I had another emotional breakdown yesterday. The second in less than a month. This one was less externally dramatic than the last one but no less painful and traumatizing. Two things, though, about this one were different.
1. I only know part of the trigger.
Generally when I have a breakdown like this, I’m aware of what caused it. This is a blessing because it gives me a source to focus on and a way to mentally begin dealing and coping with it. In this case, though, I know only a piece of the trigger.
I’ve had the opportunity to explore yet another full-time job opportunity with a company in Indianapolis. A portion of the interview process involves taking a simple, one-hour code test. Under normal circumstances this isn’t a big deal. But I’m not normal and so neither are the circumstances. I’ve been confronted with a certain amount of performance anxiety.
What if I can’t complete the test?
What if I don’t know the answers to the questions?
What if the answers I provide aren’t the ones they’re looking for?
What if…?
If you scream and there is no one around to hear it, have you really screamed at all?
Ultimately, none of these questions actually matter because technically I don’t need this job. Yes, the financial stability would be a nice perk, but I already have a job, self-employed as I am. I love what I do, and I’m looking forward to growing my business into a more full-time and stable venture. So this interview process is more of me checking this company out than the other way around. And yet, the performance anxiety still cripples me.
But this feels like only part of the answer to what triggered me, and I can’t put my finger on what the rest of it might be. This is the frustrating part because it gives me nothing to focus on, nothing to bring under control or apply rationality to. All I’m left with is a sense of impending doom, and emotionally that’s nigh impossible to rectify.
2. My kids were present for this one.
For the first time, my children were present to witness my breakdown. They didn’t understand why daddy was on the couch, crying. They’ve never seen me cry. They’ve never seen me weak and vulnerable. But my oldest, especially, did her best to understand, as much as I was able to explain while also struggling to wrest control over my emotions.
And both my kids were terrific through it all. They gave me lots of hugs, plenty of comfort as their daddy suffered. They were understanding that I needed to send them home to their mother earlier than normal so I could have the room I needed to self-care. They did their level-best to straighten up their room so I wouldn’t have to worry about it. My oldest watched out for my youngest like a gentle mother hen until their mom could arrive to pick them up.
In a word, they were both amazing. Without knowing it they provided me exactly the love and support I needed in the moment.
The Void — and Screaming Into It
I write about my journey, my struggles, my falls and failures — partly to chronicle my path through this maze called mental illness, partly to show others that they are not alone, and partly to keep the dialogue continuing about mental illness and remove the stigma surrounding it.
And yet, so much of the time it feels like nothing more than screaming into a void — a deep, dark vacuum that swallows my voice as soon as it leaves my mouth. It feels like an empty gesture, writing about both my pain and my progress. It’s often lonely and quiet.
If you scream and there is no one around to hear it, have you really screamed at all?
It’s a question with many answers, few of which have any satisfying or meaningful response. The void subsumes my voice, consumes it whole, banishes it to the nether to be lost forever.
Or so it seems. Moments like my children clinging to me, loving on me, in the midst of my pain say that it is otherwise. That the void is not actually a void, consuming all. That there is love and attention and others who notice when I hurt.
So when I scream into the void, now I hear it scream back. And the voice I hear, that voice is not my own. And that is more of a relief than I can say.
