Twenty:​ To the one ​I loved befo​r​​e I loved myself…

Before anything, I want to say that I am sorry.

I’m sorry that I’m here and you’re there when we promised to always meet somewhere in the middle. I’m sorry that I’m not everything you wanted and you’re everything I always feared. I’m sorry that my past has put an end to our future before it even had the chance to begin.

I know that this has been a long time coming. You’ve been in my life for 11 years- some of them were better than others… Life constantly taking us in different directions than we ever could have planned. The last time you left, I had you written off and I was done.

But when you came back into my life, I was about to face a turning point I didn’t realise was coming my way. The past few years I had spread myself so very thin trying to make my life out to be something of a dream I had always had. I wanted to be the best possible version of myself, and I was trying to be. But I wasn’t managing.

Sure, on the outside, I seemed like I was all put together and you saw all of the good that I thought I was feeling. I was working in the career I had talked about since the day we had met. I was friends with the people I had only ever dreamed of meeting. I was living with my best friend and doing pretty much whatever I wanted without any care in the world.

We would fluctuate between talking every day for weeks … and not talking at all unless something was happening in the other’s life. But time went by and I missed you when you weren’t present- whether it be over the phone or in person- I knew that I needed you.

I spent a week in my fairytale land and even met a fairytale prince, but still, I longed for the boy at home and when I returned, there you were. It was silly, I know. I had spent so many years pushing your feelings aside and holding you at bay, while I continuously tried hiding all of the feelings… But, seeing you and being with you just felt so right when everything else felt so wrong.

So, we started dating and I was … reluctant to say the least. We had been friends for so long that I didn’t want to risk losing you when it all went wrong.

The first time you kissed me, I finally felt like I was home.

I was so afraid of burying myself in you that I said I needed time, but I knew that I never wanted to face a life without you. We were barely two months into the relationship when we started talking about our future together.

I didn’t believe in marriage or weddings so when our families started talking about what we were going to do, I entertained the idea of rings and engagements. I didn’t believe in forever but I believed in us. Marriage and weddings and families… They weren’t anything in the near future, so I held my anxiety at bay, but then you showed me that first ring and I realised that I would do anything if it meant I got to do it with you.

That didn’t change the fact that I hate surprises and big ordeals, however, so I ordered you a ring and I made a plan. Your birthday was coming up and the running discussion was “you should propose on your birthday!” And I didn’t know for sure if it was actually going to happen, but I did not want to take your birthday and turn into something more than you.

So, we lay in bed the night before your party and we were talking about what the day was going to look like. You kept asking me why I was so stressed and anxious. I couldn’t tell you that it was because your ring had arrived and I was planning on proposing to you. But you wouldn’t stop pestering me (like you know you do) so instead, I grabbed the ring and told you that “From now on, you’re the one I get to spend the rest of my life with… If you’ll have me.”

You kissed me, laughed, and we called our parents to let them know that we were engaged. But then at the party, you took me aside and proposed to me with my grandmother’s ring.

It made it all that more real. My proposal was genuine, of course, but hearing you say that you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of your life with me… And not because you were responding to me asking you… It made my heart more full than I ever thought it could be.

Unfortunately, shortly after our engagement, I spiralled into a mental breakdown and found myself admitted to a psychiatric institution. It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened- but it was the first time to happen while I was actually happy. I was terrified that this meant I was going to lose you- but you promised that you weren’t going anywhere. You said you knew what you signed up for- and when I was released, you were right there waiting with my grandmother’s ring.

After that day, I assumed that you married me because you loved me and because you were aware of my mental health, it meant that you would accept me at my best and my worst.

When September happened, I knew that it would change us forever. I just didn’t realise how catastrophic of a change it would be. I had hoped that when you saved me, it meant you wanted to save our family, too.

Look, I’m not saying that I thought this would be easy. I know how hard it is to stick around for someone when they are in a dark place that they have to be dragged out of. I definitely never imagined that any of this would be easy for you. Hell, I never wanted to be there for myself when I was in a dark place. So why do I keep blaming you for leaving when all I ever wanted to do was leave behind this side of me?

I know the answer to the question. I blame you for leaving because you saved me and left me without a second glance. You left me fighting tooth and nail, to not only save myself but to save myself alone. After promising you would always be here to save the day, you left.

