Small Talk

Am I okay? That’s the question I ask myself daily. It’s always been a complicated question for me, even before Covid. I try to answer honestly, without being too honest. American society has gone from “pretty good, you?” To “ hanging in there” and now to “all things considered? I don’t know. ” It’s no longer a small talk question and a recited answer, and that is actually pretty nice for me. 

I always take things too literally, give more information than anyone asked for, and lack the general social awareness that comes with small talk and friendly banter. I never understood the formality of asking a question with a predetermined answer, or why a full rundown of my mental health status and hormonal levels was not an adequate response to “how’s your day?”

There is a social game we all play, and I long ago decided I would not read the rules. I understand things the way my neurodivergent brain comprehends them, and as much as I try to fake it, I see the world differently. 

I see the world differently because of what I have been through, with misdiagnosis and doctors and years of quiet struggles. For once I wanted someone other than a doctor to ask me how my mental health was, someone who wasn’t listening for trigger words or symptom analysis. I wanted to give a full description of the bright points and the struggles of my summer, because summer time I could travel and live outside my own head for a few weeks. But I also wanted to say that sometimes hiking in macchu picchu is exhausting and I cried in the middle of the walk, because that has a bigger meaning to me. (Read my post here about that meaning) I couldn’t understand why I had to hold all these feelings inside, will never fully comprehend the complexities of the social game we call life.

So how am I doing today? In short, I am okay. I am writing, and I am loving that ability. I like creating this blog and creating some kind of meaning out of the absurdity that is this year and all my many years of mental health struggles and general life experience. 

I may not be the most socially experienced or adept at making small talk, but I try to make meanings through my writing. That is good enough for me. 

With love and strength,

Rivi

Tired of Fighting

 Maybe the pharmacy changed the manufacturer for my anti-depressant. Maybe I need to spend more time outside. Maybe I'm not eating right. Maybe I need to exercise. Maybe I can fix this.

These are all the thoughts that are burning through my mind tonight, at 10 pm, as I try to decide what to do next. I am crying, for no reason, because that's what depression is. I am fretting about how my friend won't respond to my small talk texts because maybe she doesn't like me anymore, or so my anxiety says. So I do what I have been doing for years, the only surefire way I have to combat these feelings: I write.

I am so very tired of fighting depression, but I will not surrender to the despair. I take out my battle weapons: my writing, my water, my family support. I sit up and roll my shoulders back and I type. And in this way, I am fighting my war. 

The tears have stopped flowing now. This one thing, writing my truths-- this, I can do. This has held me up for years. This has given others insight and opened my online community up to hold me up and keep me fighting. I need that support now. 

What else is there to say? I tell myself to keep writing, keep spilling ink because at 10 pm at night that is what I need so I may sleep peacefully. I need the familiarity of thoughts on screens and the familiar click clack of keys as my words take form. 

Some people turn to substances, and I thank my lucky stars (or, more accurately, my parents and community) that I have found this productive way to express my pain, my stress, my battles. I don't know how far my words will reach tonight, but they are giving me peace. 

I started typing this post in tears and I am ending it with calm. The storm has passed, flowing through my thoughts into this post that maybe no one will care about but still it has given me something. It has given me freedom from the clutch that is depression. 

Depression, anxiety, and mental illness take over every part of life. I worry about my depression as I sit numbly, staring at videos and trying to escape into another headspace. I think about my ADHD when I walk, convinced that exercise will help; the doctor said so. Even the things I do not do because of my mental illness, my battles creep amongst everything I do. They scurry out at random times, taking hold of my mind and sending me spiraling.

But not writing. Writing is my sword and I am fighting back. When I am in my writing headspace, my mental illness is my audience instead of my conductor. It sits quietly before me, waiting to hear how I will transform my pain into truth. Into stories. Into love.

I am here. I am transforming and I am understanding. I am living. I am writing. And I will keep writing, because writing is my best friend and my battle partner, carrying me into peace.