You don’t know what it’s like to feel broken inside

Dear Coworker,

Y

ou may think you know me, but I’m not the person you think I am.

There’s a part of me that you’ll probably snort at should I tell you. But tell you, I will. Because even though you’ve heard of it, read of it, touched upon it, I need you to know how it is to live it.

I’m battling depression and anxiety.

A black venom has spilled all over me and hardened, paralyzing me. I’m living in the past and future, but never in the present, in a dungeon while the rest of the world cruises along aqua waters.

I’m watching myself die. A very slow death.

I’m tired. Exhausted.

At night, my anxiety rips away any hope of me slipping into the bliss of sleep. My limbs writhe. My thoughts  run, they hijack my brain and proclaim themselves king.

I finally fall asleep, and then the nightmares begin.

I wake up, wiped out. That’s how you find me at work the next morning, slumped in my chair.

“Whew, am I tired,” I say.

You laugh good-naturedly. “You don’t even know what tired looks like. Just wait until the laundry flows out of its hampers, your dishes pile to the heavens, and you have a colicky baby who thinks mama is available at three a.m.”

You’re not nasty, I’m just a good actress.

Therapy. Basic talk, EMDR, CBT, DBT, IFS, Exposure therapy. I do ’em all. I remember your wistful face, during some random conversation, when you said, “I wonder what therapy looks like. I’d love to try it out, just once. It must be so nice.”

I also wonder what therapy looks like, when it’s nice.

I go on medication.

Therapist one thinks it’s the best thing for me. Therapist two thinks the opposite. The mentor has her opinion. Of course.

I visit my regular doctor. He swivels in his chair. “So, which one do you want?”

I say, “What are my options?”

“I’ll put you on Prozac,” he says.

“I believe that’s not safe during pregnancy,” I say.

“Let me check.” He googles. I see the screen reflection in the window behind him. “Seems that you’re right.” He clicks some more. “We’ll do Zoloft, then.”

Very well. I start with cute little pinkies and slowly up my dose to big, nerdy, blue ones.

I down them every morning. I dare to dream that my symptoms will relax.

The pillbox says, May cause an increase in anxiety and depression. Are they for real?

Yup, yup, and yup. My fingers tremble. When I point to show you which street to take, they shake like my grandma’s. I’m dizzy and nauseous, then hyper, then numb.

My dose goes up and up and up. They still don’t work.

It’s time to see The Psychiatrist. I change meds, add meds, take away meds. I proclaim myself a guinea pig. The professionals have no choice but to agree.

I try to daven. I watch you sway. I watch you connect. I watch you pour out your soul. And I cry, and cry, and cry, because I cannot. I don’t even know what I need.

I search for others who share my fate.

But I can’t find them, for they, too, are in hiding.

Instead, I brave opening myself up to you. It doesn’t really work. You get squeamish. You don’t know what to say. I don’t blame you. It’s complicated and… foreign.

And then the lurking question that somehow slips through your lips, “Why don’t you just snap out of it?”

If I were able to snap out of it, I would have done it, many moons ago.

And so, I remain the me you know, the entertaining schmoozer, the highly successful employee. But you don’t really know me.

Your Coworker

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 980)