Mental Health, Chronic Illness, and Productivity

Recently I found this article that I had written from the midst of the 2020 pandemic, when I was feeling pretty helpless. I hadn’t realized how much it had affected me until now, looking back on it. I still agree with the main point, which is: why do we have to be productive to feel like we’re worth something? The pandemic certainly brought on feelings of helplessness and worthlessness for many of us, I’m sure.

Even though many of us still hold the opinion that there is a pandemic still going on, the world is still spinning forward, and luckily, I have moved past the point in my life in which this was written. It’s certainly not the most depressed I’ve ever been, but even so, when I read it, I was struck with how much it read like a diary entry. I hope you can relate.

I am mentally ill. And I don't like to admit it.

If you’re a part of my family, one of the very few compliments you might receive is how much you’ve accomplished in your life. If you haven’t accomplished much, or even if you have just lived like a normal person, well, you’ll be one of the outsiders that are talked about at family functions as being lazy.

I’m supposed to be independent. That’s what my family loves about me. I play their therapist, the one they can go to with their problems. I listen well, give them good advice, and never have any opinions of my own. And they don’t have to worry about me, because I take care of myself. I don’t ask them for things, including emotional support.

So why can’t I seem to do anything myself? When my mother used to describe how she never lived alone (she went from living with her parents, to living with roommates in college, to getting married), I would feel relieved that I was experiencing more independence than that.But did I really? Before I even moved out of my mom’s house, I began dating the man I would marry in a few short years. Sure, my first and even my second apartment were paid for by myself, but he came over frequently and soon moved in. I can’t stand being alone. I was fairly independent at the time, but that was one thing I couldn’t do by myself: be alone. My husband is great. He likes to do things for me. And I can’t tell if my body shutting down is something I’ve always experienced, or if it’s just a side effect of not being in fight-or-flight mode 24/7 anymore, having come from an abusive household. Due to my mental health, and chronic fatigue, and chronic migraines, I tend to let him handle the finances, and picking things up from the store, and other various tasks.I try to do my part. But lately, as my mental health suffers, and my migraines have flared up worse than ever, I’ve been doing less and less. I was never an anxious person, but now I worry about what would happen if I had to be alone.

I get overwhelmed just working 4 days a week from home. What happened to the girl who worked two jobs and went to school full time? Couldn’t be me. Even writing this, I feel pathetic and guilty about what I’ve become. I have a feminist tattoo on my arm that I got back when I did everything: paid all my bills, dreamed about my future career as I excelled in school, worked multiple jobs.

But why do I have to be productive to feel like I’m worth something? To feel empowered? Why can’t I let someone take care of me, or even take a break on my own? Why does my identity have to rely on how much I can do? Objectively, I know my productivity doesn’t define me. I’m still the same person and could probably do all that stuff again at the same time if I had to. But I don’t want to. That’s part of what I’m afraid of. If I were to get a divorce, or be alone, for whatever reason- I don’t feel like I can rely on myself anymore to do the things I need to do. And at the same time, I fear that I’m becoming passive in this comfortable life that I’ve created for myself. What if it all goes away? Well, I know that’s a trauma response, and I can soothe myself knowing that those fears might be a little irrational. But another fear often consumes me: what if I don’t get to do the things I always wanted to do because it’s a little uncomfortable? I want to go skydiving, I want to swim with sharks, I want to surf, I want to finish learning roller derby if it ever starts back up again because of the current world events. I want to open my own business, or at least work for myself. But what if I can’t do those things? After a day or two that I’m stuck in bed because of a migraine, or sleeping for 18 hours straight, I’m left reflecting upon how short life is and how much time I just wasted, even though I know it wasn’t my fault. I want to forgive myself, and give myself grace and self kindness, not self hatred. But oh, how I waver.