Seeking help is hard, self-sabotage is easier: a personal analysis

In the spirit of World Mental Health Day, I want to finally address an issue that I've constantly brushed off for the past couple of years.

I've been struggling with something that I can't quite put a name to. If you haven't noticed, for years, I've been using the terms "anxiety" or "depression" loosely in my previous posts without ever having myself properly diagnosed by a medical professional—and that's not right. You shouldn't do that.

I'm completely aware of the danger of not getting a proper diagnosis, and it's not like I can't get some help. I should've been able to go see a mental health practitioner. After all, I'm lucky enough to have access to healthcare, and I do have enough savings to afford the kind of help that I need. So, what's stopping me?

For the longest time, I blamed my trust issue. I thought that I simply hadn't found anyone trustworthy enough to completely open up to in an all-business, doctor-patient relationship. However, I realized that I don't have the same problem when it comes to general practitioners, dentists, or let's say, dermatologists. What makes a therapist so different?

Am I afraid of being labeled? Is that the root cause of my reluctance? All I want is to figure out what's going on inside my head, so being labeled is actually something that I look forward to. I want to be able to address my issue with the proper term. I want to know if there really is an issue. So, the judgmental eyes of society are the least of my concern.

If the problem wasn't something external, there's only one more place to search, and that is within. If I really wanted to get help; if I knew how much it would benefit me as an individual; if I wasn't afraid of the stigma, why didn't I just go? No one's telling me not to—and that's exactly when it hit me.

I've been the one sabotaging myself. I've been the one rationalizing my choices and convincing myself that I don't need that help. I've been the one telling myself that things will eventually get better when they really don't. I've been the one trying to fix things when in fact, I really don't know what I'm doing.

Long story short, I am the problem.

Now that I realized what I've done, I want to reflect on my own behavior and tendencies. I want to understand the way I sabotage myself so I can break the cycle. At some point, this has to stop. So, let's dive into some of the things that I notice, which I hope can help anyone reading this to see if you, yourself, are struggling with the same thing.

I ignore my problem because people are having it harder.

Growing up, I wasn't familiar with the concept of acknowledging my hardships. Whenever I had a problem, I was always told to look around and see how much harder people had it. I've never experienced any traumatic past events like the death of a beloved one, terrible accidents, or any kind of physical abuse. I don't think I have any right to complain when there are people out there who survive things that are 100 times worse.

I learned to compare and, therefore, belittle the importance of my own history. If the story wasn't grand enough, it wasn't worth telling. If the feeling wasn't painful enough, it wasn't worth sharing. If what happened wasn't tragic, it was nothing. I thought it was the right thing to do, but really, all I did was telling myself that my feelings were not valid.

In a way, I'm afraid of not being taken seriously. What if I decided to share with the world, and all they had to say was, "That's it?" I'd rather take my problem to the grave than getting the cold shoulder from people who were supposed to listen. This mental state prevents me from reaching out to those who are probably more than willing to help.

I perceive things in extremes.

When we talk about mental health issues, we tend to focus on the episodes; the moment everything goes wrong. Popular culture, for example, tends to depict people with depression as being emotional 24/7 with their life literally falling apart, when in reality, there are people with high-functioning depression who get their act together, lead a successful life, but are still depressed nonetheless.

Seeing a ray of light in darkness doesn't change the fact that it's dark. Seeing a ray of light during a storm doesn't change the fact there's a storm. Sometimes, we tend to focus on small things that stand out and fail to see the bigger pictures.

As a result, I began to think the fact that I was still capable of having some good days meant whatever problem I was struggling with was not serious. I began to dismiss my own feelings and ignore what might have been the symptoms of a real mental problem. I started to believe that I was simply ungrateful.

I believe I can handle it myself if I try hard enough.

I always come prepared. I do my research before doing anything because I hate the idea of not knowing what I'm getting myself into. On top of that, I'm kind of picky. So, when I seek help, I want to make sure that it will actually work; that I actually trust the right person.

For some reason, I came to the conclusion that seeing a therapist would be pointless because they would only tell me everything that I already know. It's an arrogant thought, I know, but I don't think I was in the right state of mind when I did my research anyway.

