When I first started this blog, I invited all of my family and friends to follow me. After all, in the last few years I have been fairly open with everyone about my illness and I thought this would be a good way of articulating some parts of the illness that I have had a difficult time explaining in person. I also was afraid no one else would read my blog so I at least wanted a few “followers.” (Ah, vanity.)
But I have realized in reading other blogs, the change in the power of voice when those you know don’t read your words. I started to look back on posts and realize I was hesitating to write the whole truth – to always have a positive ending, to prove I was still going to try because I couldn’t face the reality of those I love thinking I was anywhere but there – in that place of hope. And I know that after everything I have gone through, suicide is not on the table. It’s just not a reality I can make because as much as I hate myself, I love certain people more. Even if I do not see the value but only the pain, frustration, and energy I worthlessly devour, they disagree. So that is my concession.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t have days where I fantasize about leaving this place. It doesn’t mean I don’t have days where I try to see my future and see only darkness. Days where I can’t shower because I am so drawn to my razor, I know I will make a decision and others will be disappointed in me – others who have given me so much room to tread. Because that’s what I’m doing right now. Funny enough, I can’t literally tread water, but I feel like my life is this process of metaphorically treading. I’m not moving forward, maybe a little backwards. I can’t see hope for any successful future. When I lay down to sleep, the reason why I have insomnia is because I can’t think of what I want to dream about. I run through ideas: boys, jobs, friends – and it all comes up empty. My dreams have left me. And with them my hope.
I know that everything in life is a risk. I know there are no definites, there are no answers, and there certainly are no distinct wrongs and rights/blacks and whites. But four years ago, I was a depressed, self-harming, self-hating girl with a job, friends, and a path. I gave that up because one day I just decided I couldn’t do it anymore. And I’m starting to think that day was the last day of the potential for the rest of my life. In these last four years, every step forward has brought me three steps back, to the point where I no longer want to walk at all.
I hope my family respects my wishes and doesn’t read this. And not because they can’t know. I’m sure in a few days time, whether I break down and cry, or they just sense my avoidance, they’ll know. But I wanted to be able to write that I’m scared without repercussions. As much as I value the closeness that honesty has brought with my family, I miss my secrets. I miss the reality of my feelings without precursors or necessary add-ons like “but I know it will get better” or “but I’m fine and will figure it out.” I miss the days where I could just say to myself “I’m so scared, I’m so empty and I don’t know if I can handle a tomorrow.” There is something unique about the raw truth of my depression. I have no excuse. I have no quick fix. I have no idea what will happen next.
I am in the now. And I am scared, sad, lonely, hateful, and bored. And it’s not ok. And I’m not fine. And I’m not sure how I’m going to figure it out.