Dear Ellis: Two Months In

Dear Ellis,

Momma loves you and loves being your momma. I fear all of the time that I'm not doing enough, or not doing the right things. I fear that you'll come to harm or fail to thrive in a hundred different ways. I fear I have too much on my plate and I'm missing too much of your tiny, ever-changing life.

But.

You're beautiful. You're smiling and making fantastic little noises. You're growing and showing me how strong you are. You give me enough breaks that I can feel like things are just manageable enough.

I hope you always know what love is. I hope you know you can always find safety in the arms of your parents. I hope you become the most wonderful person that this world doesn't deserve but so badly needs.

And.

I hope I never forget what it's like to have you fit in my arms so perfectly. I hope I never forget your peaceful, smiling, squishy face. I hope I never forget how lucky I am that you chose me to be your momma.

Momma loves you.

Always,

Momma

My (Almost) Completely Normal Pregnancy and Childbirth Story (SFW)

No, I'm not going to give you all of the bloody and graphic details. Hell, that's kind of the point. You know what sucks? Human social psychology sucks. We have such bizarre idiosyncrasies which yes, make a certain amount of sense if you squint and because evolution and blah blah blah. One of those idiosyncrasies I hate is that our desire for story-telling also skews our sense of reality. We start to believe we are the heroes in our own stories instead of flawed, real individuals. We start to believe that outliers are acceptable benchmarks for our own worth and reality.

The things I believed about pregnancy and childbirth were borne from this quirk of human psychology. I've heard it all, "OMG I was the sickiest sicky sick who ever sicked from the moment sperm met egg to even after baby was out" "OMG that child tore me from hole to hole on the way out" "WORST EXPERIENCE EVER OMG". Here's the thing: outliers happen. Horribly symptomatic pregnancies happen. Horrific childbirth experiences combined with sub par medicine is mostly why maternal mortality had been so high until our more recent history. These are valid and real experiences and I don't want to take anything away from the birth-givers who experience them. However, they're also pretty much the only stories you ever hear. You know, because they're actually stories. You know what's not a story? "Yeah, I got pregnant and then not much happened except I was pregnant and then I had a completely normal labor and delivery and now I'm here and so's my child." No one cares. No one wants to hear about that, so no one does, including me.

Well, kind of. Part of the work I do sometimes necessitates asking patients about what they know about their own gestation and birth (or, more often, their parents will answer those questions) or their personal experiences being pregnant with and giving birth to their children. Only there have I ever really heard more consistently stories of, "Yeah, nothing happened except I was pregnant and then I gave birth. Woo."

So, all of that to say this: I'm telling my completely normal pregnancy and child birth story because they're never told and I wish I had heard more of these. Why? Well, you could say that I was vicariously traumatized by all of the awful pregnancy and childbirth stories I'd heard of over the years. I understandably believed pregnancy was scary and childbirth was on par with Spanish Inquisition-like torture. It wasn't like that for me. It isn't for a lot of people, but you never get to hear about that, really.

I didn't know I was pregnant for the first few weeks, which is normal. This is the one part that was not very normal: the reason I didn't know is because my 99.9% effective and intact birth control failed. The sheer odds there are mind-boggling but I won't get into why, beyond the 99.9% effective rate, this just wasn't likely. I even had a period, but I have been pretty regular and predictable since I was twelve years old barring extreme periods of stress and those times I had to take the morning after pill (what a hell of a drug). I was divorcing from my husband at the time, and he had quietly moved out of our bedroom to take up residence in the guest room. He also took it upon himself to start moving through the house and getting rid of stuff, mostly without consulting me. This included some almost-expired pregnancy tests. Instead of confronting him about this I figured it wasn't worth the fight and just fished one of the tests out of the bathroom trash to use on a whim. My period had bee a bit strange, anyway.

I was shocked, dumb-founded, and confused when a faint blue line appeared. Uuuhhh... what does a faint blue line mean? I hopped on Google and asked. I hopped on Messenger and asked. My lovely friend Kate consulted her Facebook groups and came back to me with an honest answer: I was probably pregnant, and needed to contact my doctor right away. I reached out to a limited number of friends because I was understandably panicking. I swore them to secrecy. I went to the doctor and they took my blood but this was Memorial Day weekend, so they informed me that even though I came in on a Friday and they would normally have the results the next day, in this case I would have to wait until Tuesday. Thankfully the nurse took pity on me and conspiratorially informed me that if I called the on-call service the following day and made it sound like knowing the test results was an emergency I could get the results over the phone on Saturday. I did and obviously I was.

