Why I stopped pretending everything's okay

Probably my most honest post yet

I don’t know about you, but saying “I’m not okay” in a casual conversation is not something I’m used to. Admitting that I’m not at my best is something I’ve been practising over the past few months. To be honest it feels like an art that I’ve not quite mastered yet, but it seems to be getting easier, and I’m well on my way to making it feel more natural. 

And here I am, writing about it, so that must be something?

Just before Christmas I hit a wall. I’d been going through a year of quite the turbulent time with family relationships - the emotional fallout of which I hadn’t been ready to accept or, in fact, truly access. As one of my friends said to me, whenever I talked about it, I was acting like none of it was happening to me, like I was retelling the story of a character I’d read about in a book. I was in protection mode. I knew that if I started to accept the feelings that were coming up, I would unravel. And I wasn’t ready for that. So, I just kept on going. Everything was okay, I was okay, let’s move on. 

Until my body said no. 

Lying in a hotel room in Hamburg with excruciating stomach pains when I was supposed to be out frolicking among the many Christmas markets was not exactly the festive trip I’d planned. 

In the quiet of the dimly lit room, with the background hum of distant hoovering and hotel doors clicking closed, my head buried in the pillows, I finally realised that something wasn’t right. And I didn’t have the energy or will to pretend everything was okay. 

It was as if my body was forcing me to listen, overriding my mind and putting my nervous system into autopilot to make sure I didn’t crash land into something dangerous.  

When I arrived home, still feeling unwell, I snuggled myself up in bed and suddenly the floodgates opened. I was letting out sobs of a year’s worth of sadness. The tears flowed. Like proper ugly crying, tears taking over your face, puffy eyes, and hiccups for breaths kind of crying. The inner-child-that-hasn’t-healed kind of crying. 

As the tears came, so did the reality of how I was feeling. I felt bad. Sad. Scared. I wanted to escape in every way possible. I tried to escape quite literally, by taking myself off for a couple of nights in a hotel room. I thought if I could just get some space to figure it all out on my own (a solitary approach to ‘sorting things out’ is my comfort zone) then I’d be able to come back into the world in a couple of days, having worked through all my issues and be ✨ FIXED ✨.

It turns out running away from your feelings and life doesn’t actually help, it just makes it worse (who knew!) and I found myself completely confused with my place in the world. It was time to admit it. I was depressed, anxious, and absolutely exhausted. 

An unfamiliar feeling

I’d never felt like this before. I always thought this was the opposite of my personality, of who I am. I’m the one who looks at the positives first; who brings lightness to a situation. Who makes sure that everyone is okay and feeling good. But I’m not sure any of that really matters when it comes to depression. Somehow it had found its way in.

All of a sudden there was a gap between me and real life. I knew real life was there but couldn’t quite reach out and touch it. Feelings were floating by that I couldn't quite catch. Stuck behind a film that I don’t remember pulling up and putting there. Like cataracts for the brain.

I spent the next few weeks sleeping, walking around like a zombie, watching films, listening to Anthony Bourdain on audible, and reading Patti Smith and Joan Didion books (Goodreads tells me I most definitely shouldn’t have been reading Play it as it Lays while depressed, but I found it - maybe sadistically - comforting). 

Scout, my dog, forced me to go outside on our daily walks, which was very much welcomed. Seeing her trot around, sniffing, just simply being, helped SO much. And snuggling up on the couch together after a cold, brisk walk was a treat. Dogs really are the best, aren’t they. 

In the last month or so, I’ve created space to sit with my feelings. It’s been uncomfortable, and still is. But when I finally stopped pretending that everything was okay, something surprising came along with it: Relief. I didn’t have to pretend anymore! I no longer felt the need to put on some sort of show to demonstrate ‘I’m fine, honestly!’. I could be vulnerable and reflective. The pressure was off to be anything other than the rawest version of me. The only thing I needed to do was look after myself. To cocoon. To nurture myself and take it step by step. 

I’m slowly coming out of my cocoon, my mini hibernation. I wouldn’t say I’m quite at the butterfly stage yet. But the film is slowly dissolving. I’m getting there. 

By stopping the pretence that everything’s okay, I’m actually feeling more whole than I have done in a long time. I realised that it felt good to strip things back to basics and romanticise the simple joys in life (more on that here). I’m listening to my intuition more and only saying yes to things that I absolutely want to do. I’m back to meditating and running, and connecting to myself through yoga. Being vulnerable is making my connections to others stronger and more real. I’m being kinder to myself. I’ve reached a whole new level of self-care and compassion - although some days it’s still hard to find the ‘on’ switch for it.

I’m glad my body told me to stop pretending everything’s okay. Because now I can see that everything really is going to be okay, as long as I have the strength to say when it’s not. 

P.S. This is my official permission slip to you. If I ask you how you’re doing, I’m ready for your most honest response, no matter what it is ✨