My Story

 

The following story explains my experience in mental health by using the analogy of a marionette held by disempowering strings and my choice to cut those strings. 

Hello, hello! Now, let me tell ya—trying to squish 25 years of work into just five minutes isn’t the easiest task.

There are a couple things you should know first. I’m gonna tell my story a little differently.

See, most people think puppets are all fun and games—but my story? Yeah… it didn’t go down that way.

Let’s dive right in. When I look back on the most challenging time in my career, I can’t help but picture myself dangling helplessly at the mercy of seen and unseen forces. 

My most loyal stage partners?

Overwhelm, depression, and that delightful wooden stiffness that comes from sheer exhaustion. 

These charming companions clung to me like overzealous puppeteers, yanking my strings this way and that, making sure I never quite found my balance.

It all started with that classic marionette moment—yanked into the spotlight, eyes wide, limbs flailing, trying to keep up with a performance I thought I was prepared for but quickly realized I wasn’t. 

My first job felt like being dropped onto center stage, expected to perform before I even found my footing. 

I remember the supervisor locking eyes with me, rattling off responsibilities, deadlines, expectations—pulling my strings in all directions. 

And like any good marionette, I nodded, smiled, and pretended I wasn’t malfunctioning. 

Spoiler alert: I was. 

The pressure of knowing I was supposed to know how to do and keep up with all the things—but having no idea how to do and keep up with all the things—turned my brain into a pile of sawdust. 

Overwhelm became my ever-present puppeteer, tugging at my wooden limbs, while its trusty assistants—stress, anxiety, and existential dread—kept things lively behind the scenes. 

My mind spun in frantic circles, my body stiffened under the pressure, and yet, the show had to go on! 

To be honest, it got real bad—movements sluggish, limbs heavy, barely able to stay upright. I longed for someone to steady me. 

Even my drive to perform, to bring joy, dulled to a faint echo. 

What was once a lively act became nothing more than routine gestures. 

Was I truly helping others, or just going through the motions, hoping no one noticed the cracks forming beneath the surface? 

And oh, the guilt! 

Because, of course, a good marionette should be thrilled to be on stage, right? 

Shouldn’t I be grateful for the opportunity to serve? 

Instead of applause, I gave myself an internal monologue of self-doubt: “Come on, Melanie, you’ve got this!” immediately followed by, “Oh, I am falling apart. I don’t think I can do it.” 

I started to wonder if I had been built wrong—maybe I was missing some crucial piece, some hidden instruction manual on “How to Function Without Breaking.”

Then came the existential crisis—because why stop at mild despair when you can go full puppet-spiral? 

"Is this job even for me? 

What am I doing?

Am I even good at this? 

This wasn't supposed to be like this.

Do I have any control over anything, or am I just a puppet dancing to the whims of other forces?” 

Spoiler: I had no idea. 

But marionettes aren’t supposed to ask those questions—they’re supposed to keep moving, keep performing, giving the power to the ones who hold the strings.

and oh how I fantasized about cutting those strings, about breaking free—but how? 

I had spent so long being connected to the strings, I wasn’t sure I even knew how to stand on my own. 

Instead, I trudged on, letting the motions of my work drag me forward. 

Disillusionment played in the background like a bad carnival tune, reminding me that social work school had promised something grand. Instead, I got mountains of paperwork, endless unrealistic expectations, a serious lack of support, and not one magician in sight. 

At one point, I could barely function. 

I felt like I had been dropped, stepped on, then hastily reassembled with glue and wishful thinking. 

All I wanted was an off switch, a way to cut the strings and walk away—but marionettes don’t get that choice, do they?

Instead, I did what I had always done: I kept moving, spinning in circles, stuck in the cycle, hoping someone, somewhere, would loosen the strings and let me breathe.

For years, I just accepted the strings. I even studied them. 

I tried to shift within their pull, convinced myself that if I just adjusted the way I danced, I would feel better. 

I took every recommendation from others, tried every method, and waited for relief that never came. Not consistently anyways. 

It was then that I remembered the scissors.  

I passed those scissors every time I went on stage. As they gleamed and glistened, I felt compelled to reach for them but I dared not, 

until I did. 

With everything in me, I wrenched free from the puppeteer’s grasp and lunged. My wooden fingers closed around the cool metal. 

And for the first time, 

the strings shook—

not from their pull, 

but from mine.

One by one I started to cut the strings.

While it hasn’t been easy, I’ve been finding my own rhythm, strengthening my mind and body differently so I can dance freely—without their pull ever since.