And I’m so angry. I’m so angry because no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop loving you. And I can’t stop loving you because even in the darkest of days, your love showed me that I was worthy of love. And slowly but surely, I was beginning to love myself a little bit.

But now? You’ve left. And the future you saved me for is not what you promised. But that’s okay. Because even if you don’t love me anymore, even if you never really did, I love me enough for the both of us.

No, that doesn’t mean I’m any less hurt or angry about you leaving me. It just means that I don’t need your love to survive. I really fucking want it- but I don’t need it.

I can’t stop loving you long enough to get over the idea that maybe you’ll come back to me and our son.
I can’t stop loving you long enough to get over the idea that maybe you’re still the man I fell in love with.
I can’t stop loving you long enough to get over the idea that maybe you’ll realise that real love is never a waste of time.
I can’t stop loving you long enough to pray every night that I’ll wake up to a phone call saying that you still love me too.
I can’t stop loving you long enough to get over the idea that my world is a better place with you in it than it ever has been without you.

And that whats why I’m okay still being in love with the person I consider the Love of My Life- even though, I guess… For someone to be the Love of Your Life, they have to BE in your life.

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Nineteen: Lucky to be Alive

I haven’t written in a long while …

Well, that’s not true. I haven’t written publicly, but I’ve been writing. I’ve written so much lately that in the past … 28 days, I’ve written 45 pages for my new book. Well, not exactly. I’ve written more than 45 pages, but I’ve deleted quite a few because I’m just not all that sure what it is I want to accomplish.

The last book I wrote was published because I thought it might help other people the way writing it helped me. But, then I was hospitalized in April.

I thought I was doing really freaking well… I was engaged to my best friend. I had the job of my dreams- and more offers on the table. I had a book published and I was great. Why did I… no– how did I fall so quickly and so hard?

I was in the psychiatric stabilization centre for a week and when I was released I faced one of the hardest decisions I ever had to face.

Get better … for everyone in my life… or keep being the person I was so used to being?

I thought that if I just did a little bit here and there… it would be enough.
I thought:

“I’ll take my meds.”
that’s enough, right?

“I’ll see a therapist every now and again.”
I don’t really need them.

“I’ll write and get out all of the things I’m feeling.”
I wrote what I wanted people to see.

“I’ll be fine if I tell everyone I’m fine.”
If I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it too.

 

And, I was doing okay for a little while. I felt good. 

I was admitted on April 23rd and was released on April 27th.

I bought my reception dress on May 4th with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.

I bought my wedding dress on May 20th with my mum and my sister.

I married my best friend, who also happened to be the love of my life, on May 28th.

I found out I might be pregnant with a honeymoon baby on June 8th.

Then…

I had my pregnancy confirmed by the doctor on June 24th.

 

I struggled for… a long while about what this meant for me, for my husband, and for us as a family.

I don’t want to lie and say that I was ecstatic about this whole thing. My husband and I already had a beautiful daughter in our life. Now, I know she might not be my blood, but she is very much my kid and has pretty much always had my heart, just like her father.

I didn’t know what this would mean. I have always struggled with my mental health. I spent most of my life not knowing if I could manage to keep myself alive long enough to see the next sunrise. I already felt like I wasn’t good enough for my husband and the little light of my life that was already existing… How was I supposed to be something more than what I was already struggling to be for those two… and now a baby? My baby?

My husband, confused and unsure about everything… Was more supportive than I ever expected he could be. We both believed similar thoughts on the subject.

I was terrified. Horrified even. I wasn’t this girl. I didn’t believe in adoption and abortion was something I could never forgive myself for. I didn’t believe in bringing someone into this world only to abandon them… I also didn’t believe in ending a pregnancy just because it wasn’t apart of your plans… But raising a kid that you’re not capable of taking care of?

I was the needy kid. I grew up hungry and moving between houses because my parents were too drunk or too high to function.
I was the adopted kid. I grew up wondering why I wasn’t enough for my birth family. Why they didn’t think I was enough to get clean for.

I didn’t want to have a child that grew up questioning why they weren’t enough for mommy to be happy. I already wondered why… even when I was happy… why I still didn’t think I was good enough.

There were a LOT of days and nights filled with tears and uncertainty. Eventually, we came to the decision that we would be okay, and our baby would be everything.

