It’s Time to Admit I’m Not as Okay as I Say
Why is it so difficult to admit that I’m not well?
I’ve been lying in my bed since 5:30, waiting for a call from my sister to tell me what is going on with my dad. A week before that morning, my dad had symptoms of a stroke.
While casually eating spaghetti with my mom, he suddenly found himself unable to speak clearly. He felt numb for a while, but the symptoms quickly vanished.
Because he’s a man of his age, he didn’t make a case out of this and continued his day.
Later that evening, he spoke with my sister, who’s a nurse. He told her about how he felt during dinner. She rushed him to the hospital to ensure that he’d see a doctor as soon as possible.
She knew the symptoms could reoccur within the next 24 hours and potentially be fatal.
So, a week later and after many scans, I’m waiting for a phone call that could stop my world.
This call came. And my world stopped.
My dad was diagnosed with a grade 4 brain cancer called glioblastoma. His physician told us the ultimate countdown displayed 10 months.
For the first time in my life, I exploded. Words cannot adequately express the vicious combination of rage, helplessness, and torment that surged through me during those interminable minutes.
That memory was 3 years ago.
Fortunately, my dad is still alive. After a year of bad news, we learned that the oncologist got the diagnosis wrong. After 24 hours of brain surgery spread between two days, my dad temporarily won his fight against cancer.
Unfortunately, it will come back. We just don’t know when.
Getting part of his brain removed had many repercussions. The cancer was located in his , which is partly responsible for executive functions (problem-solving and self-control among others), emotional expression, memory, and social behaviors.
I sadly came to realize that, on the evening of September 14, 2021, I lost my dad. I lost him even though he is still alive today. This ambiguous grief, or as we call it in French, “Deuil blanc” (i.e., white grief), remains the most emotionally difficult part of my life.
Knowing that the father who has always been there for me, to support and love me unconditionally, is no longer capable of doing so is soul-breaking.
Now, it’s the opposite of what I had hoped for. My dad often becomes enraged when he struggles with tasks he could easily manage three years ago.
When I try to assist him, his unstoppable rage often turns towards me. I know there are physiological explanations for his anger, but it’s something I can never get used to. In those moments, all I want to do is hug him. Yet, because I learned to cope with vulnerability in the same way he did, I often respond with anger as well.
And afterwards, I feel stupid and ashamed. It’s rare for me to lose patience with him, but when my emotional reserves are depleted, I either flee and isolate myself or lash back, neither of which helps the situation.
As a full-time student fully financing my degree, I always had to work part-time. During the pandemic, I lost my job as a waiter and became a suicide crisis counselor.
This job allowed me to forge an armor I thought indestructible.
One month ago, life proved me wrong. I had to use the knowledge from my work to intervene in my own family. My dad called me in the middle of a panic attack, telling me that he wanted to end it all.
I felt my heart clench so hard I was afraid I was going to faint. I felt this rush of emotions like I felt 3 years ago. However, I quickly composed myself. My dad needs me and I will be there for him.
Without getting too much into details, my family dynamics have deteriorated over the last three years. Unfortunately, without blaming anyone, the sickness of my dad divided us. I wish every day that it would have been the opposite.
This conflict in my family has led my dad to feel like a burden. The proud man he was and still is can no longer bear to be incapable of independence. His world collapsed when he lost his license due to too much incapacity in his executive functions.
This burden is now too heavy for him. He caught himself feeling suicidal for weeks now. I’m most grateful that he called for help.
After this suicidal crisis, I did everything in my power to restore my father’s mental health. This is still an ongoing process, but I realized that, during this process, I did (and still do) something terribly wrong.
My surroundings were quite impressed by the way I manage the situation. On the outside, I looked calm, in control, and serene. When people ask me if I’m okay, I always responded that I’m good despite the hard times.
It’s one thing saying to others that I’m okay and that life is great. I understand that I don’t want to bother other people or don’t want to see the pity in others’ eyes.
However, my mistake is not admitting to myself that I was not fine. That I am not fine. How crazy is that? I preferred lying to myself than actually facing my emotions and admitting that it’s a rough time.
Empirically, my mental health has never been this low. I have a hard time concentrating. I never felt so much distracted and I need to finish my master’s memoir by August. I feel numb and on automatic pilot most of the time. Yet, I still continue saying that I’m okay.
This is my attempt to break this vicious cycle.
I’m not suicidal. I’m not burnt out. I’m not depressed. But if I’m honest with myself, I recognize how quickly I could deteriorate if I don’t address my emotional state.
Life is hard at the moment. I’m confident that I will get over this. But I’m currently not okay. And It’s perfectly fine.
