9.10.2015

long time, no blog.

I haven't posted here in... jesus. in years? a year? 

But, it's Suicide Prevention Day, so, why not today.

Those of you that know me, know my struggle. Bethany, Ricky, you both come to mind. 

I've dealt with depression for the better part of my life. My life. 

I'm 28, about to be 29. Ive had these feelings since I was in the 8th grade. 
Let that sink in. 
I was 12. 
Shit, let me let that sink in.

16 years.

This disease has cost me a lot.
I'm afraid. 
I have commitment issues.
I second guess almost every personal connection I make.
I'm currently in the middle of a divorce. 
I'm constantly questioning my ability to care for myself. 
For my children.

I second guess whether people really like me.
I don't believe anyone who says they love me. 
No one.

Suicide has crossed my mind on a damn near weekly basis for several years now.
I've spent years medicated.
I've called hotlines.
I've talked to loved ones.
I've made bad decisions.
I've turned to substance abuse.
I've turned to educating myself. 
When I was younger, I turned to god.
I've tried blocking it all out.
I've tried talking it all out.
This shit doesn't go away.

I'm a relatively happy and sensible person. 
I live a normal life. 
But.
I also think things like, 
"how easy would it be to hang myself?"
"would it be messy?"
"how would i go about getting a gun?"
"how many of these would kill me? Should i mix them with something?"

I've written letters to loved ones. 
I've written goodbyes and explanations to both of my children.
I still have these letters. 
I look forward to the day that I'll feel like its okay to fucking burn them.
But that's not this day.
And it won't be tomorrow. 
And that breaks my heart.

My post-partum depression after Imogen was born was so fucking severe that I had thoughts of leaving my house. Driving my car off of a bridge and drowning, secure in the thought and belief that my beloved babies were better off without me. 
That was I was bad.
That I was ruined.
That I was incapable of giving them the positive upbringing and role model that they so rightly deserved and needed.
I couldn't trust my mind. I was afraid of myself.
I reached a point, not too long ago, that I was afraid for my safety and the safety of my children. Ricky was gone.
I called Bethany. 
She drove down from DC that very night to stay with me and to help me. 
I'll never be able to express what that night meant to me. Ever.

Then, a few months later, I was so full of fear that I flushed my prescription pain killers down the toilet in an effort to feel safe.

I question all the time whether I'm able to be a good mother. 
A good partner.
A good sister.
A good daughter.
A good person.
Because every goddamn day, be it for a minute or an hour or an afternoon or a night spent awake and crying, I think about how uncontrollably sad I am and how it won't ever go away. 

Please, learn the signs. I really, truly believe that if it weren't for my loved ones, I wouldn't be here to write this today. 

Signs of Suicidal Thoughts 

Signs of PPD

Signs of PTSD

Sometimes, we can't help ourselves.
Sometimes I can't get out of bed, let alone ask for help.

I'm lucky. I'm alive. I know that I am cared for, by at least a few. 
I still don't trust my mind, but I'm getting better and knowing when it's trying to hurt me.

You aren't alone. If you read this. If you see this post. 
I know it hurts tremendously and you feel afraid and lost and alone and paralyzed.
You aren't alone, and I love you.
And you matter.
And it will be oaky.

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