a lil’ mental health blog
I laugh, I smile, I hoot and holler in joy. I cry, I break down, I express myself in anger and passion. Like everyone else, I have experiences to share and a livelihood to maintain. Like everyone else, I have family and friends to love, goals to reach, and responsibilities to adhere to. But like 23% of the US, or 1 in 5 adults, I am mentally ill. And for the most part, I mask it. I hide my mental health diagnosis beneath the surface, attempting to keep it separate from daily life and my identity. But like almost all things, we cannot hide our truths.
When we least expect it, the truth seeps out of us like overflown cups, cracked bottles, or saturated sponges. Masking is not a sustainable way of life. I slowly deteriorated to a shell of myself—closing down my businesses, ceasing my blogs, focusing on work, parenthood, and nothing else, crying in silence during the wee hours of the night. My mask became soggy from tears—dingy and overused. I tried to make new masks: going out on the weekends, ignoring blatant overstimulation; dosing myself with weed and affirmations I could only halfway believe, forcing laughter by way of funny shows and movies on nights I couldn’t sleep. I avoided my friends and stopped talking to family. ‘It’s because I’m handling business,’ I told myself. ‘I’m just doing what I gotta do’.
I was forcing productivity while wondering what the purpose of my existence was. What was my life for? Why was I hiding myself? What was I hiding from?
On the verge of another episode (caused by burnout from work), I sat down and asked myself these questions. I realized my life should not be limited to cycling through my responsibilities—going through the motions with no passion for my life. I am not equipped to slap on a smile, go to work, come home, parent, go to sleep, then wake up and do it again. In trying to maintain what I deemed as ‘normal’, I drove myself (and my mental health) to the point of exhaustion. I bent myself until I broke. I became the woman who dedicated 90% of her energy to maintaining the appearance of success and normalcy.
Behind closed doors, I was using my PTO to cry and sleep. I was skipping meals and neglecting to cook. I was doing the bare minimum to maintain my apartment. I was smoking myself to a state of sedation and forced optimism. I was creatively blocked with no motivation to feed my gifts and talents.
I was not okay, even though I pretended I was.
My name is Z; you probably know me as Mama Z the Guru.
In 2018, I was formally diagnosed with depression and anxiety. In 2022, I was formally diagnosed with a form of Bipolar II. I am unmedicated.
I am an advocate for mental health, holistic wellness, therapy, self-care, and sexual education. I am a mother. I am a partner. I am a sister. I am a daughter. I am like everyone else. Not everyone deals with the same challenges—each of our stories are both common and unique. Thank you for reading mine.
I choose to stop hiding the ‘ugly’.
Allow me to reintroduce myself in a light that illuminates every piece of me.
I am writing this from a mental health facility.
I am sitting on a couch in the lobby, waiting for my next group therapy session to start. Almost 3 weeks in, and I still can’t believe I’m here. When I think of my childhood and how mental health was the topic of nonexistent conversation, I am in awe of my progress. It took many years of me being emotionally gaslit—‘there’s nothing wrong with you’—traumatized by knowing something was wrong but unable to name it. I think about how the COVID-19 outbreak in 2020 prompted me to make better use of my time—‘I should start therapy’—ready to embark on an unknown journey of self-discovery. I watched myself blossom and expand as I learned more about mental health maintenance.
But I didn’t know I could dare to pause my life for the sake of my mental health.
I’d always imagined my brain as a giant warehouse.
It’s full of boxes and products whose labels aren’t legible. I am a lonely ‘employee’, surrounded by boxes and boxes of products, stacked from floor to ceiling, with no system of organization or understanding of what the hell I’m supposed to do. Going to therapy and then being formally diagnosed provided me with information—I now had a map of the warehouse. I could read the labels. I could start taking inventory and sorting the products. With enough time, patience, and practice, I could open a fully functioning storefront.
After my diagnosis, maintaining my mental health was just like running a store: stocking the goods and keeping it clean. On my best days, the store is moderately busy—there are customers, but not too many. They’re all friendly and patient. The shelves stay stocked, and there are no big messes to rectify. On my heavier days, however, it’s like Black Friday. There are tons of customers. They are rude and anxious. The shelves are chaotic and unorganized. There isn’t enough time to restock because there are messes to clean in every aisle.
In the trenches of retail employment, it is a well-known fact that Black Friday is a constant state of disarray… until the store closes. There is always relief at the end of the day. Sure, you have a lot to clean up, but the store will be closed, and you’ll have uninterrupted time to do so. It’s something to look forward to. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel.