 

Some days were good, most days were really bad. I struggled a lot. Mentally, of course. But, physically… I had really bad motion sickness, I felt like I was going to pass out constantly, I was horribly sore and achy… My physical issues caused a lot of strain on my mental health, of course. But, it caused just as many issues with my marriage and with my family.

 

Then… the really bad hit.

I tried (and almost succeeded) in killing myself on September 3, 2018.

There is no excuse that I can give for what I did. There are reasons and explanations, but no excuses. That day- that event is definitely not something I’m proud of, but I am grateful for it.

I don’t want to get into detail because I don’t want to trigger anybody reading this, but, I do need to be specific about some of it if I want this to be as honest and true as I feel in my heart.

I hadn’t been feeling well for weeks, months even, but September 3rd… Well, I woke up knowing that it was going to be a particularly rough day. It had been a rough day every year since my birth dad died in 2002… I just never thought that it could turn into what I turned it into.

I was so miserable waking up, I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of bed, and all I wanted to do was sleep but I couldn’t even manage to do that. When my husband came into the room to check on me, I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to lie with him and let the world slip away because it was all just too much for me alone. Even with him right next to me, however, all I felt was lonely, so I told him I was okay and I just needed space.

Then… Sometime after that, I went into the worst dissociative fugue I’ve ever had. I apparently said some awful things to my husband and my mother- and then I kicked my husband out and instead of taking a couple sleeping pills (which is all I remember happening)… I took all of my previously prescribed medications and drank quite a bit of alcohol. I’m told that they found a knife and my husband’s gun next to me.

I was rushed to the hospital and was in and out of it the rest of the night. When I finally fully came to… I couldn’t figure out what happened.
The doctors kept asking … But I was so groggy and my memory was coming up blank. I told them that the only thing I could remember was telling my husband to go and then I was taking my sleeping pills. The doctors told me that I didn’t just take sleeping pills and that I was just lucky to be alive.

The three days I was in the hospital were awful. I was scared and alone- except for the nurse on suicide watch- and the couple times my mum was allowed to see me. But I knew that the three days in the hospital were nothing compared to what was in my future.

 

I was released from Grady into Emory’s psychiatric centre on September 6th.

 

Being in yet another psychiatric centre within 6 months of the previous stay… I was pissed and confused and hurt. Mostly with myself, but also with everyone around me. I didn’t know how I was going to make it out of there alive. I didn’t even know if I could… I wanted to, though. That was the only thing I was sure of.

For the first time in my entire life, I knew that I wanted to be alive, no matter what was going to happen in life, I knew that I wanted to be a part of it. I had so many reasons to- reasons that I didn’t know I had.

Not because I didn’t love and appreciate all of my reasons, but because I was too far gone before I could really understand them and see them for what they are– were– and hopefully would be.

I spent every day going through the motions. I took my medications, I spoke to the psychiatrists and the counsellors, I did the groups. I prayed every night and was journalling religiously. I cried more than I thought possible. I didn’t know how to cope with what I had done and I was terrified of losing the people I love… all because I couldn’t figure out how to love myself.

My mum and sister visited a few times during my stay, but I didn’t see my husband until September 12th.

He didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t blame him. But losing him on top of everything else? I didn’t know how I was going to get through it.

There were a LOT of dark days and even darker nights while I was in the facility. I felt like I lost everything. I lost my family’s trust, I lost my husband’s love, I lost my independence… And then I lost my apartment, my car, and I even lost people I didn’t know I had.

 

I was released from the facility on September 18th.

The first month out of the facility was all kinds of crazy. Some days were good, a lot of days were bad. That seems to be the only constant on this road to recovery of mine. But, it is my road to recovery.

 

I’m going to reiterate what I said previously. I’m not proud of what I did, but I am appreciative of who it’s pushed me into being.

 

It has been ten weeks and one day since my suicide attempt. (9/3/18)
It has been four weeks and two days since my last suicidal ideation. (10/14/18)
It has been one week and two days since my last desire to self-harm. (11/04/18)

This may not be a big deal for anyone who has not been in this situation… But, until this happened, even on my happiest days, I didn’t know if I would could make it through to the next day.

I’m nowhere near where I want to be. But, I’m on my way.

 

I love my parents, I love my sister, I love my husband, I love my daughter, I love my in-laws, I love my friends and I love my soon-to-be-born son … and they are all incredible reasons to stay alive. But, they’re not my only reasons.

