2022 was the worst year of my life.
I have spent most of the last month – while watching people share their year-end round ups – deciding if I was going to try to encapsulate my year in writing. Lay it out, to look at, pin it in place. But as of today, half a month past the end of it, I am simply not ready to do that.
My mental, emotional and physical health are currently very poor; that likely comes as news to no one here. One thing I can say broadly about the past year is that I spent all of it either under extreme duress or deep in depression. In truth, it’s been at least an 18 month stretch. It’s been so long now that over the last several months I am frequently engulfed by an intense panic about just how long it’s been. It comes on as an inescapable thought, a hopeless overwhelm: It’s been so long. It’s been too long. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t make it stop. It has to stop now. It’s been too long. It’s been so long.
These moments dismantle me. It happens anywhere, anytime, and repeatedly I find myself humiliated on public transit, or walking down the sidewalk, or fleeing a group of people to lock myself in a bathroom — collapsed and gasping, unable to breathe, or stop the tears. A trapped animal with nowhere to flee, and nothing to flee from.
One such wave overtook me last week, and I spent an agonizing cross-country flight alone, sobbing in my seat, unable to get any semblance of hold of myself. After two weeks, eight flights and three states worth of holiday visiting, I was totally exhausted and anxious to get home; but also deeply repelled by the thought of returning to my collapsed, heartbroken life. I had no greater wish in that moment than that the window next to me could easily be opened, to let me out into the cold dark air.
The physical ramifications of my mental state have been harsh. I’ve lost 15 lbs, and currently weigh less than I did as a teen. I’ve struggled with significant insomnia for the duration of the year. Fatigue is a physical presence in my body, like lead. In December the right side of my face collapsed and I fell to the floor in my bathroom, confused and unable to follow conversation. I spent the next eight hours in the ER, cognitively impaired and certain I had had a stroke, only to learn of the existence of a rare, likely (in my case) depression/stress-induced neurological event called a hemiplegic migraine. The after effects lasted more than a week. And, as a final farewell gift from the worst year of my life, a few days shy of New Years I woke up with an outbreak of shingles. I didn’t know much about shingles until now; most people aren’t at risk until a much older age than my 36 years. Shingles is agonizing. While it brings to mind images of skin rash, the predominant symptom is continuous, stabbing nerve pain. Let me offer my sincere, sincere hope that you never experience it.
Stress really depletes you. Your immune system, your overall health. Sadness does these things, too.
All of this is to say, I’m not yet able to write more about the year that just ended. I still wake up most days with my own heartbreak on my mind before I even open my eyes.
But in a strange roundabout way all of that leads here, to a blog page, and this pitiful little screed. I started (several times over) to write about screen time, and sleep, and eating, &c. But it turns out I already got on my soapbox here back in October threatening to change my online habits, and you all know perfectly well what the science says on ways to make ourselves feel better. We all know, we just don’t do it. My phone is certainly not the source of my mental health crisis. But I am desperate now — perhaps beyond desperate. This last year has eroded me to a degree that I do not recognize myself, and none of the realities that hurt me deepest are within my control to change. I cannot put back together the bigger, broken pieces. So I must change the things I can, even if those hurts are only the shallowest, most superficial ones. I am willing to adjust anything, anything at all that might make me feel any amount of better. I must try to give myself every kindness I can.
So, I changed my phone settings to greyscale. I am making plans to take off any/every dopamine-dosing app. I’m telling myself I’m going to write here, regularly, instead. That’s my plan. I will be kind to myself if it doesn’t happen. But structure is helpful; deadlines are good. Commitments fill the empty spaces.
I want to continue to share some things publicly because I have had beautiful experiences connecting with others this way in the past. I want to be vulnerable for a number of reasons; reasons I hope to elaborate on more in future writing. But right now, this space truly has only internal facing goals. This space is for me: to think out loud, to track time, to process, to document. This space is for me, but you are welcome here.
Maybe only 20 people will read this. Maybe 2. Currently, a little over 2,500 people “follow” me on Instagram. I love seeing your quilts, your art, your weavings, your textile practice, your handmade clothes, your lives, your food, your pets, your smiling faces. But in thinking about the early days of the internet – of the actual sense of connection fostered by social networking, vs the sense of alienation accompanying all use of “social media” – I realize that today, I would rather have a meaningful connection with 2 people than an audience of 2 million if it meant any reduction in my health.
If you, too, had the worst year of your life — I see you. I have nothing to offer other than the assurance that you are not drowning alone. Here I am, waving to you from just there, in another part of the roiling, black sea. I see you. If it is any consolation, I’ll be here.