I treat the outline as discovery writing, with a beat-by-beat breakdown of the action, I might find more success.

So, that's the plan, I guess?

Feels

It normally takes me a while to discuss my mental issues out in the open.

When I was younger, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and immediately began telling everyone I knew about it in all the gory details (including showing people pictures of the inside of my small intestine). Part of me actually thought it was cool, but in retrospect it is clear that this oversharing was a defense mechanism that made me feel better about something that was very scary at the time.

The thing about mental illness is that there is a stigma attached to it. People tend to view depression as something you can “pull yourself out of,” despite the fact that if someone died from cancer, no one in their right mind would argue that “they just did not fight hard enough.” (Maria Bamford demonstrates this much better than I ever could.)

So, despite a part of me wanting to be open about my depression, I tend to hold back until I know someone better. There is something inappropriate about explaining the time I entered acute group therapy on a first date, for example. Additionally, most people on the street do not need to know about my late nights listening to Coldplay’s “The Scientist” on repeat.

But sometimes, not being open about struggles can cause problems. Keeping things bottled up and suppressing emotions is not healthy. And so, I find myself writing a far too revealing blog post.

When my mental illness was officially diagnosed at the end of high school, the prognosis was depression and anxiety; however, almost all of the symptoms I have been able to consciously notice have been depression related. While anxiety was a problem, it usually manifested itself as clenching my jaw, rather than my heart racing. The only time I have ever had a panic attack was when I tried to get on a (small) rollercoaster and collapsed in the queue. That probably deserves an entire post of its own, though.

Recently, however, I have been experiencing bouts of anxiousness that I only can only compare to how it felt to live away from home for the first time. Those went away eventually, and I came to view the college I was attending as a genuine second home that I miss to this day.

It is entirely possible that the main culprit this time around is the same as before; I recently enrolled in a four-year university for the first time in five years and there is a lot riding on my academic performance. To say that it is the only source of anxiety would be short-sighted, though.

I am not very skilled at making friends. I have always been introverted and shy and self-conscious (some of which was the result of mental illness rather than an inciting factor). Moving to a city for the first time, I naively expected things to be easier this time around. While there are more like-minded folks around Pittsburgh than in the wilds of Pennsyltucky, my social skills have not improved much in a half a decade. Yes, I am more confident in who I am, but I am still very much a loner at times and just plain do not mesh that well with most people.

I am completely okay with that, provided I can find a close-knit group of people to take the place of the dozens of friends a more social person would acquire. And you know what? I have found some of them, already.

So what is the problem? Not to play coy, but I am only comfortable divulging a certain amount publically. But the heart of the matter may be that I am afraid of easily losing that which I gained.

I used to always get the impression that people disliked me. To be fair, I can be very annoying, as so many people in elementary school explained by creating clubs at recess with the sole purpose of excluding me. As my sense of self has matured in the past decade, and as I received treatment for my mental health issues, this has been reduced greatly. But now, it seems that somewhere in the deep recesses of my heart, that fear is alive and well.

This past week, I have been feeling anxiety come over me at an unprecedented rate. At its worst, I was feeling it every few minutes. This has since subsided, thanks in large part to the help of the campus counseling center (those people are doing God’s work). But even as I write this, I wonder what the people I have come to know will think of this confession, and if it will lower their view of me. It is a silly concern, but at the moment, an unshakable one.

I feel guilty whining about it. I know people that struggle with anxiety issues far worse than this. To them, I fear, this rambling post may seem trivial. But it is all very unfamiliar to me and as a result, scary.

I will probably regret posting something this revealing for so many people to read, but I am a firm believer that you regret the things you do not do more than the things you do. Plus, this is super cathartic. And maybe it will make someone else going through something feel less alone.

Or maybe this is just me oversharing again to feel a little less scared.