Dear brain, please cooperate with me

Fake it until you can’t, and then completely shut down.

At least, that’s what I did in therapy last night. I showed up, talked about everything that had nothing to do with anything serious…and then the moment my brain was forced to focus on all the bad I’m trying so hard to shove down? That was it. The mental shutdown that not even your higher power itself could pull me back from.

Words are hard right now. Therapy, vulnerability, being present, being honest….it’s so hard. Therapy was hard. For no other reason other than that life is hard right now. My brain knows that once the sarcasm and the walls I’ve built around myself protectively are forced to come down….it all just falls apart.

I don’t feel safe right now. In SO MANY senses of the word. I don’t feel safe. Not when I’m in a car, not inside of my head, not within the security of my relationships….every single part of my life just feels like it isn’t safe. It isn’t secure.

I’m constantly on edge of the next attack. Whatever the attack is, however it comes…I’m waiting and ready for it.

Therapy went well overall, she was able to keep me at least somewhat engaged. And I know I can be honest with her to a certain extent. I mean, there’s really only so much you can say when it comes down to it. Yeah, I want to die. She knows this. It isn’t a secret. I’m not hiding anything.

Does she (or anyone) know the nitty gritty details of everything going on, everything that happens late at night when I’m alone with the darkness of my own thoughts? I mean…not specifically. I’m not hiding anything. But it’s also hard to say words.

Life is fragile right now. It all feels like it’s hanging in the balance. The walls are too high, but they’re high for a reason.

Like I said. When even my own bed doesn’t feel safe anymore…nothing else can be.

I don’t feel safe. Not inside of own head. Not alone late at night. I’m not impulsive. And I don’t make decisions lightly or without some significant thought.

Last night, my therapist asked me why I’m still alive.

And it’s because I’d rather feel better. I’d rather not feel the ridiculously depressed way that I feel right now. I’d rather find a way to exist in slightly less misery. She told me to focus on the small moments. And I’m trying.

But…shit.

There’s no joy. In anything. The things that made me happy or content or even just not miserable? Yeah. They don’t exist anymore.

I can acknowledge me people showing up for me in ways they don’t typically need to. My therapist and my best friend are definitely…there. I know they’re there. My husband is going though similar enormous stressors, and I know he’s doing his best within his limited capacity for dealing with my and all my extraness right now.

I’m broken. And hurting.

And honestly, every day I wake up alive at this point is a miracle on its own. I’m running out of fight.