If you don’t know by now, I’m an author who suffers from mental health disorders. With those mental health disorders, I tend to carry a huge chunk of self-doubt. That is the self-loathing, let’s blow this shit up. I’ve wavered from side to side. I can’t make my fucking mind up. Every time, I go to hit the self-publish button. The magical and mystical button, I throw up.
All because I remember what happened to me, the last time I attempted to self-publish. I don’t believe my anxiety will ever go away. You know that authors are going to come for me. They are salivating at the chance. That’s a “nope” book. I’m not going to get burned again. It doesn’t feel good and quite frankly, it sucks. It sucks for the current readers, who rated my books five stars… and that’s without an editor. Strangers who know nothing about me, gave me those stars. I didn’t beg, steal, or trade for reviews unlike other authors. I played by the rules and remained fair. If they wanted to leave a review, I’ve never pressured them.
Those one-star reviews… it played with my head. It seriously mind-fucked me for a long time. It throws you in a never-ending cycle of depression. Not only do I suffer from anxiety… I also suffer from Borderline and Bipolar I. “Go kill yourself,” is a common phrase. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m still here. I, apparently, suck at suicide, too. That wasn’t a joke either. That’s the truth of it all. You go from that indescribable high to that damn depression. You sprinkle in Borderline, and boy… we have a nutcase on our hands. How can anyone relate to this? I have scars up and down my body. They aren’t pretty. I’ve battled these mental health issues for a very long time. I also suffer from various autoimmune diseases. I don’t know if those caused them or whatever caused my mental health issues.
I didn’t have a great childhood or teenage life. Every day is a struggle to stay afloat. It really does feel like you’ve got an anchor on your feet, dragging you down in an ocean. Tonight, I slammed against that wall again. I hate it. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and not have these issues. I didn’t want to do anything. I just sat in a bathtub and cried for over an hour. I don’t know why. I just laid there, crying.
I’m worried that I’ll fail everyone. I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle the negative reviews. That part has scared me off from ever wanting to publish any of my novels. That fear is hurting me. It’s like a singer, standing on stage for the first time. Except, we’ve done this rodeo before. I fell. I fell hard. And now I’m finding new reasons, not to publish my novels. I have psyched myself out.
Medications, won’t fix my problems. That only make things for me, much worse. I tried endless medications. They make me more suicidal. It’s an endless and vicious cycle. I just want to wake up and be normal for a day. I want to do normal things. And I know this mood will pass. I’m just at my lowest, rock-bottom moment.
To people who don’t suffer from mental health disorders, count your blessings. This is an endless nightmare. “Get over it.” That doesn’t work well with a brain that refuses to function on all cylinders. I’m a writer, who has joined other authors who had Bipolar and various mental health disorders. Your mind wants to do so much that you can’t keep up with it. It spins out of control with no rhyme or reason. Some days, you want to slam your head into a wall. Why was I made like this? What did I do to deserve this life? It isn’t fun and it’s heart-breaking to deal with people like me.
When I have an outside job, I’m fine. I bust my ass off and do what I’m told. I don’t know how but I can hide it until I get home… well, most of the time. I have cried in a bathroom or two. I do feel jealous over petty shit. “That should be me!” Oh, come on! THINK! I’m trying to rationalize with an irrational brain. I’m making deals with my own brain just to survive the next day.
What’s worse? Borderline Personality Disorder really is a bitch. One thing another author said to me last night, spun me in a tailspin of self-doubt. And he wasn’t mean or anything. It just pissed me royally off. That’s how I know, BPD, isn’t going anywhere. That bitch laughs at me every single day. That is the main, torturous demon, I want to go away. All because of my fucked up childhood. That still haunts me like a ghost with a ball and chain. No matter how hard I wish it to go into “dormant mode”… it never really hides forever.
I pray none of you have to go through a tragedy or lose someone you love. BPD is a fucking hell that turns your mind, inside-out. It’s a personal hell, I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. And the worst part of it all… my husband has to hide all my manuscripts when I’m in BPD mode. He shouldn’t have to do that. I feel like I stuck myself in an internal hell. I want out of it. I want a cure for it. I want to wake up tomorrow and it will be in remission. No cure for people with BPD. It wasn’t my fault! I was a small child who went through some shit. Some really bad shit. Until I can let it go, I don’t know if I can publish my manuscripts. One little thing, triggered it. I’ve had BPD for over 25 years. I remember the day, something snapped inside my head. I haven’t been right since then. And to crucify all people with BPD, without knowing their circumstances… is cruel and evil. We have serious trust issues. We are suspicious of everyone and their intentions. Even if we know in our heads that this is a good person, we still have that 1% of doubt. We hold onto it and fight with everything we have. “This person will let us down. We just know it!” And BPD rejoices when we’re right.
So… bear with me… I remember a passage from the bible and it keeps me alive. “And this too, shall pass.” It will pass and I’ll be my bubbly self again. And I hope and pray for a cure. I need a fix-it-all cure. Not just a pill to numb or silence the endless and millions of thoughts. Seize the day? Not with a fucked-up brain.