Dear reader, my mind and mental health were in Black Friday mode for the past month and a half, and the store did not close.
There was no relief for an exhausted employee, and I was losing my mind because of it. Mental illness is a trickster—my warning signs were all justified or explained away by rational thinking. I was ignoring my mind and body’s cries for help so I could keep the store open, so I could continue going through the motions of life.
I guess you could say I cracked one day.
I was standing in the shower—a shower I forced myself to take, by the way—crying my eyes out about the fact I had to go to work. I couldn’t bear the thought of performing basic functions. I just wanted to crawl into bed. I wanted to get swallowed into a pit and absolved of my responsibilities. I wanted to text my manager and let him know I needed a day off; to use my PTO balance for my absence, or set up an additional shift to make up for it. I wanted to put my phone on Do Not Disturb, pull the blanket over my eyes, and sleep until I couldn’t stay still anymore. I wanted to shut my brain off for the day. I needed a break more than a dehydrated body needed water. And in most cases, this feeling of overwhelm is normal to feel and is okay. I had no issue recognizing my need for a pause. I had no issue advocating for myself because of them.
In this case, however, this would have been my 7th time doing this in the month of July alone.
I had used up all of my PTO balance. I already had replacement shifts on the schedule (and was planning to miss those, too). I had already cried myself to sleep for hours and hours, wasting away the entire day by sulking in bed or sitting in silence. I’d already slipped into unhealthy habits. I’d already stopped reaching out to friends and family. The passion in my life had simply faltered, and I had no idea why. I hadn’t realized how or when it happened. That day, I finally looked in the mirror and admitted to myself, ‘I’m simply not doing well’.
Then I alerted my manager and started the process of finding additional resources. For years, I’d managed my diagnoses “alone”, utilizing tools I learned in occasional therapy sessions as coping mechanisms to guide my way through an episode. And trust me, it worked sometimes! I became a mental health champion, convinced I had defeated the monster and perfected the skill of keeping it at bay. But there were other times, like this time, where the monster of my diagnoses overpowered me with my defenses down. It took courage to realize I was not going to bounce back in victory without help or some time away from the store.
Starting this intensive outpatient mental health program is like finally shutting down the store to restock and take inventory. It’s like clearing out the customers and cleaning up their messes at my own pace. I am so blessed to be in a space where I can take disability leave from work; I am fortunate to have a loving partner to help pick up the slack with Baby Z. I have never gotten a chance to put a pause on things to focus on my well-being.
A lot of me wonders if the inability to take intentional time for wellness is the culprit in my struggle all of these years. I wonder if this hiatus will teach me things I’ve yet to learn about myself and my illnesses, and that I come out much more mentally resilient than I’ve ever been. I cannot prioritize the outcome of starting treatment; I can’t predict the future. I have to prioritize the effort I’m putting into this experience. I must exist in this moment and choose to be present every day. I must show up for myself and my mental wellness. I want to focus on today, and today only.
Today, I am attending my group therapy sessions. I will attend lunch at the 12:30 pm intended slot. I will finish my day of therapies around 3:00 pm, and I will go grab Baby Z from school. I will follow my evening routine at home in depth to stay focused and grounded. I will go to sleep on time and wake up tomorrow to do it again. Right now, my life must be structured this way if I want to reach a point in comfort… and that’s okay.
There’s no place like here, and there’s no better time than now.
As I embark on a journey that requires me to refine my patience and resilience, I extend the same sentiment to you. Reevaluate your ‘why’. Get comfortable with questioning your status quo and how you function in “normalcy”.
Are you functioning in a healthy, productive manner? Are you hiding from yourself? Are you forcing yourself to be well, but feeling shattered on the inside? I urge you to trust yourself and focus on your emotional and mental well-being. You deserve to.
As I’ve stated earlier, 23% of the United States population is (formally) diagnosed with mental illness. That is 1 in 5. You are not alone. We are not alone. Sometimes, the only way to go is up.
I write this in peace and acceptance of both my diagnoses and my current position. I have decided to lean headfirst into my treatment. Though I am still somewhat participating in my life (still living at home instead of residential housing on-site), I realize this is my time to lock in and fully submerge myself in this mental health break.
Yep—it’s a good ol’ Mama Z hiatus.
Tell your friends you love and support them; that you are in their corner.
Till next time, friends.
Z