It takes so much work to function

To have a normal life

She’s running late as always.

I use my phone’s front-facing camera to inspect my face while I wait. I’ve made a half-hearted attempt to get ready, rubbing tinted moisturizer on my face and overapplying bright pink blush. I’m strategically positioned in flattering light. I smile at my reflection and hold the expression for two seconds before my face drops.

My laptop pings when she joins. We rush through pleasantries before getting to the real reason for the call. I’ve tried to look put together because I want to distract her. My psychiatrist asks how I’ve been, and I have a split second to decide whether I’ll lie. I settle on a version of the truth. “I’m…okay?” I say unconvincingly. When she asks me what’s going on, I don’t have a tidy answer for her. The numbness is back.

She asks if I’ve been exercising. No. Sleeping? Not well. Making something of my free time. Only if scrolling counts. In therapy? I’ve been skipping appointments. I love my doctor, but I’m ready for the appointment to end. A lecture is the last thing I need. She says she’ll send prescription refills to the CVS by my house, and I thank her. When she hangs up, I exhale.

I just said it out loud: I’m not doing any of the things you’re supposed to do to feel better. The thing is, it hasn’t exactly been unintentional. I’m tired of it all — the pills, the coping mechanisms, the lifestyle changes. I just want to slack off and still feel fine, have one too many drinks without worrying about medication interactions. Lie in bed all morning and not wonder whether it’s the start of an episode. I want to be normal.

A few weeks later, I’m on a walking pad, moving briskly but not so fast that I’m sweaty. Natasha Bedingfield’s Unwritten is blaring as I write. For years, I’ve said I want to learn to move for the joy of it, but that’s not the whole reason I’m walking. My doctor told me I needed to find a form of exercise and stick with it. There’s evidence it’ll help your mood, she said. I’ve read the studies myself, and I know she’s right. But I’m resentful. I like being in charge of my life — don’t we all? The choice to exercise has been made for me. The only thing I hate more than being told what to do is disappointing authority figures, so here I am.

I have friends who work out multiple times a week because they like how it makes them feel. No doctor is pushing them to get their steps in, and they don’t blame themselves when they have an off day. I look on with jealousy, wondering what it’s like to treat your body well because you want to, not because it’s a necessity. When I inevitably skip a few days, I wonder why I don’t care enough. It feels like I’m failing myself — or even worse, my family — when I don’t try.

Every night, I take a pill. In the morning, I take another. On occasion, I stare at the orange bottles and wonder what things would be like if I skipped the 20-second ritual. I know the answer, having lived much of my life unmedicated. But I sometimes can’t get past the truth that I’ll likely need them for the rest of time. It isn’t the meds, but what they symbolize. I have to fight to be average.

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My junior year of college, I told my parents I wanted to die. They took me to a local hospital, and I was admitted — a profound relief after years of silently struggling. Finally, I was safe from myself. Days after my arrival, I was discharged with two mental health diagnoses and a couple of prescriptions. I didn’t think about how long I’d take them. I didn’t care. The medication didn’t feel like that big of a deal for the first few months, but when I started to think about it, I felt a little sad. The side effects and the cost weren’t the biggest concerns. It was the reminder that something is wrong with me, and if I ever dare deviate from my routine, I’ll pay for it.

It feels like my life is a careful act, and I’m one awful event away from losing it all. When I’m doing all the right things, I’m okay. Good, even. If something bad happens, even something seemingly minor, I’m in the fight of my life, even if I exercise and take my pills and go to therapy and meditate and spend time with my loved ones. This is the struggle of my mental illness: Even when life is great, it feels precarious, like it could all fall apart in a second. And it could. I stay up at night worried about how I’d react if something really went wrong, having to stop myself from imagining all the horrific ways life can change in an instant. I am well-balanced until misfortune finds me. It’s one reason postpartum psychosis nearly destroyed me.

