Lately, I’ve been treating myself like a horse who spooks easily.
- Soothe the beast at any chance you get.
- Stroke her greasy mane and whisper calming non-sequiturs in her ear. Think, “life is like a box of tampons; with the right products, no leaks will occur.”
- Take her for walks on a long lead but make sure to strap on blinders before engaging with polite society.
- Provide many carrots in hopes of lessening the ever-present nervousness that lives in the depths of her very soul.
Look, I don’t know how long I can keep up this horse analogy because I don’t know much about horses. But I think you get the point. I’ve been a bit of a wreck lately. At the ripe age of 36, I have decided to have a mental breakdown.
Or at least I’m quickly verging towards one.
I know what you’re thinking, “But Linds, you seem so put together and mature when we read your work.”
That’s what you’re thinking, right?
I shouldn’t say that I am having a mental breakdown because, in truth, I don’t know what counts as a mental breakdown. I know that I’ve been hyper-fixating on things I cannot control, and TikTok videos of cats make me ugly cry.
My brain is moving in ten different directions, which forces me to abandon all responsibilities in my life and instead binge watch Bridgerton while fervently wishing that I lived in a time when being a high society lady could be my one and only goal in life.
To elucidate these recent mental health issues: I recently compiled a book of essays for publication. After finding, editing, formatting, and toiling over which pieces to use, I finally had a working manuscript.
Then in a split second of insecurity, thinking that the theme of the book didn’t make sense and my title was really weird, I deleted the entire thing. I deleted it into oblivion. It’s gone now. Forever abandoned to the mysterious middle-space where literary things go to die.
Instead of having a total and utter fit about doing such a thing, I decided to ponder upon how many grated skin flakes I’ve inadvertently consumed in my life.
I was sitting in my bathtub — sans water, thinking about all the times I’ve been grating cheese and have sliced open a knuckle while using the grater.
It’s got to be in the hundreds (I’m terrible at grating cheese), and the worst part is, most of the time, I do not throw out said cheese unless there is a river of blood seeping through it. So, I’ve probably fed my family my skin flakes on more than one occasion. I’ve created cannibalistic monsters out of my poor children without them even knowing it.
This is a real problem, you guys.
It occurred to me that maybe I’m not the only one in the world who is such a terrible cheese grater, and I’ve eaten other people’s grated skin flakes too.
- Perhaps I’ve eaten my mother’s grated skin flakes.
- Or my sister-in-law’s grated skin flakes.
- Maybe my son, who is learning how to cook right now, grated his knuckle into the homemade mac a cheese last Thursday, and I consumed a part of him without even knowing it because he was too afraid to let me know of his culinary faux pas.
Indeed, it is a mistake to allow your loved ones to eat your grated skin flakes. I think that much is clear. The problem is, I don’t know if this newfound understanding that other people allow family members to eat their skin flakes, too, makes me feel better or worse. And it’s really getting to me.
The skin flakes thing is terrible, I realize that. Nobody should have to eat grated skin flakes against their will or knowledge. If you grate skin into your cheese, you should throw the cheese out. However, I don’t think I’m remiss in saying that tossing an entire pound of grated cheese into the garbage because of one rogue skin flake, seems unnecessarily wasteful.
But when you consider the cannibalism aspect of this, I guess thriftiness looses all accountabilities.
I’ve lived with anxiety, insecurities, and functional depression for a long time. Of course, I’m not sure if that’s what I’ve been living with because I’ve never put myself out there for long enough to get an accurate diagnosis. I’m self-aware enough to understand there is a problem. Still, I’m too chicken to get down to the nitty-gritty business of finding out what that problem truly is and how to help myself.
The older I get, the more I realize how my mental health struggles affect my life. If today, I am unable to go over to a new friend’s house because of the inescapable fear that I may get lost on the way or say something inadvertently offensive to their roommate because speaking normal sentences is difficult sometimes, what will tomorrow be like?
It has finally occurred to me that I can’t manage this on my own.
I was chatting with my friend
Aimée Gramblin
a few weeks ago, telling her about my inability to ask for help from others. It seems that my tendency to try to do everything on my own or not do it at all is only getting worse as I get older.
- My work is suffering.
- My family is suffering.
- My confidence as a functioning human being is suffering.
Aimee told me in no uncertain terms that I had to let that shit go. And she was right. Of course she was right. Aimee is amazing. It took a few more weeks and some regrettable outside circumstances to move towards strengthening my mental health but isn’t that how it always goes? Rock bottom and all that.
Yesterday morning, as I struggled to see through swollen, stressed out eyes, I reached out to a local therapist. I emailed her, of course, because talking on the phone is scary AF, but the point is I made the first move. I am slowly, cautiously, tippy-toeing out of this unhealthy comfort zone.
Now I just need to remember not to scare off my new mental health professional in our first session, by talking about my inadvertent cannibalism via grated skin flakes.
But maybe she’s already heard it all before.
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
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The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer 
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The post Is Eating Grated Skin Flakes Cannibalism? And Other Thoughts on the State of My Mental Health appeared first on The Good Men Project.
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