For the past three years, I have seen more change than I ever expected to see in such a short timeframe – several new jobs, new apartment every year, new roommates, etc.
Were it any other set span of 3 years, you could expect one job change, one move, and maybe two roommate changes.
But when Covid hit, all the “normal” rules went right out the window.
Suddenly, changing jobs every 6 months felt commonplace. Hiding from roommates who either wanted to kill you because they were tweaking, or almost burnt the house down with a stove fire because they didn’t realize that gas + water + fire was NOT a safe combination (nor was keeping their door closed while the flames hit the ceiling) became an every-Tuesday thing. And mentally prepping for a new move less than every year was to be expected.
Just recently, the WHO chief has declared COVID-19 as a global health emergency over. In other words, no more need to stand 6 feet from others, no need to wear masks within buildings (unless you want to, of course) and no requirements to have the Covid vaccine (again, this “requirement” now resides with the company, should they choose to enforce it.) While this is great news in its own right, I don’t think we should be pulling out the sparklers just yet.
This summer, I find myself in the throes of moving once again. Heavens only knows where I’ll be moving to, but this time I’m going to aim for only having a single black cat as my ‘roommate’. At least I know for certain she won’t be trying to kill me. Though, there have been several occasions where she would sit on my chest and push a paw against my windpipe at 3 in the morning. That is NEVER a wake-up call I want to implement as routine.
To tell you the truth, I’m scared of what’s coming. I feel helpless because I haven’t had time to prepare for yet another move, nor do I feel confident in finding a new place that will give myself and Spooky a sense of safety and security. It seems to be the case that all the landlords I’m trying to reach out to want me moving in as soon as possible, as opposed to an overlapping month before my current lease runs out.
I’m exhausted. I’m finding I can’t sleep as well as I used to at night, leaving me with only 4-5 hours at most to perform to expectations at my job the following day, if I’m lucky. Not only that, I’m feeling strong bouts of anxiety and depressive symptoms. Before you ask or suggest, I’m already in the market for a therapist. I’ve also been reading a few self-help books to keep me afloat. It isn’t the cure-all I would like, but I’m willing to take it if it means I get to keep some form of ‘normalcy’.
As May is Mental Health Awareness Month, I want to bring my worries and anxieties into the light. Mental health is not something to play around with. It is serious, a huge factor in our lives, and we need to take care of it just as much as we need to take care of our physical selves.
I’ve heard a lot of people put flak on the older generations, who will often say something along the lines of “getting emotional is a sign of weakness”, or “who wants to talk about their feelings? Back in my day, we just picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and got back to work.”
I know a lot of people in my generation would easily tell the older people to stop being so toxic and that it’s okay to cry. But I think we’re missing the point. Back then, when my parents were our age, if you showed even a tiny bit of vulnerability, there was a high chance that someone else would take advantage of you. On top of that, because mental health really wasn’t a thing back then, those who showed enough of a neurological divergency were immediately sent to asylums and “made better” or often forgotten about.
It is so engrained into their DNA to not talk about their mental health, that even when I talk about seeing a therapist with my mother, who is one of the most open-minded people I know, she will immediately clam up about it and will try to offer other “tricks” instead, like eating cleaner or doing yoga or going outside for a little while and breathe in the fresh air. Granted, these are all great suggestions to help with the symptoms, but in the end they are just band-aids covering the continuing symptoms of what lies deeper within.
It isn’t her fault for feeling apprehensive about her child going to see professional of the mind. I have a feeling a lot of parents feel like she possibly does – as if she has somehow failed her child. No parent wants to have a sick child and not be able to do anything about it.
Thinking about this brings me to another thought – why is it that we as a society have no problem bringing our children to doctors of the body and not feel as though we are failing, but when the prospect of bringing our children to therapists, we are automatically failures as parents and need to feel ashamed? If you’re sick, you go to the doctor to heal the body. Why can’t we do the same for when the mind is sick? Why is there so much stigma around one, but not the other?
Thankfully, as time moves forward, it does appear this frame of mind is forming. More and more people are becoming comfortable talking about their mental health, especially at all stages. More and more medications are being made and clinically tried, each with the hope of helping people live more functional lives.
I hope it doesn’t end there, though. I remember seeing a long time ago on 60 Minutes a segment about scans done on the brain. It was fascinating to hear the doctors and scientists discover that our brains actually look different between a depressed brain, and a healthy brain. One day, I would love to have a scan done of my brain and actually see what chemical imbalances there may be going on in there. But I suspect this won’t be readily available to everyone and affordable for a while.
I suppose, for now, I just do a combo of what my mother suggested and what I want: going for more walks, eating healthier, getting exercise, and going to a trained therapist. While the Pandemic may be deemed “over”, there’s still a long way to go for mentally healing from all the anxieties and depression.
L.J. LaBree 