Have you ever moved a piano?
I do every morning.
My wallet was stolen a few months ago by a couple of creepy thugs, and I quickly became paranoid that they would take the information found on my license and come to our house and break in. Because of this new found paranoia, our Wurlitzer spinet gets pushed in front of our front door every night (Do not talk to me about fire hazards), and I assume the right position and push it back to its rightful place in the morning on my way out for work.
When I first started moving this large and dreadfully heavy instrument, I struggled to get it to budge. However, with time, I have learned where and how to plant my feet, which position my hips need to be in to assist with the push, and just how much weight I need to throw forward in order to get it to move.
This is my every morning, but it won’t always be this way. My paranoia will fade. I will be satisfied with the alarms we have on the door as well as the windows. However, until then, I must push.
This is where I am at with my mental health. In my mind, I have made no progress these last several months. My depression is OK, but my anxiety is heavy and hard to maneuver. I have been crying a lot, and I feel like I’m unsteady most of the day. I find it difficult to complete small tasks, but I keep saying to myself:
“Just push through.”
This thought of encouragement doesn’t make the task that I am facing any smaller or lighter, but it readjusts my posture for how I am going to face it.
While I feel I’ve made no progress because I still feel pretty awful, I have to remind myself that seven years ago, I refused to go to a doctor for help, I was reluctant to see a counselor, the idea of medication was offensive, I was having panic attacks almost daily, and I was painfully suicidal.
Now, I have more of a vocabulary to use to describe my symptoms, I see a psyche practitioner monthly, I’ve started counseling, I make a lot of my own phone calls instead of waiting for my husband to do them, I can often walk and talk myself out of a panic attack, I know when my depression is heading to a dark and bad place and unashamedly cry out for help.
I’ve learned a better posture for pushing against the heaviness of Bipolar 2 Disorder, and even though the heaviness of it hasn’t changed, I can push through it a little easier. It’s just taken practice. I won’t always have to repeat this small mantra in my head, but it is a tool that I’ll carry for when the need arises.
Just. Push. Through.