The Two Versions of Me

 

There are days when I feel like I am absolutely fucking flying through life. 

I'm happy. 

Like, genuinely happy. 

Life is good. Really good. 

I'm living in yet another country. I'm having adventures. I'm riding bikes and running and traveling and seeing places I never imagined I'd see. 

I have people I love. I have a life that, if you had told me years ago this is where I'd end up, I probably would have said, holy shit, sign me up. 

I feel unstoppable. 

I'm on fire. 

I'm excited about what's next. I can't ask for more. 

And then there is the other me. 

The one who can be sitting in the exact same room, in the exact same life, with absolutely nothing visibly wrong and feel like someone has pulled the plug on the entire fucking world. 

Dark. 

Heavy. 

Sad.

Lonely. 

Afraid. 

Crying for reasons I can't always explain. 

Sometimes I don't even know which one is real. 

And that's the part I'm struggling with right now. 

Because I have chronic depression. PTSD. Panic disorder. I've done and seen some fucked up shit in my life. Things that don't just disappear because you've built a good life afterward. 

Apparently, the brain doesn't give a shit that you've moved on. 

It keeps receipts. 

And grief? Grief is its own animal. 

Except sometimes I don't know where grief ends and depression begins. 

That's the problem. 

Is this sadness because I'm grieving?

Is this the depression?

Is my brain reacting to something that happened fifteen, twenty years ago?

Is my nervous system just fucking exhausted? 

Am I lonely? 

Am I angry? 

Am I scared? 

Or is this just Tuesday? 

I don't know.

And sometimes that uncertainty makes it worse. 

Because when you're familiar with depression, you start questioning every emotion. 

Am I actually sad? Or am I depressed? 

Am I having a bad day? Or am I sliding? 

Do I need to cry? 

Do I need to get the fuck off the couch and go do something? 

Do I need someone? Or do I need everyone to leave me the hell alone? 

I don't know. 

My brain can be incredibly loud while I am completely silent. 

I can be surrounded by people and feel profoundly alone. 

I can be laughing one minute and crying the next. 

I can be planning an adventure while simultaneously wondering why the hell I feel so empty. 

And anger. Jesus Christ, the anger. 

Sometimes I'm not sad. I'm fucking pissed. At me. At you. At people. At things that happened. At things that didn't happen. At people who hurt me. At myself for still being hurt. 

At the unfairness of things. At the fact that some shit cannot be undone. 

At the fact that you can do all the right things and still have a brain that occasionally decides to set the house on fire. 

And then comes the guilt. Because look at your life. Look at it. You should be happy. You ARE happy. 

So what the fuck is wrong with you? 

That's the lie depression loves. It takes something real, I have a good life, and turns it into a weapon. 

You have no reason to feel this way. 

Except, I guess, feelings don't work that way. 

You can be grateful and miserable. 

You can be happy and heartbroken. 

You can be excited about tomorrow and terrified of it. 

You can love your life and still want to disappear from it. 

You can be surrounded by people who love you and still feel completely alone. 

Two things can be true. 

Maybe that's what I'm learning. Maybe I don't have to pick one. Maybe I'm not either happy or depressed. Maybe I'm both. 

Maybe the woman flying through life on an adventure is real. 

And maybe the woman sitting in the dark crying is real too. 

Maybe neither one cancels the other out. 

Because I know what it looks like from the outside. I post the adventures. My husband. The training. The races. The travel. The funny shit. The beautiful places. The holy shit, look where I am now moments. 

And I mean every bit of it. None of that is fake. 

But neither is the darkness. 

There are moments when I feel like I am absolutely crushing life. And there are moments when getting through the next hour feels like an accomplishment nobody will ever see. Nor understand.

That's a weird fucking way to live. 

But it's my brain. And right now, my brain is messy. 

It's grief and depression and anger and fear and memories and panic and loneliness and happiness and excitement and gratitude and self-loathing all thrown into one giant blender. 

Sometimes I can identify the ingredients. Sometimes I can't. 

Sometimes I don't even want to. I just know that I'm tired. 

Not necessarily physically tired. Soul tired. Brain tired. Tired of fighting things that nobody else can see. 

Tired of explaining why something hurts. 

Tired of wondering whether I'm overreacting. 

Tired of trying to figure out whether I'm sad because something happened or because my brain is doing what my brain does. 

Tired of being strong. 

And then, somehow, I'll wake up tomorrow and want to go somewhere. See something. Do something ridiculous. Laugh until my stomach hurts. Stand somewhere beautiful and think, holy shit. I'm alive. 

And I'll mean that too. 

Because that's the weird fucking contradiction of being me. 

I can be completely in love with life... and still have days where life feels unbearably heavy. 

I can be terrified... and still go. 

I can be broken... and still move. 

I can be grieving... and still laugh. 

I can be depressed... and still have a fucking adventure. 

Maybe that's the point. Not pretending the darkness isn't there. Not pretending I'm always okay. Not deciding that the bad moments erase the good ones. 

Maybe just admitting that sometimes my brain is a complicated, fucked-up place to live. 

And I'm learning how to live there. 

One day. 

One breath. 

One adventure. At a time. 

Because apparently... If you never tri, you'll never know. And maybe that applies to life too.

Hey, feel the fear, and do it anyway.