The next couple of weeks were tense and stressful. I was informed that the pregnancy was at risk because of my birth control, and when they pulled it there was a chance I could miscarry. By the time they told me this I already felt protective of this bundle of cells that was just a few weeks old, but I tried to be logical and remain calm in the knowledge that it wasn't up to me if I miscarried or not. Even if I kept the birth control in there was not only still a chance for miscarriage but other complications. The choice was clear. We pulled it. My provider was amused by the revelation that my little bundle of cells had actually pushed the birth control down to make room while it grew, making the extraction that much easier. It barely registered physically for me.

From there the weeks became a blur, mostly because my divorce was kicked into high gear and my one and only true pregnancy symptom, sheer exhaustion, made me nap a lot during that time. I craved ice cream something fierce and I quickly discovered why using an app to track my pregnancy: apparently at the time my baby's skeleton was the fastest thing to grow. My check-ups were completely routine and everything pointed to a healthy pregnancy and baby up to the day I was induced.

The weekend before was my one year anniversary with my girlfriend. I felt bad, being so massively pregnant that I could hardly enjoy our nice dinner together because, I thought, I had the worst case of gas since my gastric bypass surgery. This bad gas seemed to pass by the next day. When I was induced, I didn't even realize I had contractions because I felt exactly the same way I did the night of my anniversary. It took hours for the contractions to ramp up to the point that I was reminded of the worst period cramps I had become accustomed to over the years. That's when I tapped out and asked for the epidural which was heavenly. I was comfortable for a while. Twelve hours after we came to the hospital I was informed it was time to push.

My partner was on one of my legs and my girlfriend on the other when the nurse started coaching me through pushing. I felt like I wasn't getting anywhere, but I kept at it with encouragement from my partners and the nurse. I mostly kept my eyes closed and tried to concentrate within on my body. They informed me of my progress but I kept the focus on me and my body. I tried not to think too much about the fact that I was about to meet my child for the first time. A hour later, they told me they were finally here. I couldn't open my eyes at first. I couldn't believe it. This was the last moment I was not going to be the mother of a completely separate person who was not in my body.

When I looked down, I only saw the top of my child's head as they laid them down on me and cleaned them up. I had been hearing the soul-piercing screeches of children in the labor and delivery ward all day but theirs was half the volume and they settled down rather quickly once they were in my embrace. I was just shocked. There they were, a real person. I got to hold them and do skin-to-skin for the first hour of their life while my partners and the staff praised me for how well I did. By all accounts, it was the most ideal labor and delivery they had seen. I was blessed.

That's my story. It isn't exciting or gory, but not every birth story is. That's the whole point.

Dear Ellis: A Word Before You Arrive

Dear Ellis,

Let me start by saying thank you. You gave me the best, easiest pregnancy I never heard of. You see, people like to tell stories of strange and dramatic pregnancy-related events and that used to scare me. Yeah, I was really tired a lot but otherwise you've taken it completely easy on me. You had me really worried in the beginning because I wasn't expecting you and I just worry a lot, but since you were as big as a gummy bear you've given me no problem at all.

What you did give me was the strength to move on and keep trying during a difficult time in my life. I've not always been good about doing things for myself purely for myself. It was much easier to think about what was best for you. I was able to keep my stress low and make the decisions I had to because I was always thinking about you. Yes, there was a particularly difficult couple of months when I tried to stop medicine to see if I could do that for you, but by then you would wiggle to remind me why I had to keep fighting.

I used to be scared about pregnancy, childbirth, and mommyhood but ever since I knew you would be coming that's mostly gone away. I used to think I'd be emotional and out of control, but you helped me realize that I am still always me and I can trust myself. I used to worry that I'd be annoyed by your kicking and miserable about pregnancy side-effects but you made me smile every time I felt you move and hey, we could all use more naps sometimes, right?

I'm just so excited to meet you! I know you're going to be loved, and we'll never be alone in any of this. So many people are already loving you and excited to see what kind of person you're going to be, including me of course. I just know you'll be a good baby and an amazing person and I'm honored to be your mommy through it all.

Be seeing you soon,

Momma

Ugly Depression

Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel like there is this kind of "Cute Depression" concept out there. Like, the "depressed gf" memes. Here are some examples:

This... kind of pisses me off? Like, this isn't cute. Or really accurate. Like, maybe if you mean depressed as the mood state but not the disorder and people conflate the two. Anyway, all of this is to say I so don't have "cute" depression.

