My past is haunting. As I lay in bed reading my old tattered journals from adolescents and my teen years I weep for my younger self. But I grow prouder knowing I somehow got past that young lady who was raped and molested and tormented with depression and became a strong woman with an optimistic view. I remember the emotions and worrisome thoughts that kept me awake at night. I recall the sensation of tear stained pillows against my cheeks. I remember that feeling of deep seated loneliness and grief I concealed from everyone. I wore long sleeved shirts through the summer because the razors weren’t the only thing I hid from my family. I had forgotten the sense of longing for eternal peace. I thought my mind, body, and soul wouldn’t survive this reality. My heart felt perpetually broken. Hurt became so much a part of me it was more like a personality trait. My family would talk to me, the doctors would talk to me, the therapist would talk to me but would anybody really listen? The medications either made me angry or left me feeling numb to all emotions including happiness. No happiness is no life worth living. I struggled with major depressive disorder for many years of my life. I wasted too much life thinking of ending it. Writing poems helped me only temporarily but when the hurt was so devastating I had no inspiration and it was no help. I recall never feeling good enough for anyone, feeling ugly, feeling guilty, and being miserable. I would also put on a mask in public and to my family. But in the dark of the night it would find me. There was no fake it to make it with my sorrow. Depression is like drowning in a deep pool. You can see the light, you acknowledge the light, you reach for it never to grasp it. Never to resurface again. You can’t breathe because the saddness is all consuming. There is no relief. I had good times in the midst of grief. I trained myself to use the medication, music, writing, painting and expressing myself any way I could. I got in touch with my humorous side. Slowly I took my life back. Depression is not a curable disease. Mental illness is a lifelong struggle with no miracle cure. It’s terminal. I’m happy to say I found my way. I have been medication free for many years now. I don’t let anything stop me and I do not depend on others to make me happy. I’m a survivor and I fought my battles. It was a choice. I’m not my past, I’m the woman who was created along the way.
Tag: depression
Suicide.
There was a woman once. She survived a divorce and a physically handicapped son. She survived heartbreak after heartbreak. This woman put Montgomery Ward out of business because one of their vehicles hit her child and rendered him handicap the rest of his life. She lifted and changed and cleaned her son well into his thirties. Her husband, his father, divorced her due to the strain in their relationship. She spent many years alone and fighting for her sons well being. One day a man came into her life. She believed they were in love. They decided to build a home together. After what I can only speculate as him breaking up with her did she shoot this man, wounding him but not killing him, set fire to his vehicle and disappeared. The cops searched for her for months. When they found her they used dental records to identify her body. This is where her story ends. RIP TMF.
Once there was a man. He loved his brothers with all his heart. He cherished his family and never missed out on a family get together. That man admitted himself to various mental health facilities due to his unstable condition. Narsistitic Personality Disorder. I can only speculate as to why he never found the help he needed. This man shot himself in the chest on his property thus ending his story. RIP JGT.
I am what sociologists consider a “suicide survivor.” This term means that I have loved ones who took their lives. TMF and JGT were my aunt and great uncle on opposite sides of my family. For many months I was furious with them with occasional guilt like I could’ve done something. One day I realized something of vital importance. We all age and our body gives in to death. But what if the soul gives in before the body? Suicide is the soul having had enough while the body is young. There’s no excuse for it but I find comfort in that thought. I’ll always love them.
The Mad Mind of Coraline 