I removed the brass lid from the glass candle jar. The wick inside was long, its end curled into bloated tendrils. I thought of walking to the bathroom to grab my wick trimmer, to slice the wick to its requisite ¼ inch length prior to lighting it, but my fatigue got the better of me. I struck a match against the little red box it came from, and I let the flames climb up the wood while I waited for the light to catch.
Almost as soon as the wick picked up the flame, the candle spontaneously sputtered, crackled, and extinguished itself with a violent eruption from the jar. An ember seared the pale skin of my left wrist, amd blackened residue launched onto my blue sweater and cuticles. When blowing air wouldn’t move the ash, I brushed it, creating trails in the fibers of my sweater, dark little comets.
The candle that’s not cared for malfunctions, radiating pain and damage all the while. It cannot provide light or warmth to anyone, it loses its utility and its value as an object of comfort. It’s a parallel to where I’ve been over the last few weeks/months—letting all of my edges fray and being constantly burned until hitting an implosion point. The symbolism is not lost on me.
I am currently on a medical leave from work, following a decline in my mental health over the last few months. Following the assault on NYE, I buried myself into work and music-making in an effort to “move forward,” while ignoring a parasite that was eating me from the inside out until my physical health began to suffer too. Exercise and eating became very dysregulated, and my already fractured sleep disintegrated even more.
When you already have PTSD, experiencing a new trauma is difficult not just because of needing to process the fresh incident. Old wounds are also reopened and the pain flows back to the surface. It is insult to injury in its truest form.
So with the support of my partner, friends, and workplace, I’m taking the time and space to stitch myself together again, perhaps with reinforced seams this time. I’m doubling down on treatment—increasing my regular therapy frequency, adding a psychiatrist to my care team, and starting an intensive outpatient trauma program. I begin that last piece later today, which entails hours every weekday committed to group therapy, skills building, and other evidence-based approaches designed to help me heal and return to a semblance of normality. I am both scared and hopeful.
I oscillate between feeling generally okay and utterly distressed. I fall into shame spirals over not being able to have a normal life or just “handle it,” of needing to leave my bosses and coworkers in the lurch while I’m away for a couple more months. I try to engage in some social activities, but I don’t have the stamina for it that I used to. I genuinely enjoy myself while it’s happening, but after I weep until I’m heaving and then dissociate, feeling depleted to my core. I want things to get better.
I’m sitting in, “things are generally awful, with glimmers of goodness.” I hope I can come to see things the other way around, but I know that will take time. In the meantime, I’m grateful for the pockets of rest and joy I’ve found. I’m grateful to my loved ones who have shown up for me without expecting anything in return. I’m trying to rebuild my life one day at a time.
It’s the last day of the month, which I guess means I’m not sharing Every Brilliant Thing lists anymore. But at least I’m here sharing anything at all. That may be all I can manage for now, and I’ll need to find a way to live with that.
Thank you for being here. I hope you too can find healing from whatever hurts you may have.