My depression is ugly. It is a saw-toothed monster dripping in a mixture of phlegm and disease. It is a haunting presence draped over my shoulders, weighing me down like lead. It is noxious air poisoning my lungs with my every waking breath. It is a shrill voice both whispering and screaming in my ear to kill myself. It is hideous.

In the grips of depression I will isolate and denigrate myself out loud. I will stop showering, brushing my hair, drinking anything remotely hydrating, or eating anything nourishing. I will smile and not feel it any deeper than surface level. I will fantasize about the sweet embrace of death taking my pain away. I will convince myself that the ones I love will be better off without me.

It's.

NOT.

Cute.

This needed to leave my body. I'm okay. Better than, actually. Productive. Peaceful. But I have depression, and it's ugly.

The Friend I Never Knew

I've had a rough and confusing go of it in the last week, and I wasn't even aware of why. Today I went to my EMDR therapist and put the pieces together. I had been looking for a book in my pretty respectable book collection when I stumbled upon this:

In eighth grade, my delightfully eccentric Language Arts teacher, Mrs. Jones, had us engage in a semester-long project to have a story printed and hard-bound for each of us. This one was mine. I remember being disappointed in how it turned out because the pages were out of order, making it difficult to read, but I figured it out.

Anyway, finding this book brought up a lot of feelings for me. As you well know my childhood was pretty traumatic and by the time I wrote and published this my mom had stopped physically abusing me. I still hadn't told many what had happened let alone an adult who I knew would have to tell someone and risk my family's safety and security. The result was that, as I paused to read this last week, I was struck by how much I had mixed fiction and non-fiction, fact and lies. It's hard for me to parse out entirely what was true and what wasn't. Maybe I'll save that for another time. I don't have the energy right now. I also don't have the energy to fix mistakes I made while transcribing this. But I ended up feeling like I still couldn't trust my memory of my childhood. Some things simply don't fit, and yet I have a distinct impression that some of these things happened.

I tried not to change any spelling errors or formatting problems or (ugh) the painfully saccharine prose and ending, but boy did 13-to-14-year-old me have a lot to learn about writing. I even included the dedication: 


Dear Mom,
You've always been there for me, pushing me and guiding me. You've always helped me when I was in need. It's about time I gave back. I'll never be able to pay you back. This book will kind of be a down payment until I can find a way to pay the whole lump sum. I really hope you'll enjoy it. I love you always and forever until the end of time.
Your Daughter,
Amanda Taylor

Dedicated to My loving, giving, and hard-working Mom
Chong Taylor
I love you forever!

Tears of frustration filled my eyes as I messed up on "The Kuku Waltz" once more. I glared at the music in hate, the notes slightly blurred from those stubborn tears. There was silence as my piano teacher stared at me, carefully studying my shiny eyes, my upset frown, and my crestfallen face. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't concentrate. All the problems, everything that was going on, was ruining every prospect of my life.

"Amanda, is something wrong?"

Still I stared at the piano, refusing to make eye contact. Duh! No, I'm sitting here, about to cry because everything is just perfect in my life. I bit my tongue and fought the urge to just yell, "YES! Yes! Something is wrong! Nothing is right! Yes!"

I fought down the urge and barely breathed, "Yes."

There was another brief silence in which I tried desperately not to blink and choked down the oncoming tears. She finally spoke, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's just..." my voice trail off as I tried to find the words for my anger, sadness, and suspicion, "I'm just having some problems right now." My throat ached as I tried to fight off my latest urge, which was to spill my guts to this lady, my piano teacher, Debbie. The more I fought it, the more I could feel the stress enlarging within myself. Again, I bit my tongue in effort to stop myself. "No, you're not going to tell her. Don't tell her. She doesn't have to know, she can't do anything to help it," said a small voice in the back of my head.

For a minute, I thought I had won, until she said, "You can tell me."

I was temporarily unprotected as I considered telling her everything. Instead, I took a blind swing at my opponent inside me. "I'm just having some problems with my friends, my family, and my self esteem," I said, hoping that was enough for her to leave me alone and forget about it, but what I had just said was the truth, but not the whole truth, but the truth.

As my piano teacher observed me again, I thought to myself, "What am I fighting? Am I fighting for the right thing? If I am, how come it hurts so much?" I felt a single tear hit my hand, it was then that I noticed that my cheeks were wet from the multiple streams of sadness flowing, I was crying. I was furious at myself for crying. Why was I always so sensitive? I never wanted to cry in front of her, but it was too late.

