For years I struggled with depression and guilt. Struggled with not being accepted and loved. Feared of being wanted and unsure of where my life would leave me. Asking for guidance in my life has led me down a path of confusion, regret, and uncertainty. My thoughts race through my head, day in and day out to where I don’t know anything anymore. I feel trapped. For months, I try and piece it all together. The events that have happened throughout all of it—the amount of questions that go unanswered. I struggle with my thoughts that tell me to “kill myself.” Even on my good days, I feel like there’s nothing to do but scream.
Waking up every morning with the urge of wanting to die is exhausting. Having the feeling of a beating heart pumping through your hands, feeling the anxiety, waiting for it to conclude as you feel the veins, the blood pumping throughout—it’s fragile like holding a newborn baby in your arms for the first time, or the feeling of bones shaking. It feels unreal at first. You want to protect it at all times, so you put up a wall, you guard yourself against the world of hurt, pain, and misery. Hoping that you’ll make it through the day, let alone the months that follow. That gut-wrenching feeling deep down in your stomach dwells so deep within you, it makes you want to vomit.
How can someone forget the pain, the hurt, and the constant reminder that they’re not good enough? Told by others around her—simple, her peers, so-called friends and acquaintances. It’s all about what people say, about what they do. We as Americans are labeled—put in a box and are told to act a certain way to impress those that we find dear to us. For years that’s what it’s been like for me to have to fit into “society’s rules.” I was abused, neglected, and an outcast for being different. I thought outside the box at times growing up to where I was chastised for just being me. I did things that I’m not proud of—that my family doesn’t even know. We are blindsided by the reality that everything has to be perfect when it doesn’t. Half of the time, those that have different methods of “release” seems to escape through the only thing they know how: “drugs.” Society molds us into believing the untrue things, and we most of the time, fall for it, but society fails to realize the truth, and that the truth lies beneath us all.
Many nights I cried to release the pain I feel and have held in for years. I’ve come to realize that I’m not perfect. When I was born’ six months into that, I contracted meningitis and was near death. Or so I was told. I don’t know much about my life, but I can only talk from what I’ve experienced. I was fighting for my life, and I lived. I don’t know that much about what happened, but I know that throughout the time I was ill; I had seizures three times a day, and people surrounding me, hooking me up to tubes, keeping me breathing, monitoring me, and a whole bunch of PT. My mother neglected me, and my father thought it was a good idea to have my great-grandmother raise me. She’s been my guardian every since.
Throughout my childhood, it was rough, as a teen, I rebeled and was abused; emotionally, mentally, and physically. During my rebellious teen phase, I was angry at the world. I popped pills to feel content. I didn’t want to feel better. I hated how the world viewed me, I hated how I viewed myself. I had my first child at fifteen, during the six months she was alive, she died in my arms, and I was devasted. I married young and was just there. I never felt like I was loved. My husband at the time while serving both military and navy loved me, yes, but it didn’t feel like love. I traveled with him throughout the world and was using that as a way to cope; while just merely existing.
I would hang myself. I’d feel the rope tight around my neck while standing on a chair ready to kick it at any moment—but that moment never came. I dreamt of ending my life since I was six years old. By that age, I knew I was different from the rest, different from my peers, and my family. During the abuse, I’d cut myself, and pop pills to get rid of the pain; not to mention the thought of the many ways I’d end it. I had dreams of how I’d do it, and every time I came back alive. I dreamt of shooting myself in the temple, slicing both wrists while lying in a tub filled with my blood as I slowly pass on. The feeling of my heart fading as it slows until I take my very last breath. The rhythm it makes as it fades away in the background like tapping your index finger on your temple, the sounds, the pattern...
bum… bum bum
Feeling my lungs expand with the toxic air of poison, tasting the air as it circulates around the room, unable to hear screams—the wailing cries of friends and family as they see a dead body that’s no longer mine.
Until you just can’t hear it anymore.
Why do things happen to me? Maybe I let because I’m like this in some way, and need help; other times I feel like giving up because I’m no good.
And conflicted with emotion and rage. I don’t want to feel pity among others, nor sorry for something I want sympathy for. This is my fault. I deserved to be punished. My heads messed up. I swear I might be stupid, dumb. I don’t know who I am.