I deliberately dismissed the fact that mental health professionals are equipped with the knowledge to do a proper assessment of my problem—if there's any. I based my assumption on people's experiences and testimonies, but I forgot that I didn't know the full story. I wasn't there to witness, let alone experience what they went through.

   

Guess what I do. I trick my brain into thinking that everything will pass using short-term solutions that barely do anything in reality. I know too well that I tend to get hyper-fixated, so I choose to distract myself. I'd probably feel better with some music. I'd probably feel better when I buy this. I'd probably feel better if I just sweat it out.

Did it work? Maybe. Did it solve anything? Not really.

I rely on my biased, personal judgment.

Sometimes, you can't trust anyone but yourself, but there are times when you really should learn to trust people and let things happen. I found the latter easier said than done, though. The reason? There's a thing called judgment bias, which causes us to selectively choose an argument that supports our belief and reject what doesn't.

Now, this will get even worse when you have nobody to talk to; when you are the only person in the room doing all the thinking and reasoning. Without any second, third, fourth opinion, you really are just tricking yourself into thinking that you're right. Of course, you are. There's no one to argue with. You'll begin justifying your own thoughts.

So, when I figured that I could still work productively, make and laugh at the most ridiculous jokes, and function like a normal human being, I began to think that I had no reason to have any mental problem. What I really did, however, was avoiding every chance to fix my issues like a real coward.

Now that I've put it into words, I can see why I keep sabotaging myself and look for anything but proper help. It's easier to ignore than to face your inner demons. If you share a similar tendency or find yourself agreeing with the four points above, you might be wondering what to do next. So, I'm going to end this essay by giving us some homework.  

Our first homework would be coming to terms with ourselves. We need to understand that just because we don't discuss the things that we refuse to discuss, it doesn't mean they aren't real. We need that help and we really need to talk about it.

The next step would be reaching out to a mental health professional. It's definitely not going to be easy. This time, however, we shouldn't treat the smallest mishaps in the process as a hint not to go. We should stop making excuses and put in an actual effort to get help.

Even better, we probably need to learn how to counter-sabotage ourselves. What better way to do it than to use your own tricks against yourself?

for i am nothing but a passing figure

Several weeks ago, I had a rather unpleasant conversation with my mother. She asked me whether I had ever said anything about my non-existent romantic relationship to a cousin of mine—the same cousin I told you about in one of my older posts. For context, she recently got married to a guy she met at work and moved away to a different time zone.

It's just natural that I wanted to know what brought her to this point, so I fired back with more questions, and it turns out that my aunt (the very mother of this cousin we're talking about) might have said something about the fact that I was still single. My mother put two and two together, albeit inaccurately, assuming that I talked to my cousin, and then she talked to her mother.

I, for the love of God, don't even talk to her that often, so whatever it was that my aunt said, it must've either come from me or her own conclusion. Long story short, the most important takeaway from this conversation was: if anyone asks about it, just tell them to give you their best wishes. Now, where did this come from?

All this time, whenever people asked, "Where's your boyfriend?" (assuming that I am straight) or "When are you going to get married?" I would frankly answer, "No, I don't have one," or "I don't know, I'm single." Apparently, these were not the best answers.

When it comes to stuff like this, I should've opted for open, ambiguous answers. It turns out that the more you answer with honesty, the more people shower you with questions. Asking for their best wishes, however, would simply shut the conversation down. I have to admit that it's a clever move, but then she said something that doesn't sit right with me to this day.

Partner, wealth, death—we don't have a saying in any of these.

That was the moment I began rethinking my entire life. I once heard that every single thing in life happened the way it was meant to happen, down to every single drop of water from the sky above. That is just another way to say that life is linear, that we are nothing but passing figures in this staged act called life. 

If everything was predetermined, how much freedom do we really have as a human? Whenever I wish to do something, am I practicing my birthright or simply acting out yet another premade decision? Is there any fragment of me in this reality that I'm living, or am I nothing but a badly written character?

Do 'I' really exist or am I truly just another 'she'?

Another thing came up this morning—this time, it made me rethink my entire career. For the longest time, I have been referring to myself as a 'content writer' whenever people ask me what I do for a living. That is only partially true.

