Only Lying to Yourself

"I'm okay."

I say this a lot. But when night stills, I often lie awake and let truth seep down into every crevice of my soul.  If I've told you that I was okay in the last year two years ten years, there's a good chance that was a lie.

The hardest part is that I don't just tell this lie to others, but I tell it to myself, too. Over the last decade or so, it has been a lie to cover debilitating anxiety and depression. When you pair those challenges with being a 20-30-something-year-old who is 'supposed' to have it all figured out, and toss in a few significant traumatic events, you get a raging emotional firestorm. We lie to others for a million different reasons, but when we lie to ourselves, we're usually just avoiding some uncomfortable truths. 

A good friend of mine had a crisis moment a few weeks ago. My normal response would have been to console him. This time, I chose to call him out on some shit. After sharing my observations, we concluded that the lies he was so good at telling himself had become apparent to me, and maybe to others around him. I was so worried that he would be angry with me for calling him to the carpet, but days later he told me how much speaking up had helped him. It was seriously hypocritical of me to do so; I need to sweep around my own front door first. 

Struggle is relative, and happiness is not always a choice. I have a therapist, and I take anti-depressants. I have the most beautiful children in the world (nah, fa real); a great husband; and a bomb.com mom. I love my friends, and my work is fulfilling. Even with all this, I still struggle. I have panic attacks, and I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes with a clear trigger, and sometimes not. That is my reality; and even though I'm not always okay, that is. But because nothing is all or none, I also meet pretty much all deadlines at work; I remember everyone's birthday; I make my daughter's baby food; I do 'homework' with my son so that he'll be ahead when he gets to kindergarten in 2 years; I just signed up to volunteer at the hospital; and I remember to get my husband's favorite candy bar at the grocery store. I function; I rage; I love (hard); I live. It's complicated. 

I've known quite a few people who have struggled with both anxiety and depression. If this post seems to be an airing out of sorts, it's because I hope it helps someone else (someone I love) cope with two undeniable truths: (1) no one has all their shit together, and (2) that's okay. And if you're driving your own personal struggle bus and wondering why everyone else is cruising along, just know that they're probably struggling too.  

'Cause we can struggle and still be whole. 

Highs are preferred, but lows are permitted. 

Love, light (and therapy)