The Descent
Last year I crashed and burned.
It was November 2018. I had just finished a mostly successful convention season where I was featured in the New York Times, and traveled to Seattle to do a workshop with Leslie Mac at Geek Girl Con. It was an amazing year and yet, I felt empty. I barely had the energy to leave the bed. It didn’t help that I’d just started a full-time job I didn’t want but desperately needed. Any moment I didn’t have to go into the office, I spent in bed hating myself, looking at my work as garbage, and wondering why anybody bothered with me.
I had no reason to think this, but that is what overwhelmed every moment of every day. I had nothing more to give and yet the people around me kept asking for pieces of me. I kept demanding proof of productivity from myself — essays, pitches, creation of new merchandise, design concepts for new art; I was constantly conceiving new products, analyzing failed efforts, and trying to figure out what more I could do. I knew that I needed to stop but I didn’t know how because every time I did stop, I wanted to lie down and no longer exist.
I skipped thanksgiving and xmas, events I usually host at my house, which threw the family into disarray. The idea of setting up xmas decorations felt like too much of a chore and I couldn’t make myself do it. Instead, I spent time fighting for the will to go through the motions, knowing that it was only my daily habits that semi-kept me on track.
I thought I’d snap out of it in January. Or February. Or March. April…May…June…I had events planned, products to sell, people to meet. Yet, each month I felt myself becoming more detached. More exhausted. Anytime someone asked how I was doing; I fought the urge to tell them I wish I could fall off a cliff. Despite this, I co-created and marketed a new event (Black Girl Geek Out) and curated a new multi-media project (The Space Between: Celebrating Black Womxn in Geekdom). I attended multiple conventions, hosted several panels, created new presentations, produced a plus-size fashion show, designed new products, wrote new essays, all while fighting the urge to lay down and die.
I found joy in creation, but the joy was fleeting because no matter what I created, it never filled that void that was screaming to me that I am not enough. That I was expendable. That I had no right to exist anywhere. I was in emotional turmoil and had no idea how to ease it. I spent days off and on crying and trying to tell myself that this shit was gonna get better. Or I’d die. At that point, I didn’t care which one happened.
My S.O. was there for me through it all, holding my hand, cuddling, bringing me food when I wouldn’t leave the bed, encouraging me to get out of the house. The only time he contradicted me was when I would talk about how little I matter and that no one should miss me when I’m gone. He was scared for me, but he just gave me space and time to process my feelings, while encouraging me to rest when I needed. There was no guilt except for what I created and despite that support, I still felt like nothing. I still felt like I wasn’t and would never be enough.
Nothing changes this feeling. Not the constant support of my partner or my family and not the constant support of my friends. Not the evidence of the things I’ve accomplished. Not the people who come to me and tell me I inspire them. Not the work I do that inspires me. Nothing.
By August, I was barely going through the motions. I’d had obligations all year — projects I’d pitched and planned in anticipation of shaking this shit off. Months had gone by and I’d worked and planned, and presented, and wrote through all of them. I pushed myself to do the things I’d promised and worked to keep creating opportunities and making spaces for people I admire. And the entire time I wanted to curl into a ball and live in a closet. I had trouble eating, often wouldn’t bother at all. Sleeping was this weird frenemy — I struggled with going to sleep, staying asleep, and waking up. I spoke when I had to, resented every person who expected something from me, and wished I could just slip into a coma until this feeling went away.
I could feel myself falling with no bottom in sight. A part of me longed to hit that bottom so I could finally shatter and then put myself back together again. The rest of me knew that hitting that bottom meant the end of my marriage and virtually everything I hold dear. I didn’t want to make the people who loved me collateral damage of my downward spiral, so I tried to push them away despite needing them more than ever. I ache from a wound I cannot isolate, and that ache was pushing me to isolate myself in hopes of figuring shit out without all the distractions of everyday life. Or maybe I was looking for a place to hibernate until it resolved itself. I don’t know. What I did know was that I didn’t want the responsibility of harming people whose biggest mistake was loving and caring about me.
But still, I kept falling. I am still falling.
I keep looking for the bottom. I keep wondering when I’ll hit, who I’ll hurt, whether I’ll get back up. Except I know that if I survive impact, I will get up. I don’t know any other way to be. But the falling…the falling never stops and the bottom never hits. Where before, I was resigned to the fall, now I sometimes feel the urge to fight. That fight was born from me actively disengaging from contact, limiting my social media, and isolating myself from the constant drain of people. I need downtime, where I am not furiously trying to meet someone else’s standards. Despite the financial hardship, it helps that I’m not working because now I can rest as much as I want and take the time to just be…to live with fewer deadlines, less confrontation, less silencing in the face of overwhelming bullshit. I am working on easing this pain because I am tired of being tired. I am tired of being something to everyone except me.
Right now, I’m putting me first.
That one act is part of the war to reclaim myself for me. I keep reminding myself that I don’t owe anyone anything. And while the rejection that usually follows stings like a mother fucker, I don’t have the range to be there for everybody. I don’t have the reserves to keep fighting. I can’t continue to give more of myself without regrouping and maintaining space for myself and my needs. I need to choose the path of least resistance, something that goes against my very nature, if I want to keep going at all. My body has told me in more ways than one that I can “lay down or fall down” and I’m choosing to lay down because at least then I still have some kind of choice.
I am not okay. I don’t know when I will be okay. But I owe it to myself to work on it. I owe myself the space to heal. Healing hurts. Bouncing back hurts. If there is a way that I can stop this cycle of overwork, underplay, and almost paralyzing depression, I am here for it. This is my goal for the remainder of 2019 and for 2020. The hardest part will be managing to implement it in a culture that prioritizes your productivity more than your humanity.
My falling will become a controlled dive and when it does, I will never look back.
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Originally published at https://talynnkel.com on November 11, 2019.
