doing something hard.

When I walked into my psychiatrists office on January 17th, I told him it had been 4 years and 360 days since we first me. He laughed that I was so specific, but the difference between January 17th and January 21st of 2020 are immense for me. I remember the feelings of those 4 days, not really the events. I don’t know if that’s because I was in such a delusional state of mania that I literally don’t know what was going on, or if I have blocked those days out as a defense mechanism, afraid to address the realities of my behavior.

Dr. P asked me if I felt connected to that girl, the one who sat in his office unable to sit still, unable to form an intelligible sentence, because she was actually unable to form a coherent thought. It’s weird, I said, because I do feel more connected to her than I have on the past four anniversaries of this day. I’ve stopped trying to push her away, to divorce her from the person I am now, instead accepting her as part of me. I can’t remember the events, but I can remember the feelings: fear, confusion, chaos.

My body and mind were driving in different gears, on different roads, in different directions. Literally, I dreamt of driving on 45 North, right before the Allen Parkway exit, but I wasn't driving. I was in the backseat, someone, or something else’s hands on the wheel, foot on the pedals. I remember crashing out, my eyes shooting open right before I died in the dream. You know, if you die in a dream, you die in real life. And that’s what it felt like. My mind hurt so badly, but my body felt so free. There was no connection, just painful thoughts and liberating actions. Well I thought they were liberating, until the pain caught up and I collapsed on a sidewalk, physically unable to move.

When I wrote this story on the third anniversary, I excitedly told my professor that it came out the exact same way as it did when I wrote it on the first. She was not as excited, challenging me to think about it differently, to write the words from now, not then. I’ve thought about it over and over and over again. I am that same girl now, but I am a new one, too.

Last week, right around the exact day that my parents flew me home, terrified by the phone call they received that morning, I ran my first half marathon. In the week leading up, every time I thought about finishing the race, tears welled in my eyes. I was simultaneously terrified and prematurely proud. It’s been awhile since I felt a since of accomplishment.

That sounds weird, since I wrote a 92 page thesis and graduated from a 2 year masters program last year. But that was a different sort of accomplishment. I love writing, I wanted to be writing. Yes, it was hard. I often thought my thesis would never be finished, that I would not make it across the stage. But, writing is calming for me. It helps me make sense of the word. So, though I felt proud, it didn’t feel like work I really had to push through.

The race was different. I trained for months, unable to even run two miles when I started in July. I also hate running. It may give me a high once I finish, it is awful and unenjoyable during. I wanted to give up many times, to not keep going because it was hard and tiring and I really, really hate it. My mom, who is the one who made me (yes made) me do it. She disappointedly told me I could quit. But the disappointment only made me want it more. Giving up was weak, and I hate to be seen, more really to feel, weak.

The last time I felt like I had finished something hard was graduating from Georgetown. When I returned from school after my involuntary withdrawal, I was exhausted. I just wanted to be done, working not to excel, but to finish. Done is the new perfect, right? I slogged through my work, still putting in the effort to do well, but only well enough. Granted, I did above average. I remember the dinner my family had after I walked the stage. I was exhausted from the festivities the night and morning of, but the tiredness ran deeper than that. Many times, I just wanted to stop, to not finish, to resign to the aching I constantly felt. But I didn’t, I skipped across the stage with my head held high, knowing I had completed something I really wanted to give up on.

So when the race approached, I felt the same way. I could do it, I told myself, even though most of me believed I couldn’t. And, I kinda couldn’t. I had barely been able to eat the two days before, plagued by anxiety of hyping this up too much that if I didn't finish I would be terribly embarrassed. Not eating before running 13 miles proved to be a bad idea. I was weak. My dad always tells me to run my own race, to leave him behind if I can. Last Sunday, I had to tell him to do the same. I kept needing to walk, I kept feeling like I was going to cry, that all my fears of not finishing were coming true. He refused to go ahead, and thank god he did. After we finished, he told me he didn't think I was going to. I myself believed the same.

Yet, I finished. Now, people asked me how it felt. I tell them not good, in fact, really bad. I have been sitting with conflicting emotions. Both proud that I did finish, but disappointed with my performance. I worked through something I didn’t want to do, something that I didn't even think I could. And while I kinda feel like I failed, I also know I didn't. In some ways, having a terrible time meant more to me than finishing with ease. I have been so afraid of failing, that I refuse to even try. But, I let myself fail, I proved that I don’t have to be perfect to still get it done.

In 2020, I thought I was done for. Borderline psychosis took over my mind, and the following recovery took everything I had. In some ways, the recovery was worse than the episode itself. At least when I was manic, I was having fun, or so it felt like until it didn’t. Recovery was work. It was sitting completely drained with so much pain. I physically looked unrecognizable, all life drained from my face. After months of high, then months of incredible low, I slowly felt myself return to me.

So when Dr. P asked if I felt connected with that old version of me, I said I did. I acknowledge and recognize that those feelings were real, emotions my brain had actually produced. Instead of hiding from them, I now embrace them. I know I can push through, push forward. If I lock them away in an inaccessible place, I’ll find myself in the same state. Instead of repeating the same narrative, I look at it through my current lens, one of (almost) stability, one of growth, one that looks towards the future instead of being stuck in the past.