Mental Illness

When I quit my long-term job as a daycare provider, I never could have imagined sinking as low as I have. Those four years spending time with the smiling faces of small children had been what kept me from slipping, though I never realized it.

An excited call of my name, a loving and warm hug. I'd go so far as to say those things are the equivalent of an antidepressant. I'd leave work every day thinking about the excitement of spending time with them. Those happy and healthy thoughts replaced the dark remembrances of being screamed at and abused in the past.

There was no more self-harm, there was no more consideration of suicide. Every day seemed bright. Every curious question warmed my heart. Why did I have to go and ruin it?

Now I sit, jobless and hopeless. Missing the hugs and kisses of those wonderful little tykes. If I loved them so much, then why did I quit? A very intriguing notion, which, unfortunately, leads me to more questions than answers.

Did I quit because of a momentary need to self-sabotage? Did I quit because of a lingering childhood trauma that constantly nags at the back of my mind? Did I quit because of treacherous insomnia? Did I quit because getting out of bed in the morning takes every ounce of strength I can possibly muster? Did I quit because having conversations with adults is exhausting? In short, the answer is more simple than I presume. I quit because I am not mentally stable.

If every day had been filled with only those wonderful children, I would have been okay. But once I was pushed into managing, once I was pushed into office work, once I was pushed into taking payments from parents, everything crumbled. Several hours of being with children soon became as little as ten minutes a day. It was no longer enough to keep me sane.

I left a note. I didn't explain to my boss aloud. I was too emotionally drained to attempt it. I simply stuck that note on her desk, explaining that I was quitting. I left without a single consideration of any consequence. How could I have known the condition that I would sink into? How could I have known that months of panic and pain would commence?

Yes, it has been months since then.

What's next? You may ask. Of course, money is a necessity. I certainly can't imagine living with my Dad any longer. So what then? Every consideration of a job leads to dangerous thinking.

"I'll screw everything up."

"My insomnia will make the hours impossible."

"My depression will lead to unfulfillment and no motivation."

"My anxiety will lead to the avoidance of customers."

A job with these illnesses is exhausting. My brain is constantly foggy and drained. My body aches from lethargy. Panic attacks come around as often as three times a week. Working like this seems impossible, but so does affording the therapy and medication I so desperately need.

Without a daily commute to earn money, I am stuck. Waist deep in depression, anxiety, and PTSD. I am stuck.

When I seem to be at a place of losing all control though, hope comes in small places. I stumble onto places like Youtube or Vocal. These places where a small glimmer of hope shines through.

Is it possible that I could earn money by simply expressing myself? Is it possible I could afford therapy by simply speaking my thoughts and feelings? Is it possible that I could write carefully choreographed articles about my mental issues in exchange for the money I so desperately need?

Regardless of how small, hope still exists. I will continue to fight. I will continue to write.

I will continue to live.

Tomorrow will be brighter.