"Okay, Amanda, today's lesson is over," said Debbie.

I got up and grabbed my piano books, brushing away newborn tears with the back of my hand.

"Listen, Amanda, maybe you should talk to your mom about this," she said.

Is she joking? Talk to my mom? Is she insane? I've never had a real talk with my mom. I guess I kind of feared my mom. Even if I wanted to talk to her, she was always busy sewing or at work or at church most of the time. "I'll try," I said, slipping on my flip-flops.

I walked out her apartment and through the parking lot that separated her apartment complex from mine. Normally I thought of the closeness of the apartments as a blessing, but now I thought of it as a curse. I needed more time to think. How could I explain this to her? There was no other reason as to why I would be coming home early from piano practice. I would have to tell her the truth.

When I open the door to my apartment I heard my mom on the phone, I froze in the doorway. Had Debbie called my mom? "No silly, you know your mom is always on the phone with some friend, don't worry about it," whispered the voice in my head, but deep down, somewhere within my soul, I knew who was on the other end, I knew it was Debbie telling my mom what happened.

I knew better then to interrupt my mom when she's on the phone, whether or not it was about me. I put my books on my old wooden piano and sat down on the equally old bench. I played a few notes. Normally the notes felt so alive to me, even coming from this old piano, but now the notes sounded flat, dull, old, and musty, just like the piano. I tried putting "arm weight" in my notes, which is a method my piano teacher teaches all of her students. It relieves tension and gives grand sound to every note you play. I played middle "C," even then the notes seemed dead. Why? The music used to be so perfect and alive, even if I did make mistakes, all the notes were beautiful. Why had all that changed?

I heard my mom end her conversation and hand up the phone. I summoned every ounce of courage left inside my body and took a deep breath. I stood up and walked down the hall to my mom's room. The hall seemed to be so long, now keep in mind I live in an apartment and the halls really aren't that big. The very walls seemed to give me pity, pity that I did not need and did not want.

After what seemed like forever, I was right outside my mom's room. I took another deep breath and said, "Mom, Debbie canceled the lesson."

She reached over and turned off her radio, which frequently played as she was doing her sewing. My mom pointed at her bed. I sat down. "What happened?" she asked.

I felt betrayed, "So Debbie had called my mom," I thought to myself.

My mom waited patiently as I sat there, staring at her eyes, my own glistening again as tears threatened to fall. "I don't know. I'm just having so many problems now," I said look out her window, which was covered by bushes, the sunlight barely showing over them. I did not want to look at her straight in the eye, I knew that I would break down and cry.

She looked down at the pantsuit she was mending; I think she got the hint, "What kind of problems?"

"Well," I searched my mind for my biggest cause of stress, "my friends. Everyone's fighting, nobody wants to get along. Sara's fighting with Lynne, the rest of my friends just seem distant to each other, I just want everything to be the same again."

"Well Amanda, I understand," she looked up at me.

"You do?"

Yeah, Amanda, I know teenagers, I was one, friends mean a lot to you. This is the time where everyone's changing and they won't always change the way you want them to." I don't know why, but for some reason I really couldn't picture my mom, my hardworking, loving mom, being a teenager.

"But... why?" I asked, avoiding her glance once again.

"Amanda, listen, you're changing, too, your friends might think the same things as you do," she said, not completely ignoring the pantsuit, "It's just the way it is," she said.

Well that was all fine and dandy, but I still had something else bothering me.

"There's something else wrong too isn't there?" she said, do you notice noters seem to always know in these areas?

I nodded in response, "I just don't like who I am," a single tear weaseled it way out and ran down my cheek.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice full od concern.

"I think I'm fat and ugly," I said, a few more stray tears falling.

"What?" my mom exclaimed, "What would make you think that?"

"I don't know..."

My mom waited patiently, she knew I did know.

"It's just that, when I compare myself to my friends, I feel so different, like I don't belong," I said, more tears steadily winding their way down.

"They accept you, right?" she asked, again looking at the pantsuit, I had a feeling she couldn't bear to see me cry.

"Yes," I replied.

"Then why would you feel like you don't belong?" she asked. She made her point, if they accepted me for who I am, then why did I feel this way. They were also always telling me that I was beautiful and I was not at all fat.

"It's not only that. You know when you say I'm fat? It doesn't help much."