The truth is, I have been ghostwriting for people. I help them turn whatever it is they want to talk about into something consumable by the public. I always write for others, never for myself. Their wish is my command, and you won't even find my name on the credits. It kind of hurts, sometimes, but that's what you get for being a ghostwriter. But you can't put 'ghostwriter' on your resume, can you?

In my career, too, I don't really have a saying when it comes to what I write. If my clients don't like what they see, I will have to scrap everything and write something new, something that sounds better on their heads. To hell with originality; you don't even own what you write.

This is the exact same reason why I keep struggling with the impostor syndrome. I never truly know what I'm doing. I never truly know if my readers (that aren't technically mine) enjoy what I write, if there's anything they don't like, and so on. When things are bad, I'll have to take the blame for not meeting my clients' expectations, but when things are good, the appreciation never reaches my end either—for I am nothing but a passing figure who writes stuff on your behalf.

The only piece that I truly own is this blog, but now, I'm not even sure if my thoughts are truly mine and mine only.

Perhaps I am just a badly written character.

Update (10/7/2021): I'm currently learning about existentialism, and the more I read about it, the more I realize the flaws in my logic. I'm probably going to write another post to counter my own arguments, so stay tuned (if you wish).

a prompt a day keeps insanity away — day 4

This is the continuation of 'A prompt a day keeps insanity away', an old series of (excerpt from) short stories, written by me; this time inspired by random phrases I found on the internet. I may not interpret the prompt the way it was meant to be, so get ready for a huge mess and enjoy reading.

prompt four: i need my words back

'I think I've lost my touch,' she blurted out as she began stirring her coffee with her left hand. The other hand was anxiously tapping on the wooden surface of their kitchen counter. John had just cleaned the counter the other day, a chore long overdue since he was down with the flu all week.

'You've lost your what?' he looked over to the woman standing next to him, the same woman he gladly woke up to every single morning. His attention had now completely shifted from the sunny side up on his pan to whatever she was trying to say here.

She was obviously taking her time with the coffee, and if it wasn't clear enough already, her mind was wandering anywhere but their kitchen in this humble one-bedroom apartment.

'My touch. I'm talking about writing.' She seemed to finally snap out of it and began preparing another cup for her partner who, unbeknownst to her, had long abandoned his own task of making a decent breakfast for two.

His eyes followed her every movement as she was raking the fridge for some milk since John and his sweet tooth specifically craved for some flat white this morning.

'And why do you think so?' he asked.

Of course, he didn't miss the faint sigh and the slight pause in her movements. After all, they had been together for ten years and counting, and this wasn't particularly a new sight.

She had always found it difficult to lay bare her true feelings, and John learned it the hard way early on during the first couple of years of their relationship. Right now, she was probably trying to find the right word to describe whatever it was that made her think so.

'Anyway, while you're at it, would you like some butter on your toast?' 

While he wanted to do nothing but resolve her concern, they had a wedding to attend in less than an hour, and their breakfast might end up being a pre-lunch snack if they were to drop the cooking part altogether. So, he went back to his task while trying his best not to pry for details.

'I don't want that,' she responded.

'You mean the toast, or—'

'I don't wanna lose my touch.' Unsurprisingly, for someone so eloquent on paper, someone who had her way with letters and poetry, she couldn't seem to verbally put her thoughts into words. Her impressive lexicon was reduced to a simple list of verbs and nouns, including touch, lose, and all its participles. 'And yes, add some butter, please.'

'Do you wanna talk about it?' Her gaze was hesitant, but she knew that eventually, she had to. And it's not like John wasn't one to be trusted. Oh, she could talk about anything to him, but there was a sense of shame when it came to this particular subject—which was ridiculous because she had literally and figuratively bared her naked soul in front of him.

'It's kinda scary,' she began. 'All my life, I have always wanted to write. That is, like, the only thing I'm actually good at.'

John tried so hard not to roll his eyes in response. He could list all the other things she was good at, like driving or baking. Her brownie was the second best thing in the world, right after the woman herself. The third one definitely went to her chicken pot pie.

'And now it feels more like a burden. It's not the same anymore.'

The look in her eyes was painful, reminding him of that one time she lost the only copy of her birth mother's handwritten message. She would tell herself that it's just a piece of paper, that the most important thing was the message itself; but he couldn't miss the hollow in her gaze every time they brought up the subject. 

