Getting better at breakdowns
by Farrah Lucia Jamaluddin
Image by Stefano Zocca for Unsplash
I have an urge to write about it but also a reluctance to start. I’m already anticipating that my words will be inadequate. Disjointed. I will stumble, but I need to try, because I need to practise.
I didn’t notice the signs to begin with, even though they’re always the same. First, the clashes between my behaviour and my feelings. I know the term for it now. Cognitive dissonance. Something doesn’t quite feel right, but I accept the circumstances, or I proactively do or say something that I don’t really want. We’ve all been there, we all do it. But an itch forms between lost crevices, and it lingers. Second, is the build-up of discomfort, which quietly develops into pain, only to suddenly bloom into anguish. All this occurs cyclically, and I continue to delude myself into thinking that I can suppress what I’m feeling or wanting. I’m afraid that either someone in my head or someone in my life will judge me for my expression of need. Only babies cry for attention. Only babies have such fundamental, human needs. Grown-ups of integrity and intelligence seem to be forbidden from needing such things as praise or reassurance. Men from dust-free history books tell us so. I find that I must avoid being infantilised, as so many others have been.
When I was younger the breakdowns were much more intense, but only because I didn’t know how to verbalise the pain. It would (it does, it will) physically hit me in the chest - inside the chest - somehow there was (is, will be) corporal injury. It was a very real sensation and no one can tell me otherwise. The emotional pain accompanies like string to percussion, like an injection full of misery administered directly to the spirit. Sometimes my body knows before my mind does. Sometimes vice versa.
Standing back, therapy and reading of both fiction and non-fiction taught me how to speak the language of whatever these episodes were. Talking in safe and unsafe spaces helped me to practise fluency in this new-found language. It required me to either explore or defend my position, and either way, that was beneficial. Exploration was best with a sturdy comrade armed with a figurative magnifying glass, though there were occasions when solitude equipped me well. Defending my experiences was much more difficult, especially from those who lack the capacity to rip themselves up internally.
It’s been years since my last breakdown; I had almost forgotten that my mental health can take a tumble just like that. I don’t trust myself to interpret with accuracy how it really was, but I know the sensations I felt. They were like characters in a play. Something like sadness was pummelling my body. Vacancy enters stage left, devoid of hope. Bitterness enters stage right, rushing forward like a cathartic hero. A fight ensues and no one wins.
I don’t have a name for the bad voice - some call it Sadness, or The Demon, but I think it’s less monstrous than they realise. It said all the usual things about my inabilities, my shortcomings, encouraged me to go to my room back in the past because I wasn’t good enough for the future yet. It told me not to lean on people, not to make an effort, not to cook or eat or drink or wash myself unless I was going to do these things correctly, composedly. Now that I think about it, the voice said a lot of things that I’ve heard upper-class people say about poor people. Inherently not good enough.
Vacancy told me to shut down, so that the bad one couldn’t say more mean things. I followed suit, accidently following the advice not to eat, or drink, or do anything. People’s kind gestures, their patience and love became distant islands on a far horizon I could hardly see. I did not respond to these gifts, but I didn’t feel upset, hungry or angry either.
As a result, my body screamed in protest, like it had gone into emergency reboot, panicking at this sense of disconnect. All the physical aches and pains returned with fresh vigour, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. Wailing. Crying. Silent crying, loud crying, crying into a pillow, sitting-up-because-I couldn’t-breathe crying. All the tears in the world and my body would not be exhausted by them. Vacancy and Bitterness temporarily united to show disappointment with my physical self. They disapproved of this relentless show of sadness.
Throughout this haze of everything and nothing, some experienced part of me started to shout, physically shout, to myself and anyone nearby. I had somehow learnt to verbalise what was happening. Through tears and pain, I managed to tell my partner that I felt alone, that my anxiety was severely triggered, self-soothing impossible. I choked out the words between hiccups and short breaths. Mind - desperate… need… reassurance… need… calm…
Over the years, I have persevered to surround myself with loving people, and I am always thankful that I chose well. My partner understood that I was in a crisis and there was no point in trying to reason with bad voices. I noticed that when he offered reassurance, when he wiped my face and put his hand on my chest, and anything else that was kind and compassionate, it made me cry and wretch even more. Not… used… to affection…
Even a bit of toast was overwhelming. I nibbled at the bread, and tears rolled down my face involuntarily. Partner pulled a look of worry. The observer in me re-emerged and explained that any form of nourishment was ‘too much’. And this was how the days went, until the voices started to quiet, and my soul was released from its darkened grip.
I must write these things, no matter how fragmented. I must write, just as you must write. We might discover or create voices that speak the language of dark times, of need, of acute pain. It’s still intense, but we can carve small tracks of sense, for ourselves and our loved ones, whenever we become lost in those entangled woods.
Farrah (she/her) is a writer, poet and late bloomer, born in England and currently living in Italy. She is studying a BA degree in psychology and philosophy, in between her determination to learn Italian and make pizza. She can be found on Instagram and Medium writing about love, intersectional feminism, and challenging the status quo.