My parents are not always around, my sister and I don’t always see eye to eye, my husband and I are currently not together, I don’t have any rights to my bonus-daughter, my in-laws may not be mine much longer, my friends will come and go throughout life… and my son, though he is my whole heart, he is not my sole reason for living.

I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, and a friend.
But most of all, I am ME and I am going to continue to fight to stay alive because I DESERVE to live.
Even when I don’t think I do… I KNOW that I do…
And on the really bad days… I see my belly, and I am reminded. And it’s always nice to be reminded.

I love who I am, I love who I am turning into, I love who I have the potential to be and I love the future I have waiting for me.

 

I tried to end my life but God graced me enough with people who wouldn’t let this be the end of my story, but it is the end of this post.

 

 

I beg of you… if you’re struggling… take the steps you need to take to be better.

Do what you NEED to do- even if it isn’t what you WANT to do.
Say what you NEED to say- even if it isn’t what you WANT to say.

 

 

 

Eighteen: Shaken

Have you ever just heard horrible, awful news that shakes you to your core?

Awful, isn’t it? Finding out something that just destroys every little piece of you with no hopes of recovering from it until you shake yourself awake from this horrible, awful nightmare… That’s what it’s like every single day for me.

Well- that’s how it is as of late.

 

I’m not quite sure what it is that has every piece of me breaking as if I were a poorly made glass figurine made by the apprentice blowers at a novelty tourist shop in Helen or Stone Mountain. You know the ones.

The glass figurines designed only to be looked at behind a thick glass box with one eye shut and the lights dimmed just so you can only see it when you tilt your head far enough to the side that no movement will shake the ground your standing on.

That’s what it feels like I’ve become in the last few weeks… months… years.

A poorly made glass figurine that will break just at the wrong look being thrown my way.

 

 

My eyes can’t handle the slightest shine of the sun in the wrong direction when they were expecting to be shielded by the shadows of the weeping willow of a soul.

My nose can’t handle the whiffs of a harshly made roasted chicken that’s slightly darkened burned on the underside because it crossed the street wrong.

My ears can’t handle the clicks and clacks of the keyboard as my fingers slide across the keys when they’re used to the sound of a pencil scratching the perfectly laid papers.

My body can’t handle the unsteady ground my feet stumble upon when it’s gotten so used to the expected pace of a man-made machine with buttons to regulate speed and destination.

 

 

 

I don’t know why I’ve suddenly gone from managing and capable to powerless and breakable.

Sixteen: Yet, Here I Am.

I have this ridiculous image in my head that focuses on this… idea of a forever.

I’ve never been able to think about a real future before this, but now it’s all I can hope for. I’ve always been the person that motivates and pushes everyone else into everything they’ve ever been able to dream of, but I’ve also always been the person that planned and hoped for a future with no actual intention of ever getting to that point.

It’s … stupid and unfair that I’m typing this when I know that so many people in this world have it a lot worse than I do. I get that- honest- I do. I understand that completely, but, for some reason, God thought it was fitting that I’m here in this world with every possible opportunity present and yet here I am…

Being the self-destructive person that I am, crying and hesitating anytime anything remotely good could happen to me because I can’t seem to find any way in this world to be okay with the possibility that I may actually be here two years down the road… HAPPY.

 

I just wrote and published my first book…

I just wrapped out an incredible show that I was able to offer my time to.

I just reorganised and cleaned out my incredible boyfriend’s room and got rid of his ex’s things because he and I are almost three months into our relationship and we’re discussing marriage.

 

Yet here I am… laying on the couch in his living room with his daughter laying on top of me while we watch Greys Anatomy & Elmo… All I can think about is that what if I’m no good for them?

What if my love for her, my love for him… isn’t enough?

What if my past is too much of an influence on the foreseeable future?

What if I can’t let go of everything that’s wrong with me to realise that they are everything that is right?

 

Fifteen: You are More.

GUYS…

 

I AM SO FREAKING SORRY THAT I’VE BEEN M-I-A.

oh, my god. I feel SO terrible for basically deserting everyone that might happen to occasionally catch my ridiculous blogging habits that only ever happen when I’m on one end of the scale or the other… (aka. BIPOLAR IS FUN, KIDS.)

 

SO. Quick update.

 

Today, 2/13/18 is my TWENTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY!!!!

