The Pressure of Perceived Expectations – Stories from Recovery
Can you feel it? That crushing weight that moves so slowly, pressing you down against the ground, until it’s hard to breathe. Pressure is often the enemy of mental health, and it can come from anywhere – yourself, family, employers, teachers, and even people who aren’t intentionally putting pressure on you.
My mind manufactures pressure dressed up in an endless number of ways.
Expectations begin like icicles. It starts as just a drip. In high school, people expected me to do well simply because that was my pattern. Academics and athletics came easily, but I quickly began to feel as though it were my job to excel. But when the floor dropped out from under me and I found myself in a psychiatrist’s office with the words “schizophrenia” painted in the air, those casual, gentle drips grew into an icy dagger.
I struggled. Severely.
The updated diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder didn’t stop the drain on my cognition by the disease or the grogginess and weight gain from the medication. In both academics and athletics, I felt that I had failed spectacularly. My teachers were surprised, even one who had not previously had me as a student. And my track and field coaches did everything they could, but our goal of state championships for high jump fizzled out like a firework in the rain. I remember sitting on the track in front of the high jump pit wearing the expensive shoes they had bought just for me thinking that I let everybody down. I was supposed to be great. And I wasn’t.
The feelings of failure came largely from myself though.
Teachers, coaches, and family were concerned, not upset. They applied no pressure to me directly. Instead, I took their innocent expectations based only on previous performance, and manipulated those thoughts and words into an anvil of pressure dropped squarely across my shoulders. But that’s not where it ended. I mastered this practice of commandeering words and thoughts for my own destruction.
Fast forward 13 years, and I’m six months into my blog, opening up Women’s Health Online to see my face smiling back at me. My inbox exploded and it was a thrill. I loved knowing I was helping people and I can’t say I didn’t like the attention, but my hands felt heavy as I replied. My social anxiety doesn’t require face to face interaction in order to kick into gear. What if I said the wrong thing? What if I’m not helpful? Or what if they realize there’s nothing special about me? I almost felt like a fraud. Most of these people were just excited that I replied, but I buried myself under pressure to be some kind of mentor.
Over the next few months, my mental health began to fray at the edges and come apart.
As I continued on this messy decline, I kept writing in the only way I knew – honestly. But now I hesitated. Would people think less of me if I were no longer successful in maintaining stability? I felt conflicted over whether or not to share every gritty detail. I wrapped it up in bows, but it was all still there.
And then my psychiatrist brought the idea of social security disability into play. We threw it back ad forth several times before I started thinking it might be a good thing. But I was all talk at first. Then new suggestions came into play – seeking help finding employment and housing from a major mental health network. Was I allowed to do that? Could I maintain my status as a role model if I needed this help?
My writing was a release bordering on cry for help.
I was desperately detailing the pain and suffering. It was met with praise. People told me they could relate. They thanked me for helping them. It was fulfilling and I felt so honored by it. But at the same time, I agonized over whether or not to take steps to try to repair my damaged mind. Will I be letting them down? I know it’s a show of strength to take care of yourself and our needs, but would people lose faith in me? I felt like I was living a double life – the strong young woman who has overcome so much and the nervous wreck who panics over social media posts and can barely leave the house alone.
“We need to talk about the possibility of a day program or the hospital.”
I wasn’t surprised when my psychiatrist said that, but my eyes overflowed. As unintentional as it was, having never been hospitalized felt like a part of my inadvertent brand. My mood shifted every thirty seconds, circling between fear, hope, resignation, and complete sorrow. Did I let everyone down? I was expected to be strong. I was expected to be great. And here I was shifting from foot to foot trying to strip my needs from what I perceived to be everyone’s expectations.
Praise is a heavy gift.
No one ever outright told me that I would let them down in any way by doing anything, but the pressure built with every thank you, you’ve helped me, and I feel less alone. Helping people is all I ever wanted, but I never imagined it could hurt. Sometimes it feels like people romanticize my life, but believe me, this path is not free of obstacles. I trip. I stumble. And often I fall flat on my face.
But remember, the pressure to perform isn’t always doled out intentionally by the onlooker.
I rearrange perceived expectations in my head, creating rules, standards, and an immeasurable weight. And I know I’m not the only one who does this. I started fabricating and applying pressure on myself from a young age, but I’m only just now learning how to dismantle this tower of guilt built on good intentions. I love hearing you say I’ve helped you in some way. But when I say you are not alone, it’s not because I was there once upon a time. It’s because I’m right there next to you in the mud.
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