Roadblocks in Self-Improvement

Have you ever had those days when it seems you can’t do anything, right?
If you can recall from my previous post, I challenged myself to read an hour a day. I was doing well, but something happened that shook me to my core. It’s going to seem insignificant, but this brought upon a short bout of depression and pain. Okay, okay, I’ll get on with it. So I run a mobile service with my husband. I am mainly in charge of the customer service, administrative, and media side of our business. Now and then, I have encounters with what seems like complicated math. If there is anything that stresses me out is performing correct calculations on the spot.
For the most part, I would say that I’m an intelligent person. However, this subject has been a struggle my entire life. I can even recall the exact moment in primary school when I decided to give up and concentrate on other things. We were covering how to count currency. I had a nickel and dime in front of me. My teacher noticed that I was staring at the coins and not writing down the sum. She asked me if there was a problem. I asked, “why does the dime have a greater value if it’s smaller, and the coins are made of the same material?” I don’t remember if she addressed this, so I moved on. My relationship with math converted from struggle to complete disinterest. I continued to excel in reading and writing. I was very protective of my work when my classmates would try to cheat off my tests. However, my moral code went out the window when there was a scheduled arithmetic exam. I didn’t even care if I cheated off a good math student. This was my mode of operation until I entered university, where the stakes were higher. I could no longer be passive. I spent many hours in the learning center undergoing one on one sessions with student tutors. Have you ever traveled to a foreign country where you didn’t know the language? Imagine someone giving you intricate information on the spot, and it sounds jumbled and indistinct. I would ask my tutors to repeat things several times because it made absolutely no sense in my brain. Once I graduated, I shoved out all my newfound math knowledge because I truly believed I would never use it again. Well, you never know when you will need it again.
I was so anxious when I had to step away from the client to have my husband help me. My mind began to race with self-deprecating thoughts. I’m so stupid. How can I run a business? That customer must think the same. My husband must be so tired of me. I’m so useless.
I began to sob when we drove away. It’s funny how a small moment can reveal your deepest insecurities. I wallowed in that feeling for a few days. My husband then shared a hard truth with me. He said that I don’t use skills until it’s absolutely necessary. Leave it to that man to show me, tough love.
Here’s the thing about committing to self-improvement. You have to be completely honest with yourself. It helps to have someone call out your bullshit. Truthfully, it results in sometimes feeling like a complete loser. It can be overwhelming when you take inventory of all the things that need to change.
I eventually told myself that I don’t have to remain this way. I can do something about it. That brings me to my next challenge. I will be practicing math on the daily for this coming month. I usually do weekly challenges, but this one has to go deeper. I think waking up early, meditating, and the like are important. They can build discipline, but there wasn’t a direct consequence if I skipped a day. Please share resources for teaching basic math to adults. I am not particularly great at percentages or fractions and beyond. As Michael Scott would say, “Catch ya on the flippity flip.”

I’m not sure what is wrong…

I was born and raised in a small border town in south Texas. I am a child of immigrant parents from Mexico that taught that hard work is the answer to most if not all hardships.

I never quite understood why I was such a melancholic child. I often resented my parents for having to greet family members with a hug and kiss. It never felt natural. I was called “mal educada” a “grosera” when I refused.

Envy was a constant emotion I grappled with when I saw my classmates happily enjoying their childhood and existing with ease. That was never a feeling I experienced for much of my life. In high school, I shared with a classmate that I always wondered how other people seemed to be so carefree. I asked if he ever experienced deep sadness on a constant basis and he said not really. Funny how I used to think that contentment was a strange thing.

Depression was never a topic of conversation growing up. I was very withdrawn and rarely spoke to my family. I even recall a moment when my father lashed out in frustration about how quiet I was and how I didn’t care to ever share with him. It was a very odd situation because I never believed my father cared to interact with me. I concluded that depression was an American problem.

Once, I accepted the possibility that I might be suffering from depression I decided it might be a good idea to share with others what I had been feeling. Some of the responses I received made me regret sharing in the first place. I had an acquaintance that was diagnosed with clinical depression. I explained some of my symptoms and I was told that everyone gets sad but depression is a whole other level. I disengaged immediately because it seemed like I had something to prove. By this point I had been told to just stop being sad, get over it, you’re making too big of a deal about what you’re feeling. I was involved in an evangelical Christian church for many years and I was convinced that I had a spirit in me that must be cast out and broken off of me. Soon after I experienced another depressive episode and I was told I had opened the door once again to said spirit. (More on this at another time).

A few people commented to me that I couldn’t be terribly depressed because I have managed to graduate from university and have always been able to hold down a job. What most people didn’t know is that failing school or being fired was not an option. I would be letting down my parents and not upholding the principle of a strong work ethic. It seemed that in the end, I was at fault for not being in control of my emotions and that I simply needed to decide to be better. I told myself that I was fine and I could change my life.

One night I was awake at 4am sobbing to Susan Boyle’s rendition of “I dreamed a dream” from Les Miserable. Even though I find this event a bit comical it was a defining moment for me that something was wrong. By this time I had met with my third therapist who worked closely with my doctor and it was suggested that I should give Lexapro a try.  I told my parents what my doctor had said and they were not quite supportive in the beginning. My partner didn’t really seem supportive either. It was then I decided that I needed to stop listening to the people who didn’t actually understand my emotional state of mind.

After 3 or so weeks of being on my new medication, I had a realization. I had not been retreating to my car or my shower for my daily crying sessions. I was not arguing with my husband as often as I had. I sat there in astonishment wondering if this was what it was like to feel normal. I know most people say that there is no such thing as “normal” but when you’ve lived in deep despair since you were a small child you have to wonder how other people function.  I’m not saying that I experienced elation. I just felt less overwhelmed and reactive.

So to all the other Latinx out there. I understand what it’s like to be part of a culture that invalidates mental illness but I want to let you know that I see you. Trust yourself.

 

Edith