Thoughts On Feeling Inadequate

I intended to post this on Friday (the 7th), but in a stroke of cosmic irony, my inadequacy peaked that night. Writing this after the fact is… more powerful.

I hit a low point when it came to feeling valid as a human being. As in, I didn’t feel like I deserved to be alive. (Don’t worry, nothing happened aside from a crying session.) I felt inadequate in every aspect of my life: physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, romantically, sexually… The list goes on, but it was generally in that order.

There are so many ways to feel like you’re not good enough.

I shrunk one of my favourite shirts in the dryer, because my memory wasn’t good enough to remember it was in the wash; because my attention wasn’t good enough to look out for it when I changed the load over from the washer to the dryer; because my body wasn’t good enough to fit into a smaller size.

I had been feeling like crap for the entire day, but when it was 10:00pm and I was folding laundry, and there was one of my favourite shirts I’ve had for half a year… The domino toppled and so did all of the pent-up inadequacies I had lined up. It was one thing after another, a catalogue of how I wasn’t good enough at anything.

That was a few days ago, and I still haven’t picked up the dominoes and put them in a box. I haven’t lined up the things I’m good at. I haven’t lined up the reasons why I’m good enough. I haven’t had a chance to reflect on why I’m okay as a human being, and why I don’t have to be The Best to exist.

I’m going to play the mental illness card again: my PTSD makes me extra hard on myself. I’m significantly reduced compared to the “normal” or neurotypical standards. I feel like less of a person because of things that happened to me that I, for some reason, can’t let go of. How is it that things beyond my control come back to haunt me? Why does my brain hold on to things that hurt it? What do I need to do to make myself good enough to see that I’m good enough?

The standard to which I hold myself is unattainable. I can never reach it. Yet my mind and self-perception constantly reflect back to those standards, to the aspects that will make me worthy.

It’s times like these that I transcend my body in the worst possible way. Dissociation acts as my safety blanket, but it’s the same as starving yourself in order to avoid food poisoning. Haven’t we all learned that “abstinence-only” tactics aren’t the same as being informed about hazards? Living is a risk and dissociating is my way of avoiding risk. Dissociating is the closest I can get to separating from life without committing suicide.

It has been a significant amount of time since I said aloud, “I want to die,” and meant it. I hold back tears now as I look back at myself curled on the bed, weeping around the words. I see myself holding the worn out domino pieces I played with before therapy, before getting help, before putting effort into my well-being, before my diagnosis that explains so much of myself—before valuing myself even a marginal amount.

I’m better now, in the relative sense. It’s not like I’ve put away all the dominoes, but they’re no longer strewn, encircled, around me and keeping me hostage. They’re shoved to the side and I can see past them a little bit. But they’re still there. They’re still within grasp. I still want to set them up again and watch myself topple, because lining up these pieces and seeing how far the line goes seems to be the only thing I’m consistently good enough at doing.

I’m Not Doing Great

This is a spontaneous blog post.

But I’m not doing the greatest lately. I’d say since my rabbit died. PTSD makes events like death, loss of other forms, and stress a whole heap harder. This hasn’t been my first grief and mourning. That’s probably what makes it hard. My sadness has been compounded.

And I am one of little faith. It’s hard for me to hear the phrases, “They’re in a better place now,” and feel comfort. I struggle to be a spiritual person, despite the fact that I know it helps me. Not religion–never religion. But spirituality… I need it. And I haven’t been able to practise it in any way.

I’m trying to find places to lay blame. Sources where I can say, “Yes, if I stop this, it’ll stop the flow of horrible lethargy.” But the thing is, there are no sources outside of my head. It’s all in my head. It’s all going on in the mush in my skull. My boyfriend is on anti-depressants and thinks they would benefit me.

I don’t think anti-depressants would help me.

The ball-and-chain isn’t just the lethargy. It’s a long metal linkage of trauma, paranoia, hallucinations, forgetfulness, depression, and lethargy.

I’d go back to therapy, but it was offered through my school. And I’m no longer in school. I don’t think I have the funds to seek out additional therapy–and let’s be real here, I don’t want to have to unpack two decades of crap again to someone who might not be helpful.

I’m trying to remember the things I learned from therapy. I’m trying to remember the things that helped me. I’m trying to remember that I have the tools to get better. I’m trying to remember. I’m trying to remember how it feels to be a person again. I’m trying to feel okay again.