Out Of Control

"I think there's something wrong with me," I said to Sarah. It was 2019. I'd returned to Brisbane for a month in an attempt to get back to my happy place — a time and location where I'd felt in control of my life. I'd spent the last six months feeling very lonely, misunderstood and ashamed of myself, trying to make my mind focus on things that it refused to focus on. I felt like a miserable failure who couldn't do anything right. A loser. A fuckup.

I'd force myself back on track and feel a sense of enthusiasm again, only to be whisked off by a creative epiphany two weeks later. I labeled myself 'undisciplined.' I was so used to having a disciplined mind as a child, and I considered my lack of discipline a shameful character defect. My rogue, uncontrollable curiosity was making me miserable.

I didn't want to talk to anyone about it, either. No one had ever understood me — not even my own family — and I didn't expect them to. I didn't even understand me. Besides, boarding school taught me to solve my own problems; to rely on myself. I always had to save myself. I always had to lean on myself. I always had to be strong for myself.

I thought if I could just try harder, then it would all work out. But I tried, and I tried, and I tried, and I'd produce the best creative work of my life. Then I'd crash and slide into a depression, and hate myself so viciously for it. After a few weeks of apathy and self-loathing, I'd will myself back on track, and the cycle would repeat.

The few times I did try to bring it up with a friend, they'd unintentionally be dismissive and confused. "But you're so smart, and brilliant, and fun, and productive. You're sunshine, Nikki! You're probably just going through a phase." I could see why they thought that, but this 'phase' had been going on for years now. The cycle was becoming increasingly intense.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asked, a look of compassion on her face. We were sitting in a bar, having drinks together. I hadn't seen her in a year.

"I just — it's just been a really rough year. I feel like I'm not functioning properly. Like, I am functioning creatively. My creativity is on fire, but I can't control it, and it terrifies me. I've always had a disciplined mind-"

"Oh, I know," Sarah said. "You're a machine. I've seen your spreadsheets."

I felt a pang of nostalgia. I was well known amongst my entrepreneurial friends for building powerful software-like spreadsheets that managed my business incredibly effectively. I was a goal-seeking missile. I'd get up at four a.m. in the morning and work, work, work. What happened to me?

"You know, I've had a rough year too," she said. "Since you left, a medical condition flared up. I was feeling pretty lost and depressed about my career and various other things."

"Aw, Sarah. I didn't know that. Why didn't you reach out to me?"

"Why didn't you reach out to me?" she asked.

She was right. I hadn't reached out because I was ashamed. I didn't want anyone to see that shadow side of myself. So there we were — two women sitting next to each other, drinking wine and wondering why we didn't show any vulnerability to each other.

"Are you okay now?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better. I went to see someone about it."

Ah, yes. The exact thing I didn't want to do. I hated the idea of someone telling me there was actually something wrong with me. The truth was, I felt like I'd never seen the world more clearly. I despised any adult who tried to place my mind in a box. Like, just because they couldn't see the world in technicolor, it meant there was something wrong with me, not them.

But at the same time, my inner conflict was affecting my life, and I wasn't coping very well with it alone. My mind had felt out of control for the past year.