Collapsing Strong

We have seen the movies; we have read the books. We have heard about it happening to others, but it could never happen to us.

It is just stress. It’s flu. She is tired. I blame her husband. This is what happens when you try to have it all. It’s heartbreak…nervous collapse…exhaustion.

But when it happens, it happens, and nothing can stop it.

A single mother of four, two of whom have special needs, trying to hold herself, her family, her job and a volatile love story together. It had been coming for a while, but I did not read the signs correctly. I did not listen to myself. I said the right things. Looked the right part. Gave the right signals. I was everything to everyone and yet nothing to myself.

And then it happened: I fell into my abyss. I was lost in a place with no light, blind, helpless and with no direction. I had no purpose. Numb and incapable of making any connection to the world, I was deaf to every sound. Language made no sense. Immune to every stimulus and with all of my seams agape, I found that my life force was simply dormant.

My first step was to enter a womb-like medication cocoon. A plethora of new names hit me – selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, tricyclic antidepressants, nerve tonics…. The science came thick and fast along with a vague diagnosis of my problem that centered around my refusal to look after myself. I did not care: I needed help and knew it. I opened my mouth and took the pills. Maybe they would glue me back together. They did not – that had to come from the inside.

The real key was time. I needed time and I needed space. Incapable of working, I even found deciding what to eat for dinner to be impossible. My brain had shut down and my life was slipping away. Once I finally admitted the state I was in to a few close friends, I found that they were friends, indeed: the practical help came in abundance – sleepovers, ready meals, logistics management, quiet comfort and tea without sympathy.

Despite all good intentions, common wisdom could not help, and the advice I received was far from inspiring. Heartfelt and normally stirring platitudes such as “Pull yourself together,” “Cheer up!”, “One day at a time,” “Time heals all wounds,” and the like simply did not mean anything. My abyss could not conceive of a tomorrow and I didn’t have the energy to care, let alone do anything about it.

The hardest part of getting through it, however, was facing myself, my value systems and my dogged desire to compete, overachieve and show no weakness. A typical Anglo-Saxon, type-A personality, highly schooled in showing magnanimity, grace, courage and excellence at all times, I had to accept that I had essentially brought myself to my knees.

The journey to finding myself again started with a blank piece of paper, and I tried to draw what I felt. When there was no feeling, a dated blank sheet was fine. When I was a mess, a dramatic paper-tearing, heartbreaking scribble provided relief. In any moment of clarity, my hand found its way and showed me my heart. I wrote. I drew. I fought. I lay passive. I struggled to find my body and my soul and slowly I learned to listen to myself.

After a while I started to feel more alive – or maybe less dead. A pampering in the bathroom delivered crucial sparkle therapy. A breath of fresh air on the balcony was soon followed by collecting the mail, which inspired a short walk to the baker. A massage forced me to physically connect body to soul.

Order slowly returned and inspired. One foot instinctively found its way in front of the other, and I began to feel the impetus to pull myself back together.

They say that every mountain is a series of small peaks, and every day was a struggle as I clambered out of my abyss. But every steep slope has scree to make you slip, and my recovery was not linear. After a few hours back at work one day, I felt on top of the world. I baked a cake for a friend, delivered it, and, whilst driving home, had a relapse. I could not remember which side of the road to drive on. I knew the words – “Right is right.” But which side was right? I had forgotten my very basics. My brain had shut down once more.

It has taken a while, but I’m back and in many ways stronger than ever as I can now recognize the warning signs: hyperactivity, overachievement (I signed up for four marathons), overconfidence (I believed I could complete them all, fitting training around my job, four children and complex household), and an unwavering belief that I can manage it all and do not need help. Combine this with uncharacteristic forgetfulness, increased reliance on alcohol to relax and a total withdrawal from friends and family, and the recipe for dissolution is complete.

So many characters in literature show us that we have to die to be reborn. Carl Jung wrote that we stand “at the very edge of the world, the abyss of the future before” us. Taylor Swift sings, “I don’t know if you know who you are until you lose who you are.” I died. I was reborn. I have found out who I am, what I can deal with and how I can live. I have also crucially learned to ask for help and maybe moderate my expectations of myself.

We all fail at different times and we all fail in different ways, but what really counts is giving yourself time and when you are ready, having the courage to pull yourself back together through raw, unadulterated honesty. And perhaps a little drawing paper….

By Cassandra Parsons                            Photo by Tanya Deans

Cassandra lives in Zurich with her four children.