I am officially 30 years old and like so many of my birthdays, I spent it a depressed anxious wreck. What can I say that I have not said so many times? I did not plan to live this long. In school, they often asked what I wanted to be when I got older. I said a Writer or a Teacher. In truth, I wanted to be dead. Dramatic perhaps, but if Depression makes you anything, it’s dramatic.
So how did I handle the crushing realization of my continued existence this year? I crawled up into a ball on my bedroom floor and sobbed like a child and perhaps because I was feeling nostalgic for high school I took a pairing knife to my forearm. I cut into myself, quickly at first but found my skin much tougher then I remember. Sawing back and forth with the knife I could barely make a mark deeper than a bad cat scratch.
That was it….that was my grand gesture of defiance to living. Nearly a ten years since I last did anything like that broken. But some childish part of me felt I needed to do something. It was unhealthy and stupid, but I suppose it was a better act than a handful of pills or walking into traffic that my young self-promised would happen by now. Still, my young self could not foresee the support I would receive from the friends and family I have now. It’s snowing outside, and it is so very beautiful.
Tonight I ran. Mist filled the air, covering my glasses. Music filled my headphones. It was dark and solitary. I could feel the mist on my skin and the movement of my body. I was huffing and out of breath but it was completely peaceful. I could enter a space in my head without malice for myself.
Last night I cut myself. My hand accidentally smashed into a glass light fixture. Blood spilled and dripped onto the floor. The pain was sharp, quick, and the blood was warm. I had a smile on my face, it felt good. I felt nothing but relief as blood oozed out of my hand. Am not proud of this. I stare now at the wound and wonder if I could peel all of the skin off my hand like a glove. Such feelings are better suited for one of my horror stories, but this is my life. Should I feel ashamed for a desire to hurt myself?
The greatest wisdom I can give to you from my short life on this earth is to speak. As humans we must learn to communicate our feelings to others, or let them rot inside us. Those rotting feelings poison our mind and body. We try to cut out this illness with a knife, or try and make the pain stop with deathly trauma.
We must learn to speak our feelings; we must learn to understand them by capturing them into words. It does not matter if you talk to someone, write them down, or yell them at the sky, as long as you say them! We live confusing lives, where understanding someone else’s pain seems impossible. The only way we can ever even try is to hear them, to read them, to seem them. Only then can we start to communicate.
I have cried an uncountable amount of tears in my short life. I still remember the nights alone, crying myself to sleep, almost like a nightly lullaby. My thoughts where overloaded with emotion, rational thought was gone. Tossing and turning in pain crying out at my insufferable loneliness. I cut my arms as if i was trying to free the bottled up emotion inside me. I wanted someone to come save me, but did not want anyone to know.
Perhaps this was one of the few times i could feel emotion in such days, and it hurt. The pain made suicide seem reasonable, and i felt out of control to stop it. Breathing became hard, and panic sets in, unable to move i collapse to the floor. Unable to get off the ground i soak the floor in my tears. My emotional outcry is now a panic attack, and i truly feel like am going to die, part of me thinks that’s for the best.
How did i overcome such things? I truly wish the answer was simple, i be able to help people with such a simple answer. I took my medicine, i talked about what i felt, i wrote it down. I slowly became used to such practices as controlling the thoughts i dwell on. Over time such attacks became less and less, once everyday, once a week, once a month. Such attacks might never leave me completely, but they show there faces much less anymore. I am thankful for that. The memory’s of it all seem to be something i just have to live with, i just wish i could help others with there pain.
A lovely writer in another blog wrote ‘ will not consider myself recovered, ever.” Its a statement i find to be very true. There is no cure for my anxiety or depression. I will always be dealing with such problems. In the past i let my anxiety overwhelm me enough to lose my chance at school and a normal life. I still feel that same anxiety to this day, i’ve learned how to coup with it. Am older, wiser, smarter, i’ve learned how to work my way past my anxiety but its still there. I havent cut myself in five years, but that does not mean i wont cut tomorrow.
No matter how old i get, ill still be that geeky, depressed, anxiety filled kid who dropped out of school. I accept that, its not easy, but i do accept it. I cant change who i am, but i can work to be better. I can always try to be better, that’s what recovery is, even if am never recovered.
Its hard for onlookers to know the sheer amount of emotional pain depression brings. The kind of pain that drives a girl to drink bleach, and others like me to cut themselves. It hurts, its scaring, it leaves wounds that can be reopened even years later. It can paralyze you, i spent more then one night on tear filled ball on the floor. We are victims to our emotions.
A suicide in the newspaper can still bring me to tears, i still find myself visiting the spot where others have jumped in front of a train. Perhaps am just empathetic in that way, but i find it hard to stop thinking about how much pain they where in. I felt that pain before, i remember it well. I don’t want others to feel that pain. I want to live in a world where if someone crys help me in the middle of the night, there will be someone around to hear them.
I spent a large amount of my life starring at walls and ceilings. Its moments like this where am lost inside my head. I leave the real world for the one inside my head. I’ve done this allot in my life, sometimes the thoughts are positive, sometimes negative. In the past, am afraid it was a lot more negative.
There were days i get lost in my head thinking about how my funeral would turn out. Although morbid and depression it showed a powerful amount of imagination. I would have entire conversations with myself, and still do. My fantasy’s where an escape, but they also beat me down. I was always my own worst bully.
At the worse, reality no longer seemed real. I felt myself sitting there crying and it all felt like a dream. I go for a walk and nothing seemed real, i walk till reality came back to me. This felt good, it feels good. The cold snowy days where the best. I had to change my thinking, i had to not let this bully get to me. I had to let the negative pass and not dwell on it.