Google tells me only 16% of adults in the U.S. take psychiatric medication, which surprises me. I thought there were more of us. Also of interest: Only about 1 in 4 U.S. adults has a mental health condition. I can’t conceive of a life where I experience the world differently, but it’s possible — common, even.

Of course, I should’ve known this. I’m surrounded by people who live happy, fulfilling lives without therapy or medication. On an intellectual level, the statistics aren’t shocking. But it’s a reality so far from my own that I sometimes have trouble believing it’s authentic. To live without any fear of what happens if you let your guard down is a priceless gift, one that’s probably easy to take for granted.

I know my exhaustion isn’t exclusive to me or even to mental health. I’ve talked to people with chronic physical conditions who’ve told me they feel the same — that reaching a normal baseline takes a remarkable level of effort. It’s comforting that I’m not the only one who sometimes feels like I’m climbing uphill with heavy weights strapped to my back, a reminder I’m not alone in my quest to feel ordinary. We are all striving for something. It just manifests differently.

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This problem of mine has no clear solution. I owe my life to the medication, and my therapist has made me kinder, more introspective. I’ll begrudgingly allow that I feel good when I turn on Do Not Disturb and put my phone down, and that exercise does, in fact, change my mood. (Devastating, really.) And this isn’t exactly groundbreaking, but getting eight hours of sleep makes me feel less anxious in the morning. You get the gist. The positive habits that I sometimes resent have made me better. And when I give up and indulge myself by only attempting the bare minimum, I often pay for it.

I desperately want to reframe, to make myself believe that my mental health forcing me to treat myself with kindness is actually a good thing. Maybe it’s given me a fuller life in ways I don’t even realize. When I am feeling sunny, this is how I process. Too often, though, the unfairness of it all about topples me to the ground when I realize I’ll probably be fighting my entire life, unable to fully rot without consequences. You can only be so carefree when your mental well-being is as delicate as mine feels. Even on my best, most unbothered days, I carry a bottle of lorazepam in my purse, just in case.

I met my husband sixteen years ago, and he’s the picture of someone who is annoyingly well-adjusted. My attitude toward him is a mix of jealousy that my life isn’t like his and thankfulness that he doesn’t experience things the way I do. Sometimes, I ask him to keep me accountable, to force me off my phone late at night and gently push me to exercise. In a twist that’s not much of a twist at all, I get annoyed at his urging, even though I thought I wanted it. It annoys me most when I’m having a bad day and feeling tired of deep breathing and positive thinking. I take notes during therapy only to disregard them after, which is probably why I can’t quit, even though I’ve been attending these 45-minute sessions since before I could legally drink. I can’t always differentiate between exhaustion and self-sabotage.

I know an influencer who recently shared that she’d weaned off an antidepressant, and I briefly considered unfollowing her. My meds have stopped the suicidal ideation and quieted the anxiety; if I go a night without taking them, which has only happened once or twice in the last twelve years, I panic. I am dependent. As much as I speak out about the stigma surrounding mental health, I don’t spend as much time talking about the pressure I place on myself.

There’s no tidy ending, no Teachable Moment for me to share. The internal battle will likely rage on, even as I resentfully do all the right things. I’ll continue to fight to make peace with the conflictedness, and you’ll find me blaring 2000s hits while I dutifully walk. And when I feel over it, I might take a break from treating myself well. It’s inevitable, and it’s not the end of the world.

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In other news…I stumbled upon my old daily journal while cleaning the bedroom and lost track of time reading it. For three years, I routinely journaled in the small blue book. There’s the day I graduated from college ten years ago, my wedding day, my honeymoon, and all the milestones in between. I can’t tell you why I stopped, but the hundreds of entries I have from 2015 to 2018 are equally mundane and fascinating. I hated my classes during my senior year, and I was terrified to move in with my now-husband. Drama with friends consumed me, immediately followed by breathless recounts of how we made up. It’s a time capsule, and I’m glad I kept it. I’m sharing a few reflections below the paywall.