Nugget

So here I am, doing this thing. Writing and letting it all out on a page. As the cursor blinks expectantly, holding space for me, there’s a part of me that wants to retreat. There’s a voice inside telling me to wait, to play it safe and keep this to myself. Telling me that I can tell people later, when everything is resolved and I’m all fixed up. This voice has already decided what will happen if I hit the “publish” button.

I’ll lose face.

I’ll cause eyebrows to raise.

The carefully constructed façade I’ve been presenting will crumble away.

I could say that these things aren’t true, but they are. The thing is, I’m starting to realise that if I lose face, if I shock people and let them catch a glimpse of who I am, the world won’t end. In fact, I need these things to happen. I need to be honest with myself, and that extends to being honest with those around me. A friend of mine has said that living your truth opens up the space for others to do the same. If my honesty causes isolation from some people, then it’s probably fair to say that there was no true intimacy before anyway. True connection can only exist in a space where someone sees you – the real you. So maybe my fake world needs to end for a new one to be created, one where I can bring a touch of the divine to the brokenness I find myself in.

So, here I am. Doing this thing.

My name is Ansunette. I am a daughter, friend and self-appointed “fun aunt” to a bevy of adorable toddlers. I am a runner, a reader, and a yoga fanatic. I can quote Friends at the drop of a hat, and I love participating in embarrassing dance routines at weddings. I’ll remember what you were wearing the night I met you, as well as where your family comes from, how you take your coffee, and when your birthday is. This is partly because I have a great memory (thank you, genetic lottery!), but mostly because I love to make people feel special and included. For those of you so inclined, I am an Enneagram Type 2 with a very strong 3 wing. I feel alive when exploring new places and learning new things. I’m always keen for a glass of wine and a late-night conversation, and meeting new people is one of my favourite things.

I am also currently seeing a psychologist because I am depressed. I’ve got the ICD-10 code on the medical aid statements to prove it and everything. I have the crying-in-the-shower mornings, the can’t-get-out-of-bed days, and the lonely-in-a-crowd moments to substantiate that code. These aren’t isolated incidents. These are periods that stretch out, seemingly endlessly. All those things I said before, about who I am? The depression seems to nullify all of those puzzle pieces that make up the wonderfully vibrant picture of me. It makes me want to isolate myself. It makes me feel like I have no energy to do the things I love. It whispers to me that what I do and who I am are all just fleeting and insignificant. There are legitimately days when I believe, with every fiber of my being, that me being alive is a waste of space. On these days, I can feel the angry little red balloon of anxiety in my chest swell up, pressing against my insides, leaving me gasping for breath and survival.

I work in allied health. I’m smart enough to know all the signs of depression, and I know all the advice that every self-help blogger and psychology textbook spouts. Get out in the sunshine. Exercise. Eat well. Sleep well. Meditate. Talk to someone. It’s simple! It’s easy! It’s clean-cut!

Except, it’s not.

It’s as if there was a massive landslide that has uprooted everything I’ve built, and now I’m stuck trying to make something of the mess. I know that there are tools that can help me, ways to make the process of rebuilding easier. Depression makes it feel as if the keys to that toolshed are gone. So I have to break down that door every single day to access those tools. Some days I manage to grab a bunch of them; other days, only one. Sometimes it feels like a victory to just keep breathing. 

As I’m sifting through the debris of this landslide – the relationships and achievements I’ve defined myself with, the story I’ve told myself about who I am – I’m using these tools. They help me sort through the lies and keep what’s true. The rebuilding is slow most days, a bit faster on others. I’m naturally impatient when it comes to myself, and always have been. I want this rebuilding to happen as quickly and efficiently as possible, but I’m learning the art of patience as I sit down and do the dirty work of sifting, rebuilding, and refining. The great thing, though, is that I’m finding these little nuggets of joy, serenity, and hope in between the debris. Yesterday, I couldn’t get out of bed for most of the day. Eating a single yoghurt pot was exhausting. After telling one of my best friends this, she invited me over for tea. That was yesterday’s nugget: sitting with someone who sees and loves me, cupping warm ginger tea in my hands. Picking up her precious toddler and reading with him, seeing the world through his eyes. Feeling at home in my own body again, even if just for a few moments.

I love that the dictionary describes a nugget as a “small, rough lump, especially of gold”. Right now, that’s what I’m clinging onto. Imperfect moments and promises that are still intrinsically valuable. A lot like life, and a lot like myself.

So, here I am, doing this thing. I’m writing this as my love letter to my heartbreakingly beautiful, messy life. Maybe I’m shouting this out into the void and there won’t be anyone who hears or cares, and that’s okay. At least I’m shouting the truth. As I’m getting ready to hit that scary “publish” button, I remind myself that this is where I can come to share and remember those nuggets of truth and beauty, and that maybe, just maybe, someone else will see the sunlight reflecting off of one of those nuggets into their own life.

Some days, that’s all you need.