 

Now, I totally understand how most people would be all “eh, it’s your 23rd whoopdee freakin doo” BUT here’s the thing…

 

I NEVER- NOT A SINGLE DAY IN MY LIFE UNTIL RIGHT NOW- THOUGHT I WOULD MAKE IT THIS FAR. 

 

Forreal. I never even WANTED to until recently. I never thought anything good could come out of my measly little self.

You know that song? “What’s My Age Again?” by Blink 182?

I SWEAR. Like. I NEVER thought I could make it to the day that I would blast the song as loud as I possibly could on my 23rd birthday because I had DREAMED for so long that I would be gone before I could even graduate high school.

 

 

But here I am, at 23 years-old with a job in the career field of my dream, a boyfriend I’ve loved since I was 12, and a BOOK RELEASE ON MY BIRTHDAY.

 

That’s right. I’m 23 years old and I published my FIRST BOOK ON MY 23RD BIRTHDAY.

 

Can you believe it?! I CAN’T AND I’M THE ONE THAT WROTE IT.

 

GOD. I WROTE A BOOK. ME. YOU GUYS. ME.

 

  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 7 years old is TWENTY THREE and is IN THE CAREER FIELD OF HER DREAMS.

 

  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 12 years old is TWENTY THREE and not only loves a boy BUT LOVES HERSELF.

 

  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 17 years old is TWENTY THREE and is OFFICIALLY A PUBLISHED AUTHOR.

 

  • The girl that tried to kill herself at 22 years old is TWENTY THREE and is ACCEPTING HER DEPRESSION AND TURNING IT INTO HER BEST ASSET.

 

 

The book is a collection of thoughts and experiences in poetry form that have helped me cope with some of the things I’ve felt in this life of depression and other mental illnesses- it’s main focus being depression.

Even if any of you reading this decides not to buy my book, I hope that this blog post will inspire you to rethink the gun in your hands, the handle of jack on your nightstand, the bottle of pills in your medicine cabinet, the rope in the grocery bag… Whatever your weapon of choice– I beg of you and I pray to God that you are NOT successful in your death mission because YOU ARE MORE !!!

Fourteen: What is a Mountain without its Valley?

So, I realised this morning that I haven’t posted in a little bit over a week and I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly I want to post…
 
Have you ever heard that thing that people say: “The bigger the issue, the smaller you write.”?
 
I know that I made this blog as a way of self-expression and self-exploration, but the more I dig, the more I want to keep buried. I’m trying to work my way out of this- I really am. But for some reason, every time I think I can move past this one particular thing… 
 
I can’t.
 
I’m just not sure I’m ready for the backlash I know I’m going to recieve for it. 
 
I know that I need to get it off of my chest. I know that the person this most directly involves (aside from me, obviously) doesn’t even try to keep up with what’s going on in my world… So they would probably never even see this, but for some reason, I just can’t let all this out.
 
And it really freaking sucks because need to. want to. Or atleast, I want to want to. I know that the only way I can move further into my healing is by getting through this particular mountain. I just can’t.
 
I feel like… Whenever I finally build up the nerve to take that first step out of my safe little valley, I look up at the mountain in front of me and all it does is grow.
How am I supposed to conquer something that just never ends? 
 
I just… It’s as if this particular mountain is my own personal Everest.

I’ve been a valley for so long- constantly being flooded and looked over and travelled through and trampled on… I’m not sure I can bare the responsibility of becoming something else. Someone else.
 
I’m so afraid of hurting other people that I never try to stop what all of this is doing to myself… I talk about it to some of the people that see all of the pain I’m in. But they knew about it all before I ever realised it, myself. 
 
I’m constantly being told that I just need to confront the mountain I’m facing… They think the mountain will become a valley too- as if that’s supposed to be a good thing.
What is a Mountain without its Valley?

Valleys are the only reason mountains thrive…
Mountains are the only reason valleys exist…

What is a mountain without a valley to compare?
Explorers climb for the thrill,
Settlers live for the comfort.
What is an explorer without a home to remember?

Once a valley has flooded all that is left
is the land of high and nowhere else to go.

What is a Valley without its Mountain?
(I… I know that, whomever is reading this, doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. But, this isn’t for anyone else, really. Like every other chapter I’ve written, I will reiterate-  this is for ME and if anyone is still reading this: thank you for tagging along, I’m sorry this journey isn’t going all that smoothly or quickly.)