It's funny; I didn't even think about my own mental health until I was 40. Before then, my brain was fit as a fiddle. I knew poor mental health was someone else's problem—people not as mentally strong as me.
Then it all changed. Too much stress and pressure built up inside me, like someone left the tap on full blast in the bath. It took a while, but it eventually filled. My body is the bath, and about a year ago, it overflowed. I could literally feel it in the pit of my stomach—the feeling of dread and almost a sense of guilt. It would rise in me, higher and higher. Occasionally, I could grab the plug and let some water out, but most of the time, it is full to the brim. Another drip from the tap spills water all over the floor, seeping through the floorboards. When it overflowed, I broke. I lost control.
The term "panic attack" never sat quite right with me. I know that's what happens when my mental bath overflows, but it's more than panic. It's despair, helplessness, and fear. It is resignation, in a way. It is a kind of giving in to the water, letting its cold death grip take me. I can't breathe. I feel like I am drowning.
If my wife hadn't been with me when this happened, I don't know how I could have survived. The power and influence the people who love us can have on us is inexplicable. She pulled me up, made me breathe, and held me. That got me out of a desperate situation, but she didn't "fix" me. I think I have to do that, but I don't yet know how.
The bath is still full and can overflow at any minute. Some things help—walking the dog helps stop the tap a little. Talking to my wife does too. Some things probably don't help, like alcohol and poor diet. This is a journey, and I am trying to find my way. Maybe next time I need a drink, I should find the dog and get outside. Maybe I won't, though.
No comments:
Post a Comment