Waiting for Superman

Is it overwhelming to use a crane to crush a fly?

It's a good time for Superman. 

Being an adult has not been treating me well lately.

It's early on a Sunday morning, and I am up trying to redact a conversation from the night before. It's not working and I'm getting frustrated with myself. I'm a writer, damn it, this shouldn't be so difficult to do. And I should under absolutely no circumstances be allowed to carry on a conversation after 10:00pm. Ever.

Here's the truth.

I've been hopelessly cocking up all of the things that feel like grown-up life lately. I'm in the middle of a fight with both my bank and student loan companies, I have, perhaps irreparably, damaged several close friendships, there's soap scum in my bathroom tub, and I literally laughed in my date's face last night. Although, to be fair, he responded to hearing about my Higgs Boson Halloween costume with "Oh, quantum mechanics! I'm really into reiki."

This, apparently, was not a joke.

I failed the date.

Is it getting heavy? 

But then I realize, is it getting heavy?

Because I thought it was already as heavy as can be.

Less than a mile into our run I start gasping for breath. 

"We gotta walk." I manage to get out. 

It's not unusual for my running partner and I to walk a little during our runs. Depending on the say sometimes I just need a break (usually on things over five miles). Some days I'm tired or stiff. Some days I'm not feeling it. 

"Are you all right?" He's concerned. 

"Yeah. I'm just . . . I don't know. Really tired today. I don't want to be doing this. I nearly forgot to come over today." 

"It's fine. We'll just do the normal loop and when you need to walk, we'll walk." 

I'm so tired we walk nearly all of the five miles. 

Failed that run. 

Is it getting heavy? 
But then I realize, is it getting heavy?
Because I thought it was already as heavy as can be. 

I nearly forgot to vote. 

I'm slouching through the sleety, wet evening, desperately wishing I was back at home in my slippers and sweats, drinking tea and watching the final season of 30 Rock. But I'm slouching through the sleet to my polling place because I nearly forgot to vote. 

To put this into perspective, every November I watch Iron Jawed Angels. Alice Paul's quote "When you put your hand to the plow, you can't put it down until you get to the end of the row" has hung above every desk I've owned since I was eighteen. I have not only participated in every election since I was eighteen, but I've been in the first twenty ballots cast of every election since I was eighteen. You know what ballot I was tonight?

148. 

I swear as I'm trudging back up the street to my house, tension headache forming somewhere behind my eyeballs, I can feel Alice Paul walking behind me shaking her head.

Failed the feminists.

I asked you a question.

I didn't need you to reply. 

"You need to start therapy again." 

There are two people right now who are really clued in to my mental health. The first, as always, is Kerry. The second is my running partner, as running is how I'm dealing with all of my emotions lately. When Kerry suggests I need to start seeing someone again I tell her no, I'm working the program. I'm eating right. I'm working out. I'm seeing my friends. I'm trying to put some distance between myself and work. I'll be fine. Things are just stressful at work and will settle down after the holidays. It's just falling for someone. It's just falling out with someone. It's just this time of year. It's just homesickness.  

I'll be fine. 

My running partner's first words when he walks into his house are "You need to get back into therapy." There's no hello. There's no "how was your day?" There's no "How many miles you wanna do today, Kels?" Nope. Just "You need to get back into therapy. Put your shoes on. We're going outside." While we running I indicate that I'm having tension headaches, that I'm having problems with insomnia again, that when I eat I get sick to my stomach. 

"Go. Back. To. Therapy." 

"I can't" I want to blurt out. "That means I failed." 

Tell everybody who's waiting for Superman

To try to hold on the best they can. 

The end of the month is supposed to be a big milestone for me. 

It will have been one year since I had a major OCD symptom. One year since I was unable to leave the house because I was so anxious. One year slowly rebuilding my mental health. One year clawing my way back from crippling depression. I've been looking forward to this anniversary for an entire month already. It was going to be a day I celebrated quietly, where I made tea in the morning and left the house completely carefree, not worrying about burning the place down. 

If I even notice the day when it arrives, I'll be shocked. 

He hasn't dropped them, forgot them, or anything

It's just too heavy for Superman to lift. 

Here's the truth.

I was supposed to be fixed. I was supposed to work the plan my doctor and I came up with. I was supposed to learn how to cope with stress on my own. But the truth of the matter is that despite the running and eating right and finding a new job and moving and checking everything off the damn list I'm backsliding. I'm anxious. I don't feel much aside from worry these days. The wiring in my head that I thought I had finally redone seems to have shaken loose again.

And it happened so damn fast. And I don't know what caused it. 

I can't describe how frustrating and disheartening it is to realize that even after all this damn work, after remaking my life, after finally starting to live the life that I actually want to live these illnesses can still sneak up on me. I have been so happy for the past few months, and I don't know what caused these illnesses to come back. I don't know what triggered them and apparently this time through, I don't know ho to get rid of them. And, horrifyingly, despite therapy and education, I'm still at the point where while they're  taking over it they can convince me that there's nothing wrong with you. 

I failed.