'It's like falling out of love.'

He placed the toast on their plates, and with that, breakfast was ready. They were now sitting side by side, their hands busy picking this and that, their minds rushing with thoughts and worry. Nobody said a word for a good minute or two, but John was determined to both finish his breakfast and console her at the same time.

'It is like that sometimes.' He took a big bite of his toast with a little bit of egg on top. He wished they could've had some bacon too, but somebody forgot to stop by the mart last night—and by somebody, he meant himself.

'You feel tired. You feel worthless. You don't even feel like doing what you love. You begin questioning yourself, and so on.'

The couple decided the conversation could wait for a bit and devoured the rest of their half-assed American breakfast.

'And that sucks.' John paused to wash down his meal with some coffee. 'I would feel like shit too if I ever looked at my guitar and told myself, 'You know what? Forget this.' That's not who I am. I just have so much going on in my head that I fail to listen to my heart.'

'But you know what?' He took another pause to wipe his mouth. 'You can always fall back in.'

There it was, the glimmer of hope he was trying to find in her eyes. He wanted to tell her that there were days when he felt like things didn't work out and maybe it was best for them to stay friends, but that's for another day. 

'How?' She rose from her seat and tossed their empty plates to the sink. The last thing she wanted to do now was the dishes.

'Write something. Start small. Maybe with, uh, a wedding vow?'

'Oh, come on.' She nudged the man in the stomach and had her first good laugh of the week—and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

It would take her months to make peace with herself, another couple of months to get back on her feet, and years before she realized that she really didn't have to worry.

After all, she could always fall back in.

—end

disappointed, but not surprised

The world is turning more and more into a sick place. It is so hard to see the bright side when you witness police brutality in broad daylight; when you hear women getting sexually assaulted by religious authorities to whom they sought help and solace; when you see people having their access to economic and social resources denied because of systemic injustice.

It is hard to enjoy life when you know somebody out there was killed for having certain skin color; when you know somebody out there was jailed for speaking up about their lacking government; when you know somebody out there was ostracized by nameless internet users who were only in for the euphoria. It is getting harder to draw the line of what to care and not to care about, to celebrate amidst someone else's pain, to seek happiness amidst someone else's struggle.

It is getting even harder to look at social media because you will see both sides of the coin at the same time. One tweet from your favorite celebrity brings a smile to your face, but then another tweet from the news outlet sparks rage inside your head because apparently, a young dad of a two-year-old boy was killed by the police on his way to a car wash for no apparent reason. It is a sickening reality, but it is what it is.

It is hard to draw the line because you feel empathy for this person you barely even know; because you know there is something wrong with the system, and as much as you want to change it, you know it is not easy to topple down a wall built of pure, irrational hatred that is deeply rooted in our history; because you feel guilty for not being able to do more given that you have the platform and privilege to do so.

The world is hurting, and some people are simply not built to cope with it. It is both a blessing and a curse to be living in this era of hyperconnectivity. You see the worst and the best of humanity at almost the same time, right in the palm of your hand. Some people try to change the way things work for the better, some others quite literally just want to see the world burn.

Some people, on the other hand, have no choice but to tune out the whole world to seek peace, but they never truly know peace for their mind is in constant turmoil. The guilt alone is killing them. They find reality disappointing, but they are more disappointed by the fact that they cannot do anything to change that reality. They are more disappointed in themselves than the whole world combined.

How do you live in a world so sick? How do you sleep at night when the idea of being able to sleep soundly at night is a luxury for some, taken for granted by others?

Everyone deserves to be happy, but not everyone has the access to happiness in whichever way you want to interpret it. Everyone deserves a good life, but not everyone knows how to live well without being selfish and hurting the world even more. Some people have their life built on solid concrete. Others are hanging by a thread, perpetually a step away from falling into the pit of systemic disadvantages.

Perhaps, life is all about seeing the good and the bad while standing in the grey area of your own moral compass. Perhaps, life is about picking a side and, once you do, turning a blind eye on the imperfect reality you will find on both sides of that coin. Perhaps, you have been romanticizing life, knowing how disappointing it truly is in the first place.

Perhaps, this is what life is all about.