She stared at me in shock, "Amanda, I was kidding, I thought we were just joking around."

"I know I know, but it doesn't exactly help how I feel," I desperately tried to shorten the tears, holding the stress inside once more. I really didn't want to cry, "And there's one more thing. Whenever I do the slightest thing wrong, you yell at me and make me feel so bad. I always feel like I'm not good enough for you."

"Not good enough for me? Amanda, do you know how much I tell my friends and work and at church how you're so pretty, and how much you help me? I tell them that your growing into a very pretty young lady, and that you help me around the house, with the dishes, and the laundry, and with Steven" she said, again ignoring the pantsuit.

I stared in shock, I never knew this. Of course, I always heard my mom talk in Korean to her friends but I never understood what she was saying exactly. Sure I could pick out a few words and my name, but I never fully understood what she was saying. I guess I should have known. What kind of mother doesn't brag about her kids? Why would she say anything bad about me? If she said bad things about me, then that would mean that she didn't raise me right. No parent wants to look bad. It all made sense.

"I just never tell you. I don't want to have a conceited daughter. 'Oh, I'm so pretty,'" my mom pat her hair as she imitated a conceited stuck-up person, "I don't want a daughter like that."

I nodded, "I know."

"And about your friends. You're looking for a lot of friends, Amanda, that's no good. Look for quality, not quantity. A few good friends is better then a lot of bad friends."

"I know," I whispered again, my voice scratched and my throat raw from unshed tears.

"Amanda, look at me."

I looked up at her eyes, noticing they were glistening, too.

"Listen, don't worry about your friends. If you have no friends in the world, you'll still always have me. I have no choice, I can't leave you. You can tell me anything. I don't promise that I won't be mad, but I don't want you to lie to me. I can promise to try. I can try to be fair and listen to you. Friends can turn their back on you whenever they want, I have no choice, I'm your mother, and I love you, no matter what you do, I'll always love you, you know that," my tears were just on the verge of spill at my mom's inspiring words.

My mouth was clamped and my lips were dry as I stared at my mom, not in shock, but in love and understanding. I didn't say a word, but I think that expression said it all.

"Come here," she said, extending her arms. I stood up and fell into her arms, weeping like a newborn. There was a difference in the tears though. These were tears of happiness. I felt like a little kid again, clinging to her mom and crying. I felt a tear on my shoulder, that's when I noticed my mom was crying, too.

I felt shock for a few minutes. My mom very seldom cried, and almost never in front of my. It was official. The wall between us had been torn down and made way for a new way of communication. No longer would I have to keep these feelings inside. No longer did I have to worry about not being food enough or not understanding. I can truly say that at that moment, no child or young adult in the world was as happy as I was.

We pulled away and my mom wiped away the few tears she had shed. I used the back of my hand and my sleeve, crying my face.

"I love you, okay?" she said.

"I love you too, mom," I smiled, and she smiled also. It's one of those snapshot moments in my memory. This was the first smile we exchanged in our new understanding of each other, paving the way for many more.

I walked out, more less floated, out of my mom's room to my room next door. I felt virtually weightless. All this stress had been weighing me down, but now that I let it out, everything was going to be okay. I flopped down on my bed, just thinking. I felt so at peace with the world.

I pulled up the covers and lay there, thinking of nothing in particular. I've never felt so happy in my life. I just knew everything would be all right. I had new confidence within myself. Life would go on, I would be okay.

I couldn't wait to go out into the world, to school, to church, just anywhere, in this new way. I loved who I was now, whether different or not. I was Amanda, and I was proud. Mean words and harsh thoughts were not a part me, at least not for a while. I just wanted everyone in the world to be as happy as I. I kind of predicted how close my mother and I would get. I knew we would. I just knew it. Yeah, sure, maybe I wouldn't tell her everything, but I knew it would be very few things, if anything, that I would keep from her.

After about a quarter of an hour, I decided to go outside to see the world in the new light. I could hear the happy little children splashing around and laughing, calling, "Marco" and "Polo." I smiled to myself, praying that those children would someday be able to be as happy as I was at that very moment.

I looked up at the clouds. You know that game little children play? Looking at the clouds and determining what they look like? Well, I guess I was playing that myself. I had never played this game as a kid, but now the clouds seemed fun, exciting, beautiful, and alive. Everything seemed that way.

I sat up, "Wait, if everything's alive again, then that means..." I didn't even wait around to finish the thought.

