I'm making it my purpose in life to fail

That way, whether I win or lose... I still succeed 😉

I slept for three days.

I missed meals.

I hardly got out of bed to use the bathroom.

I couldn’t think about anything at all.

My emotions were — not numb, but something even deeper than that… detached, maybe?

Indifferent?

Empty?

Wiped out?

I don’t know; they were just… gone.

I was so tired of everything.

I didn’t wanna go to sleep and never wake up — but I wouldn’t have minded if I could just sleep for a month or two, and let everything quiet down.

My second week of outpatient therapy had not ended well.

After a month and a half of waiting for the VA to approve me for IOP… and spending all that time alone, trying to just keep my emotions under control, to stop myself from getting overwhelmed every day, and having meltdown, after endless meltdown…

Once I started outpatient, I decided it was time to confront all the emotions, and the memories I still haven’t let go of; the anxiety that’s always there, eating at my soul, pulling me in a thousand different directions all at once, until I don’t even know what’s up, and what’s down…

I wanted to get everything out, once and for all, and finally start living for my future.

I’d worked hard to get to this point — and I deserved to start feeling better.

But I did too much.

I took on too many challenges all at once.

I allowed myself to get caught up in my own drama…

And I spiraled, out of control.

I failed at outpatient therapy.

I failed to apply all the coping skills I’d already learned, in the mental hospital, and in residential treatment.

I failed to assert myself with my family and friends, and to tell them I want to do what I want to do with my life… and that I appreciate their input, but I don’t want to feel pressured to conform to their expectations of what success should look like to me.

I failed to step back, once I knew I was spinning out of control. I failed to let go of things that don’t matter yet… things that I don’t even have to worry about until after I’m done with IOP, in another 10 or 11 weeks.

Which, doesn’t sound like a lot of time, really. But after 49 days in the mental hospital, and 59 in treatment… 70 plus days of IOP is going to change me a lot. Some of the goals I think are important to me today, might not even matter 60 or 70 days from now.

And I know that, inside.

But I still wanna find the answer for, “What am I going to do now with the rest of my life?”

I have to know things are going to start getting good now… or else, what’s the point of all this therapy?

But even when I’m healthy in body and mind, I know life doesn’t work that way.

I can’t know, today, what my life will look like tomorrow.

I mean, tomorrow tomorrow… maybe.

But a month from now? A year from now? A decade from now?

Thirty years from now?

Nobody can predict anything that far out.

But I came home from San Antonio in March, and I believed that was my next step: to plot out every major detail for the rest of my life; from now until the day I die.

And I couldn’t do it.

I failed, horribly.

On the second-to-last day of my second week of IOP — in group, no less! — I had a total breakdown.

I started sobbing. I told the therapist, and everyone there, all the things I’d been struggling with since I left treatment.

I told them about the daily panic attacks, and crying episodes. I told them how I wanted to move to San Antonio, but every time I thought about it, I felt paralyzed by fear and uncertainty.

I told them I was trying to explain these fears to my family, and I felt like nobody understood me.

I told them I’d started cutting myself again, and I was trying to convince myself it was no big deal, and something I’d naturally grow out of… but dangerous self-harm is a big deal… and I just didn’t wanna see it.

I’d been trying so hard to push through all the fear, panic, overwhelm, helplessness… and I wasn’t able to.

It was all too much for me.

I was supposed to be healthy, now. I was supposed to be able to figure these things out on my own.

I was supposed to show everybody how good I was doing, and how incredible God is, and how grateful I am for this second chance He’s giving me.

I failed at it all.

When I’d gotten all that out, and I told the group I was so tired I didn’t know what to do, we broke for 15 minutes, and the therapist walked me down the hall and got me admitted for inpatient treatment.

I’d really messed things up, and I couldn’t believe I was about to go into another mental hospital.

I hated myself so much in that moment.

But the moment passed, and I recognized that whether I really was failing or not, I was tired. And I needed inpatient, very badly.

A nurse took me through the admitting process and showed me to my room, where I promptly lay down in bed and went right to sleep. For three days, all I did was sleep.

I remember doctors and nurses coming in to take my vitals, and ask me how I was doing. Every time, I told them, “I’m just so tired.” Every time, they answered, “I understand.”

I kept anticipating another meltdown. I’d been having so many them, so often at home, I knew something was bound to happen now that I was back in the safety of a hospital.

But the meltdown never came.

Even though I knew I had failed again — and I knew what that feeling always looked like, when I was alone.

I wanted to have another meltdown, so I could unload more pent-up emotion.

But still, the meltdown never came.

What did come… finally… was quiet.

My mind wasn’t racing.

My heart wasn’t breaking.

My body wasn’t anxious — or afraid.

I was just… calm… in ways I’ve never been, before.

On day four, and every day in the hospital after, my mind was quiet, my heart didn’t hurt, and physically, I felt rested and relaxed.

