Reactive

My good mental health days usually start out beautifully. Imagine I’m knitting a gorgeous blanket, I’m getting so far and accomplishing so much and it’s just going so smoothly. And then a hiccup happens. A bump in the road. Something happens that severely upsets my good mental health day. I begin to unravel. That blanket I’ve been knitting all day quickly goes from a perfectly knitted project to a pile of destroyed yarn on the floor. With me collapsed on top of it in a heap of depressed sobbing. I can’t function.

I don’t know why I do this. My psych has explained it so many times to me, and we work on finding meds that help with my reactions and my ability to handle situations, handle messing up, handle being yelled at, but sometimes, almost all the time, my beautiful mental health day goes from a stunning blanket to a heap of yarn that can’t be salvaged.

I didn’t used to be this way. I used to be able to be a boss over every situation that came my way. I would see a potential problem and jump at the opportunity to fix it but now I crumple and it kills me. This isn’t who I am. I am not someone who breaks apart at the slightest inconvenience. I am not someone who can’t handle a plate overflowing with things that need to be done.

The girl I see in the mirror the past few years? I don’t recognize her at all. She isn’t me.

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