Broken Arm

How do I write about something while it’s happening? I only know how to reflect upon it, not process it in the moment. Somehow writing about current struggles brings up my secret fear that I’m actually faking everything for attention. (As if that wouldn’t be a concerning mental spot to be in either.)

A couple of Thursdays ago, I found myself sobbing, trying to explain to my partner Michael how terrifying everything has been for the last couple of months – how hard I am working to juggle my physical and mental health all the time, how tired I am of being on guard and worried about disappearing, how close I constantly feel to losing it all. Throughout the day, I cried on and off throughout work, at dance class, before bed.

Friday morning was the third consecutive day I woke up from a nightmare. I sobbed in the shower and was late to work, and then spent company time hiding away in the bathroom to cry silently. My best friend Hazel had been urging me for weeks to consider medication, and as I was texting her that day she pleaded with me to visit a clinic that had helped her in the past. I’m not sad enough, I kept arguing, this hasn’t been going on long enough. She kept bringing up example after example of times I’ve felt like this before. Finally, she told me, “It’s happened before in the winter. I’ve seen it. You are not yourself in the winter.”

That stuck with me. Here my best friend is pleading with me to get help, seeing the forest while I’m lost in the trees. I decided to go.

The next morning, Saturday, Mike drove with me to the clinic. I wore my coziest sweatpants and softest tee shirt and warmest socks. I carefully packed a book and my journal to keep me company in case wait times were long. I felt hopeful and anxious but mostly ready to “get it over with” and be on the other side of seeking help. The woman at the reception desk was cold. As she put a wristband on me, she explained emotionlessly that I wouldn’t be able to bring any personal items with me and that I’d be examined by nurses, a social worker, and a doctor, and held until they gave the OK to release me.

Suddenly, I was terrified. I didn’t know how long it would take, I didn’t have anything to comfort me, and I felt so incredibly alone. I felt like I was giving up my rights and autonomy in order to receive help and I resented that. But I didn’t know what else to do. So I hugged Mike, and followed the nurse through the door.

The nurse took my vitals, ensuring I was physically healthy enough to be seen. I passed the first test. A second nurse asked me yes/no questions: Do you smoke? No. Do you have someone who can pick you up today? Yes. Have you had suicidal thoughts?

Um… I don’t know? I don’t want to die, but I don’t necessarily want to be right here right now either. The pain is that I see how beautiful life is, but I’m trapped in a fog so dense that I can’t feel anything. I remember the happiness and joy, but I can’t touch it anymore. I told her no.

She took me to an alcove with a large armchair, a cup of water, and a box of tissues. I cried quietly while I waited. The social worker arrived and was the first person who helped me feel like a real person again. He was gentle and patient without pitying me. He asked open-ended questions: What do you do for work? Tell me about your family history. What does your support system look like?

The moment he left, I found myself crying again, but this time it was for 2020 Nicky, who was even more depressed, alone, and terrified. She posted on Instagram about how hard life felt but she didn’t have the support system or access resources that I have today. She barely made it through that winter, clinging to evermore by Taylor Swift. It hurt to realize that I was in the same spot again; it hurt to realize that I would make it through easier than she did.

The doctor came and reviewed the information gathered from the nurses and social worker. He agreed with me that it was most likely Seasonal Affective Disorder coupled with unresolved childhood trauma. He strongly recommended sun lamps to help with the SAD. He wouldn’t prescribe any medication, because I don’t have a primary care physician at this time and there would be no one to follow up with me about dosage and treatment. That was okay with me – I wanted to work with a therapist first before trying medication. He told me a patient advocate would be reaching out to me next week to help me find a therapist and a psychiatrist within my insurance network. He left.

I was out of tears by this point. I curled into a ball the best I could in the armchair and tried to doze lightly while I waited to be released.

Once I was cleared, Mike drove us to three different stores looking for sun lamps. There weren’t any in stock, and I had to order online and wait a week for it to ship. I felt tired, fragile, and angry that I hadn’t been magically fixed in the clinic. Mike told me I had a broken arm. It wasn’t going to be healed right away. We had gone to the emergency room and put it in a sling, but we needed to be careful and let it rest and heal.

That was one week ago. I am still crying without reason, my brain is still foggy and fuzzy, and I’m still trying to come back to myself at a basic level. My arm is broken, but I’m trying to type and do push-ups and put on clothing each morning and wondering why it’s so difficult and so goddamn painful. My arm is broken and I’m trying to hold babies and feed myself and hug my friends and wondering why I’m so goddamn exhausted.

The patient advocate was quick – I had my first appointment with my new therapist last Wednesday. She was kind, I was shy. It’s hard to get immediately vulnerable with a stranger, even if it is their job. I wrapped my arms around my waist and held myself during most of the appointment. I cried when I talked about how confused I felt as a child. I explained how I trust others’ judgments and words more than I trust my own. My ex-husband could have told me the sky was orange, I said, and I would have believed him.

I used my sun lamp for the first time today. The pamphlet says it can take two weeks for symptoms to alleviate. I’m angry that I’m a week behind because I couldn’t find one in stores. I’m embarrassed that the sun going down at 5pm makes me so sad that I want to stop waking up in the mornings. I’m frustrated that my preparations and safeguards (hot yoga, daily walks, morning routines, dance community) haven’t protected my mental health when I was promised they would. I’m exhausted and terrified at the thought of experiencing this kind of pain and hopelessness every single winter for the rest of my life.

I don’t know how to write about this when I’m still in the middle of it. In September, I shared a poem I had written last fall to help me transition into winter. It helped last year, but it’s felt weak and useless this year. I ended up writing another Daylight Savings poem this year, a morbid sequel of sorts to the first:

I can’t keep dying every year.

There are only so many rebirths

a body, a mind, can endure

before it tires, and sleeps

while walking, half-alive, filled

with the constant memories of

all the deaths; a living corpse

whose eyes are dark

and heart is cold.

I can’t keep dying every year.

Rising from the ashes gets harder,

knees weak, throat sore from the smoke.

The new life becomes shorter as

the preparations to die begin again,

sooner this time, always sooner

than expected, wanted.

I’ve tried running, hiding. I’ve tried

meeting death at the door,

yet no matter how it finds me,

it takes ruthlessly, without care

for my anticipations and plans.

I can’t keep dying every year,

it’s becoming how I live.

Thanks, friends. 109 days to go.

PS – Listen to the people who love you. If they are telling you to get help, get help. Your pain is never too small to get help.