I didn’t know what to do with all that. I haven’t felt calm like that since I was probably 12 years old.

I didn’t know I could feel like that anymore. I thought my trauma, and my emotions, and my racing, anxious thoughts, were going to keep me prisoner for the rest of my life.

And now, here in the hospital, instead of my heart, mind, and body working against me, we were all learning how to cooperate, and how to feel, think, and act in ways that align with my values, and my identity…

And bring me peace, purpose, satisfaction, and meaning.

I didn’t feel anxious even one time when I was in inpatient treatment. I never felt afraid. I didn’t want to shut down, or hide from anybody, or withdraw from any “uncomfortable” feelings.

I wanted to relax… and let my mind quiet down… and let my heart just… breathe.

I wanted to be myself.

I was tired of trying to impress other people. Tired of feeling like it’s not safe, or appropriate, for me to just live my life, and make my own decisions, and be satisfied with the results.

I entered inpatient, thinking I had failed… and yet somehow, the experience of failing at something, and then not punishing myself for the failure; not judging myself; not complaining; not condemning; not criticizing…

Somehow, that opened up space in my mind and heart to finally accept that, yes, I do fail sometimes…

And that failure is not the end of the world.

It’s not a life sentence.

It’s not a moral failure.

It’s not weakness.

It’s not a reflection of who I am, or what I believe, or how I live my life.

It’s not something I need to hide from, or be ashamed of.

It’s not something to gloss over when I’m with other people, only to go home and continue to ruminate on, until it drives me back into another hospital.

It’s an event.

A moment.

An unexpected outcome.

A sudden turn of events.

And, if I’m totally honest, it’s not even in my control.

It’s not something any of us can control.

It’s just part of life. It’s just something that happens.

It’s a natural result of making choices, and taking action, based on our own limited understanding, as mortal beings who do not have access to the full purpose of life.

And it’s the only way we learn life’s most valuable lessons.

I’ve been failing my whole life, and I’ve been trying to cover it up because I never knew how to deal with failure.

It’s not that I’m inherently bad, or wrong, or that I want things in life that I’m not supposed to…

It’s just that, like all the rest of humanity, I don’t actually know what I’m doing most of the time. I don’t actually know things are going to backfire, until they do. (Or, if I do know, I don’t know how to prevent myself from making things backfire, over and over again.)

But somewhere in my upbringing, I internalized the belief that failure is unacceptable…

And that if I ever do fail, at anything… I will be judged, criticized, and condemned… and I’ll never be allowed to form any connections, or belong to any kind of group, anywhere.

Failure equals loss.

And I’ve already lost so much…

When I went into inpatient, I expected myself to come completely undone.

I thought I’d failed so horribly, I was gonna spiral out of control, and become so dysregulated I’d have to be restrained, or possibly even transferred to a different facility, where they’d be able to monitor me more closely and ensure my safety, and the safety of those around me.

But the spiral never came.

The meltdown never happened.

The panic attack I was so afraid of… just wasn’t there.

I’m convinced this is because I accepted the failures that led me to being hospitalized, instead of avoiding the pain of telling myself I either couldn’t face it… or didn’t deserve it…

And I refused to sit and worry over what that failure said about me as a person.

I simply acknowledged that I had a goal to handle everything on my own… and I tried… and I just couldn’t.

And there’s nothing wrong in the fact that I couldn’t.

The reality is I’m not supposed to do everything on my own. None of us are. But until I finally accepted that, I believed I was doing everything wrong, and it was my lot in life to suffer, and always feel worried, anxious, and afraid.

But inpatient allowed me to experience life through a totally different lens… one of safety, security, and quiet, peaceful harmony with my own thoughts, feelings, and attitudes… one where everyone around me was either a friend, an ally, a helper, or at the very least, a real-life NPC who simply lived in the background, and who didn’t mean me any harm, or ill will, at all…

For the first time in my adult life, I felt calm and collected.

I felt comfortable joining other patients in the dayroom; sitting next to them at meal time; speaking up in group; talking about my needs and wants; listening to others, allowing them the freedom to say everything they needed to say in that moment, without judgment or criticism, and without the need to control anything about myself, or the people around me.

It’s like I found enlightenment.

Nothing bothered me. Not even my own uncomfortable thoughts and feelings. Not the words or actions of the people around me.

I was at peace with my surroundings.

I knew I had failed at my stated goal of being able to handle everything on my own…

And I accepted failure as the appropriate outcome.

And now I wanna fail at all kinds of things, so I can learn that failure is not something to be ashamed of or hide from.

I want to fail so fantastically, that I have no choice but to accept the outcome, learn from it, get up, and try again!

And again!

And again!

For as many times as it takes, for me to get close to the successful outcome I long for… and finally believe I may yet realize…

If I’m only willing to fail a whole bunch of times, first.