Let Go

It’s alright ‘cause there’s beauty in the breakdown.

I had a nervous breakdown this time last year. I call it that for lack of a better term, but it’s pretty fitting, considering I was consistently nervous about just about everything and kept breaking down in tears.

Very few people knew about it. Even a year later, it’s not something I feel the need to discuss in detail. This isn’t because I’m ashamed of it. On the contrary. I’m damn proud of that breakdown because it was my first time ever truly admitting to needing help. Not even after Mark’s suicide did I consciously do so. Back then, I was just a hot mess, and there was no stopping that crazy train from going full speed through the shitstorm of grief as a suicide widow.

Last year was different. I think I was just too tired to talk about it. Still am, actually.

In short, I was burnt out at work, confused about how to move forward in a new relationship, still completely in the dark about boundaries, and overall feeling very lost. Somehow, I couldn’t reconcile all the beautiful growth in my life with all the pain that still lingered from past experiences and relationships. I wasn’t being true to myself, but I couldn’t see what I was missing.

Contrary to all of my past and very public emotional displays of all the feels, I enjoyed the quiet of last year’s breakdown. It humbled me, I think. Or maybe it’s an age thing. Whatever the case, it got me to shut up and slow down. The weeks and months leading up to the big break are a bit of a blur, but the six weeks I took off from work to get better are vivid in my mind.

I walked a lot. I read a lot. I participated in about 45 hours of group therapy. I journaled. I slept. I cried quite a bit.

Music helped. Books and the brave words of others in breakdown helped.

Long walks in the summer sunshine warmed my soul. Long chats with my people carried me through the ups and downs.

Time with Ryan, the love of my life and now my fiancé, kept me fighting for the future.

All of that was able to arise in the space of the six weeks I took off from work. I don’t take for granted how fortunate I am to have had good health insurance and an incredibly supportive employer.

Seriously, one morning I was running out of my office past my boss to get outside in time to throw up from a panic attack. By the afternoon, I was talking to said boss about taking a leave of absence and needing to change to a new position in the company upon my return. His response was something in the realm of, ‘No problem. Go get better. We’ll find something else for you to do when you get back.’

My amazing boss, and the entire company, did just that and welcomed me back with hugs six weeks later. They were even cool when, a few months after my return, I told them I wanted to return to teaching ESL and was already looking for a job while also having no intention of leaving their company because I planned to stay with them part-time.

I basically told my boss to invent a new position, work schedule, and way of running the company, all for me. Who does that?

People who prioritize their mental health! Badass bitches! Boss ladies who sent healthy boundaries! That’s who!

For the last seven months, I’ve been reinvigorating my soul four days a week in an ESL classroom teaching students from all over the world. I spend a few hours on those afternoons working from home for the same company that supported me through the breakdown of 2022. On Fridays, I work at the office and get some good facetime with my wonderful coworkers. It’s really quite magical.

The six weeks I took off to get myself well didn’t teach me everything, but they did set me on a new path. A year later, I’m only now starting to grasp this boundary setting business, and it is marvelous. But my breakdown and subsequent break from work were a crucial, albeit unintended (and, at least initially, unwanted) first step.

Despite all my talk about the ups and downs of grief, on some level, I naively thought that there was no where to go but up after losing a husband to suicide. Accordingly, getting to such a low point last year hit me really hard. I don’t doubt there will be more in the future. Depression has been a silent companion of mine for most of my life, popping in every now and then for a visit. However, the next time she comes around…

I’ve just decided my depression identifies as female. I think she needs a name.

…I’ll welcome her with some tools I didn’t have the last time she stopped by. We’ll have new games to play and activities to do together. Perhaps we’ll take some long walks on the beach and go out for a nice meal.

Yup. She DEFINITELY needs a name. Any suggestions?