Mental health is one of those things that never really stays constant. I wrote this a few months ago, on a Thursday in October to be exact, and every now and again I revisit it when I’m in a tough spot. One of the side effects of the SIBO medication I’m on is heightened anxiety and depression; something I know all too well.
I didn’t want to share this because it’s dark. It’s not inspirational. It’s not happy. But if I’m being honest, since last January, I’ve experienced some of the worst bouts of depression I’ve had in years. It’s been really tough to eek out purpose, let alone fathom a future, when so, so much has changed. I guess I’m sharing this because when I started this blog, I wanted to write about everything – the good and the the bad. If you only share your highlight reel, what’s the point in that? The reality of chronic living is it’s ugly, and isolating, and sometimes downright depressing.
And that’s okay.
I miss the person that I was before I was sick – someone who wasn’t quick to anger and looked at the world with so much potential. I mourn the friendships and relationships that I’ve lost over the years, because happy memories I once had are now nothing more than painful anecdotes of ghosts. I miss looking forward to milestones like a career and finding someone to share my life with – because just when I think I’ve found it, it slips away.
So here’s a reflection on pain . . . because feeling it means you’re still alive, and I guess some would say there’s some value in that.
PUT THE SCISSORS DOWN
It’s hard to not revert to old habits.
For me, I was a fan of scissors and exact-o knives.
They were sharp and got the job done – not suicide, that is, but cuts deep enough to leave scars and bleed, but not enough to die.
Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to die.
Each and every time I pulled those silver blades out.
Sometimes the weight of the world seemed too difficult to bear and I just couldn’t fathom a reality beyond my current struggles.
Then I’d get better; well, better is relative.
The inviting pang of death lessened its grasp and for a while, I’d be okay to live life and not wish otherwise.
And then the cycle would repeat.
And I’d be here, writing, hoping for a different ending.
I don’t have inspirational quotes or phrases filled with hope.
I have a tear-soaked t-shirt and what feels like a lifetime wasted on living.
What I’d give to not feel so deeply. To not hurt so much.
This post will probably never see the dim light of the interwebs.
Written here, to remain here forever, unseen, like many of my demons.
Maybe it’s better that way.
