Each morning, I would struggle to get out of bed with my youngest son for school. I'd let him watch videos on his phone while I actually counted the minutes until the bus came. As soon as he left for the bus, I'd go back to sleep - usually until 2pm.
If I had to work, I'd drag myself to the shower to get ready. If not, I'd do just enough housework to avoid a fight.
The days I didn't work, I'd be exhausted by 7 pm - even after having slept all day.
I stopped reading. I stopped writing. I stopped doing things with my son and let Fortnite babysit him.
I cried. I cried every night. Sometimes I cried most of the day. I came the closest to suicide I've ever been in my life.
I would think to myself - I can't even do that because I don't have access to anything I could overdose on.
One night, after ugly crying to myself and wondering why I wasn't good enough for anyone - I took a handful of Cymbalta that I had on hand. All I did was succeed in making myself sick for a few days. (Kind of a sense of 'you can't even do that right')
Even when I spoke, my voice was flat and completely devoid of emotion.
I didn't know how you call in sick to work because you wanted to end your life. I was unsure of what, if any, social protocol was in such situations, so I just went to work instead.
I didn't know how you tell your children how much you love them; how proud you are of them - how to express the absolute joy they have given you in an otherwise empty life - but that you just couldn't keep enduing the never-ending pain that life caused you - so I kept on breathing instead.
I had absolutely no idea how to end my suffering and pain without transferring it to them - So I didn't.
One night we went to a launch party for a children's brook. As I sat there, I looked around and started to get really paranoid. It felt like everyone was giving me weird disapproving looks and were talking about me. I had to stop myself and be logical. I knew no one cared enough to single me out.
Then the panic attack began. I told my husband that I had to go outside because I was having an attack and he followed me. I hadn't had one in over 15 years.
Once outside, I told him I just needed to breathe an have a little space, but he refused to leave me alone. We were close enough to home that I could have walked there, but I didn't have a key. Eventually, he went back inside.
I began to hyperventilate and fell to my knees in the parking lot, gasping for breath. At this point, he came back outside with my son to take me home. He was also beyond drunk.
I told him we needed to leave. He told me to get up because I was embarrassing myself.
He searched his pockets for the car keys and then yelled at me that I had them. He claimed he gave them to me. (he had not) I tried to tell him but he refused to listen. Finally, I dumped my entire purse in the middle of the parking lot to prove I didn't have them - but only because at that pint I was unable to speak. That's when he discovered the keys had been in his coat pocket the whole time.
Once we got home I was able to calm myself down. As soon as I did, he walked into the room and GROWLED "You're doing this for attention. Do you realize how pathetic that is?" That's when it started all over again.
That night I cried hysterically again, I sincerely did not want to live anymore. I terrified my son because he had never seen me in such a state. Up until recently, he hadn't ever seen me cry. I was his stability - the one who was always consistent. He wanted to take care of me. I did not want to wake up to see the next day. For some reason though, I did.
It as a few days later that I finally saw my new doctor and was put on a new regimen of prescription medication. That was when the craziest thing happened - after only two days, I started to feel better. I woke up in the morning with energy. I even stayed awake throughout the day, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I stopped thinking of reasons to end my life and started thinking of ways I could improve it instead.
That was just a month ago.
Since then, I've been able to laugh again. I even went finally to get the tattoo I've wanted this past weekend. It says (in my handwriting) "How do we forgive ourselves for all of the things we did not become?"
And finally, I have the answer to that question - we don't.
You can never go back to the person you were before the trauma, the tragic loss, or the heartbreak. That person is forever gone. Yur path has been changed and you have become a new you.
There is no need to forgive yourself because you were never meant to become any of those things. You were meant to be right here, right where you are now. Your struggles, your scars - they are what make you beautiful.
Much more than that, YOU ARE ENOUGH.
If for some reason someone makes you feel that you aren't - that's when you know you have strayed from your path. Rerouting isn't always easy, but you have to come to the realization that you are enough. It's the Universe telling you that you are not where you are supposed to be. It's only a harsh message because when the universe sent subtle signs you refused to listen.
I've told you my story in the hope of giving you hope if you are in the darkness. It's not a weakness to need help - I'm n medication and will likely have to be for the rest of my life. When I moved, the delay caused by having to establish new insurance and finding a new doctor left me without medication (which to be honest, needed adjustment anyway) for three months. All of this was made a thousand times worse as a result.
Without following my regimen of medication, meditation, journaling and reaching out to my support system I can't survive.
If you are lost - you can be found. Hell, if my crazy ass can get it together, no doubt you can! In Minnesota, where I currently live, there's even a crisis text line if you can't bring yourself to speak. All you have to do is text MN to 741741. Each state offers its own suicide prevention services. You can go to http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html to find yours.
Text. Call. If nothing else - email me: majikmissi@gmail.com
Just please reach out to someone. Trust me, I know exactly how hard it is to do. The last thing I wanted to do when I was down the rabbit hole was to tell someone my story. It was too exhausting. What you need to understand is that once you do - that's when the healing begins.
I love you. Now, love yourself.