Surfacing After Silence

Life. After.

Missing Chaos

sometimes, I have to admit that I feel a little . . . unsettled . . . in this new world I live in.

25564_633436301485_7179378_nThis world is so much calmer than the one of my twenties and the first six years of my thirties.  After 3+ years, I’m still not used to it.  I still walk out of my apartment some days, amazed that I have a bag on my shoulder filled with work stuff–that I have this thing called a job.  Sure I’ve had jobs before.  In fact, I’ve almost always had some type of job, even if it was a very-part-time job while I was on disability.

This, though, this is different.  I enjoy this job and I want to keep this job and I keep waiting for the calm to stop.  For chaos to fall down from the heavens and cause this current world to break into tiny pieces.  It’s happened before.  I know I’m now working with an awesome treatment team and that I will hopefully catch any relapse before melting into a puddle on the pavement, but it still terrifies me.

Yet sometimes, I long for that to happen.  Only I wish I could control the severity and length of the chaos.

Why?  Why would I miss the voices in my head telling me to give up on everything and to hurt myself?  Why would I want to constantly obsess about my suicide plans?  Why would I want to go back to a run of stays at various inpatient units?

Maybe I don’t miss the chaos as much as I miss the community that knows the chaos.  The community that just gets it–all of it–without me having to explain anything.  The community that’s mainly made up of people who have failed-multiple times-at being an adult. Others who can barely keep a job, let alone contemplate a career.  Others who never seem to have many stable relationships–romantic or otherwise.  Others who have periods of time on their resumes or CVs not filled with a job or education or anything other than psychiatric emergencies.  Others who know the daily routine on a psychiatric unit can be as comforting as it is mind-numbingly boring.

It’s easier on a psychiatric unit.  To admit to exhaustion and sadness and hopelessness. To admit I need help.  To admit I want help.  To admit that I have no real clue about ‘normal emotional reactions and behaviors.’  I know the extremes.  I’m finding my way around this middle grey zone, but I often feel lost here.

I don’t have the Sorority Days stories, or the Spring Fling stories, or the Marriage and Family stories, or the New House stories, and sometimes I don’t know how to engage with people when I’m in a group that seems to be focused on reminiscing about The Good Old Days.

Some days I fear needing to go back in the hospital.  Some days I wish I could, just to take a break for a week.  I still feel “new” to all of this, and I have no idea what’s coming next.  At least the chaos was predictable in that I knew it would be there tomorrow.

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February 17, 2018 Posted by | addictions, bipolar disorder, Body Image, Communication, coping, depression, guilt, health, identity, progress, publicity, recovery, relationships, responses, self harm, shame, suicide, teaching, therapy, treatment | , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment