I preface this rather deep and dark post with a cute picture because it helps ground me in the present. It also is rediculously adorable and hopefully softens the difficulty of what I'm going to say. It works for me at least.
I mentioned before that things felt like a broken bone set in a cast. This hurts like a motherfucker but it is at least healing now. For the longest time, it was a gaping wound threatening to bleed out. Of course, I developed bandaids and kept it mostly together. On the outside, I appear to be a strong person capable of handling a lot of turmoil. I suppose I have to give myself credit as I have been through a lot. Some of it was my own bad decisions. Some of it was just a shit roll of the dice. I talk about a lot of it:
I talk about my daughter passing away, the struggles I have because I almost died too and all the pain that I feel around that. What I don't talk about is the guilt I feel. The feelings of betrayal to her because she was an accident. The brief moments that I wish she didn't exist. The struggle of feeling like my mind killed her and feeling like I should have died too as punishment. Feeling like her father would have been better off with her alive and how I should have taken on death to save her. Of being both incredibly sad she isn't alive but glad because she's not a 13 year old girl in this fucked up world.
I talk about dealing with the courts over my son and all the bullshit of the legal system. How even the best intentions turn into a shit show. What I don't talk about is the guilt, again. About being glad mom is taking care of him. About how I really will never feel like a mother. About how I'm incapable of that kind of attachment. About dreading the conversation I'll have to have with him to explain why I had to put him up for adoption. About how it wasn't just the court and child services that fueled my decisions.
I talk about addiction. About how alcohol controlled my life at various points and how I lost myself to drugs. I also talk about the fun I had partying. How it was one big adventure into madness and apathy. What I don't talk about is how far down the rabbit hole I went. The days and nights spent alone being high and/or drunk and how I just wanted to die. The people I got involved with. The living in a world of thugs, lowlifes, and people that would murder me if it would serve them somehow. The selling my body for a fix. The gangs. The constant fear of the police.
I talk about that one time I tried to kill myself. The events leading up to it. All the bullshit I went through being hospitalized. The piss poor way I was handled (by others and myself) after the fact. What I don't talk about is the fact that THE time wasn't the first time I tried. The fact that it wasn't the last time I made a serious attempt. How often I have dreams about sticking a gun in my mouth, sobbing as I taste the metal. How I hate sleeping because of how often these dreams occur.
I cut myself as early as 7th grade. I struggled with cutting all through high school. I hid it behind a mask of quiet strength. People knew I'm sure but they never talked about it. Then I dove deep into drinking. When I was in Virginia, I got locked up for a week because my roommate told the authorities that I had made a serious attempt on my life. I tell people she was lying. That she had some sort of vendetta against me (she did but that wasn't the point). Truth is that I really did try to kill myself. More than once. For some reason, nothing worked. I'm glad now, but I really was pissed about it at the time. Of course, I had to get locked up in an absolute shit hospital and endured sexual abuse from a doctor, drugs with horrible side effects and the absolute fear of being housed with very ill and dangerous people. Then I was unceremoniously kicked out with no after care plan. Then I dated a 15 year old (she was in college and I was only 18) Even in the middle of it, I felt like a creep. I still do.
I came home to a shit show and didn't do anything to change it. I didn't know what to change or how to go about it it. Then it all became too much and I very nearly died. Again. Hospital trip round two. As I have written about before, it didn't help much. Since, I've tried a few times to end it all. I lie to people and say it was never serious. In all honesty, that's just because it didn't work. I dodged the train at the last second. I puked before the pills could take hold (so many fucking times). I didn't jump because I had an appointment, a phone call, a class.
Why am I putting this out there now? I'm tired of running from this. I'm tired of hiding it from myself. I'm hoping that seeing my story will help someone believe that they aren't alone. That healing can happen even though the struggle remains. That love begins with honesty to yourself.
To love me, I have to accept me and accept my past. Then, maybe, I can begin to heal.
