On Recovery

Saturday, January 20, 2018

12:29 p.m.



Dad, I had every single 10!

I didn't realize I wasn't well until very recently. While there was never a moment that went by in which I wasn't questioning what I had just done or said, I never directly connected those feelings with depression. Though I had, at times, used the word to describe a mood, the global nature of my condition was still unknown. Anxiety, depression's younger sibling, was a word that I more commonly understood.
The social settings that brought me the most acute perturbation were those in which small groups of people had already gathered, only moments ago strangers. As soon as the words would spew from my mouth I'd recoil, stomach and neck muscles constricting. The problem, from my present lens, was twofold but without hierarchy. I would attempt to impress my interlocutor with ideas and stories loosely based on what they had been talking about, then wildly direct the conversation into unexpected territories.  A spastic ejaculation of verbal, immature milt. Being aware of the uncomfortable place in which I had placed myself, I would then lose grip on the signals my brain would send to my mouth, and in place of words I would revert to exaggerated nods and look for a quick escape. Having a minor panic attack each time you open your mouth has a way of perpetuating the practice of negative self-talk.