Quiet

Hello, friends.

I'm lying on my couch typing on my tablet in the dark. It's about as quiet as my house ever gets; usually my daughter has music turned up loud or I'm watching an episode of a tv show. Right now, all I can hear is the tapping of my fingers on the screen.

Quiet is something I've had a lot of recently. Quiet at work with only me in the office, quiet at home because I've felt too ill to do anything. But there is no quiet inside my head. Internally, I feel like I'm screaming all the time. The pressure to be perfect, to appear strong when there is so much turmoil everywhere I look, is overwhelming. I can't handle it on my own. But it often feels like I have nowhere to turn.

This past Monday, I realized that the pressure was getting to me. I wasn't eating or sleeping. I was constantly nauseous and exhausted. I couldn't concentrate on anything. Everything made me frustrated. I decided that there was no point to prolonging the inevitable, so I went to the doctor and he prescribed me some medicine to help control my stress. He said to give it ten days to start having an effect. I'll see if it does. Anything has to be better than how I still feel at the moment.

I didn't want to admit this. The fact that I need medical help to control my stress made me feel ashamed - at first. But the fact is that we all need help sometimes. It isn't a bad thing. And recognizing that is the first step.

There was one other thing that made me feel ashamed. What right did I have to be so stressed when so many people have it worse off than I do? But that's not a useful way to think, either. My problem may seem small in the grand scheme of things, but that doesn't make it any less legitimate.

I guess my point is this: it's okay to admit to not being okay.