this is me trying
i'm drowning and i don't know how to come up for air
i wake up and it’s monday and i still don’t have a job so i sit in bed and do the crossword. i tell myself at least my brain is doing something. it takes me 5 minutes to finish. 5 minutes and then nothing. i go back and i read comments on the substack essay i posted last night and they make me feel momentarily happy but i can’t bring myself to respond. something isn’t right, my brain feels like it’s lagging, time is passing quickly around me but i am moving in reverse. i fumble next to my bed for my pills, i can’t remember if i took one when i woke up, but i feel like this so i probably didn’t. i dry swallow. it’s routine at this point, escitalopram sliding down my throat, the bitter taste in my mouth lingering even after i brush my teeth or drink coffee, it’s a reminder of what i’m putting into my body so i can function.
i apply to 2 jobs. i feel like crying. my stomach hurts and i don’t know if it’s period cramps or hunger or anxiety so i ignore it for the time being. i took my meds 40 minutes ago but i feel myself spiraling. i try to open substack on my phone but forget that i deleted the app. “you’re spending too much time on there, you care too much about what people think of your writing,” i told myself before i deleted it. i sigh and turn my phone off and bury it under the comforter.
it’s raining for the fourth day in a row. i remember the photos i saw of the flooding from the hurricane and i start to panic. “there’s no reason to worry,” i tell myself, “you live in dc and the rain is just rain, you’re not going to drown in a flood.” i’m sure that’s what the people in appalachia, those who never could imagine flooding and hurricanes ravaging their homes thought before their homes, their lives, their reality was completely upended by the water rushing in. dc will be fine, i am scared of drowning and large amounts of water and i am projecting but i can’t stop thinking about this. maybe i should delete twitter next.
paul is in the shower. he’s working from home today. an entire day of me putting on a brave face and applying to jobs so i can look like my best self, the girl who is trying. trying to find a job in journalism or marketing or social media or really anything. trying to take her meds and function. trying to pretend she didn’t have a nightmare last night about everyone in her life leaving her. trying to be a good writer. i don’t know how much longer i can keep trying.
i didn’t do a good enough job hiding my phone. i feel it vibrating, texts i know i won’t respond to, that i’ll look at, draft a response in my head, maybe even type it out, and just never press send. i don’t know why i do that. my copy of intermezzo stares up at me from the floor next to my bed. i should have finished it by now. every time i’ve picked it up and tried to read it i’ve felt overcome with a sadness i didn’t realize was in me. or maybe i did and it’s the one i suppress every day. sally rooney writes about loneliness and grief and family and it just rushes inside of me and lingers. how does she do that? create something so marvelous, that stays with you forever. i want to do that. now i can’t stop thinking about the residual feelings of loneliness i felt when i lived at home for 6 months, the ones that stayed with me and inherently changed how i view myself and the world around me. i no longer crave social interaction, in fact, i dread it now. i retreat into myself and find myself hyperaware of everything. am i talking too loud? did my comment make sense? is my shirt too weird, too tight? do they know how much of a mess my life is right now?
maybe i should try to eat something. i feel shaky and overwhelmed and i can’t get my brain to stop spiraling. i chug water, the icy cold shocking me, immediately giving me brain freeze, if only it could actually pause my thoughts. i have to finish my post for tomorrow, get people excited for a writing challenge, motivate myself to keep writing but sometimes i don’t think i can. what even am i? a writer? someone who writes? full of thoughts that i can’t keep to myself so i force myself to share them? maybe i am a writer, in the most dramatized sense of the word. someone writing, struggling, trying to find a place in the world, but i’m afraid of success, terrified to let myself have that or feel that, where does that fit into all of this?
i don’t feel creative anymore. i’m only writing this here because i can’t find my journal anywhere and if i let these thoughts stay up in my head all day i’ll barely be able to move or think or function as a person. i can’t remember the last time i woke up fresh-faced and full of ideas. i’m running on empty, a short list in my notes app that i made months ago. what will i do when i reach the bottom and there’s nothing left?
do i write because i love it or because i want to be successful? i’ve asked myself that question so many times. i love it but i want it to be my job, i want anything to be my job right now. i started sharing my writing for fun, now sometimes i make a little money from it, i guess that makes it a job. i think about the thought daughter essay. i wrote that after my brain felt overactive in the shower. i had felt insane and frustrated and hadn’t taken my meds and the only difference between that and this is that i had an idea, something that i needed to say. now i’m just writing. that was the most success and validation i’ve felt as someone who shares her writing online. it scared me, made me start thinking: will i experience that again? do i want to? i find myself submerged in my thoughts all too often, retreating inward after i post something, thinking too much about who will find this? will they like it? do they still think i’m interesting?
it feels like i’m drowning. i’m terrified and i don’t know what to do. the harder i try to stay afloat the further down i sink. writing this is my life raft. my thoughts are starting to clear, maybe the meds found their way into my bloodstream, maybe i needed to get all of this out. i’m waiting for the water to clear so i can feel like myself again, or at least the version of myself i want to be.
i’m crediting this to
. i woke up this morning and my brain felt completely broken and then i read her recent post, so i knew i had to write.
Ok bc you mentioned that comments made you happy for a sec, I’m writing to say thank you for sharing your heart and soul with us readers. If I had a clear flavor lifesaver (my fav flavor, but imagine your fav lifesaver), I’d hand it to you in a heartbeat so that you can float safely in the waters of writing life. The 1st time I read your substack back in early spring, I felt (plutonic) love at first sight, or rather love at 1st reading. Each new piece you publish strengthens my respect and admiration for your creative genius, integrity, bravery, skill, and strength of character. As a fellow artist, it’s f-ing hard af to make it in this cold dead capitalist rat race. I’m not going to give advice or try positive manifestation or whatever, bc I know well that when I’m feeling down hearing positive motivational talk is like pouring salt in an open wound. Still, I will say that your brilliant heartfelt writing has a meaningful, tangible impact on my life: I’ve grown more confidence to speak up for what matters, I told my mom how much I admire her after reading your Mother’s Day essay, I feel accepted in this substack world, like I belong here. At my lowest, I had believed the world did not want see me or hear me, and I tried to hide out and disappear. But a lot of the good changes in my life happened due to reading books, making art, and finding writers on substack like you; your words have power and your essays have changed me for the better (plus a few more of my fav substack writers, bc I feel remiss not to mention your fellow gifted writers who have meaning to me) Btw my mom subscribes to you and Amanda; she says you both are very wise people and she can see that you two have old souls. My mom’s a professional editor, so she knows good writing when she see it. I’m rooting for you, our beloved holy princess and sacred queen <3
usually, language and writing is supposed to be a way of communicating one's feelings. but this post, your writing, made it feel like it was the manifestation of it rather than a vehicle for telling people how you feel. i cannot explain how much i love this and how much my heart tore at your words. bad brain days are terrible, and feels even worse when it seems like happiness is ephemeral among a constant shadow of sadness—i know this feeling too well. this was so visceral and real and relatable that i can't say anything other than that i love you and i'm always here for you. your writing is so beautiful as always, and this really resonated with me, so thank you for posting. i love you so much sarah. i'm going to text you now.