I got up and ran to my house and to the old, musty piano. I sat down on the piano bench and took out the music to "The Kuku Waltz." I played the music with "arm weight" and with spirit. I made a few little mistakes along the way, which I knew I'd fix eventually.

When I finished with the lovely chord at the end, I smiled again. Hey, it wasn't perfect, but the music was alive once more.

The 4-Year-Old and 14-Year-Old

I've been in therapy for over nine years at this point, and I've been taking medication for about 3-4 years. In that time, I've gone through a few phases in my treatment, including integrating Internal Family Systems theory into my understanding of my illnesses. Here is a Wikipedia article if you're curious about the details, but basically I've identified two discrete personalities that exist within me and I carry with me in my daily life. They are a four-year-old version of myself, and a 14-year-old version of myself.

Amanda, roughly age 4.

The four-year-old is very small and meek. They hide a lot, usually in darker rooms dimly lit by yellow light. They're scared all of the time, and braced for pain. They need a lot of love and attention because it was suddenly ripped away from them when my father left and my mom stopped being so loving and nurturing and became drunk and violent. This one brings me great sadness. I love children, and my first instinct is to protect them and love them.

Amanda, roughly age 14.

The fourteen-year-old on the other hand is very dark and angry. I see them standing in the doorway of my childhood bedroom glaring out into the hallway at me, the adult version of myself. They don't trust me and their reaction to everything is anger. This is the age my mother says she can remember me spending a lot of time in my room and gaining a lot of weight. This is likely when my trauma turned into my severe depressive disorder. They yell and lash out and won't let anyone in to comfort them.

These two parts of my personality come up usually at different times. The four-year-old likes to be impulsive and wants what they want, and they want it now. The fourteen-year-old usually comes out when I've been hurt by someone. They are the "anger problem" part of me. They can be very mean, even dangerous and destructive.

A long time ago in my work I went through a meditative journey of creating a safe space in my head. It came to my mind's eye as an idyllic beach, and on this beach I put the four-year-old for safe-keeping. As I said, my instinct is to protect them so this seemed like a good place to keep them safe. It was a really emotional experience for me to imagine myself holding the four-year-old version of myself on my lap and playing in the sand. I always wanted that from my mom, but she was not the most affectionate or emotionally demonstrative person and I very much was. She couldn't understand me or give me what I needed, so I knew that it was my job as an adult now to do it for myself.

However, I never brought the 14-year-old in. I kept them out. I think back then I was still afraid of them, their raw anger, and worried that they could destroy my safe place somehow, or harm the 4-year-old. Thinking about it now makes me sad. I know now that they're not actually dangerous. They exude that energy because they want to protect themselves from the pain of abandonment, rejection, and and judgement from others. I closed the door on them because like most people I misunderstood them.

Today I had my 5th reiki session and it felt really good. I entered a space of kind of buzzy energy throughout my body and decided to do something different this time and enter my safe space, only this time I invited the 14-year-old in. Admittedly, I was worried. They can lash out and I didn't want them to harm or scare the skittish 4-year-old, but they didn't. I could feel them get impatient and angry but I somehow forgot that even back then I loved children and had an abundance of patience for them (excluding my little brother). I mostly stood back once I realized I could trust the 14-year-old and watched them play in the sand together and wade in the water together. They protected and kept the 4-year-old just as safe as the adult version of myself does. It felt good to see that in my mind's eye. I felt whole.

I think it's safe to say I'm on my way towards healing and acceptance of self.

I Want To Die

I've been intensely suicidal since Thursday without much interruption, and I expect that at least a few people reading this will be super concerned and wonder what to do about it but I want to explain that it's not always that serious. I can only speak for myself, naturally, but I find many people misunderstand suicidal ideation. Mine kind of comes in levels. Let me explain.

Level 1: Where the fuck did that come from?

I could be doing anything, be anywhere, in any kind of mood and my brain will insert the thought, "I want to die" right into my stream of consciousness. What? Why? I'm sitting in my doctor's office right now. And like, not even the right kind. The vagina doctor. Now? Why now? Or, I'm out with my friends. I don't have time for this. Or more often I'm driving and spacing out. Now's not a good time for this, brain. It leaves as quickly as it came.

Level 2: Incessant, dispassionate chanting

This is an obvious step up from the first level. Instead of a single thought, it's like a chant from a dispassionate protester who's not entirely sure why they're even at the rally. That rally is in my head, and it's about me dying for some reason. The thoughts aren't completely clear on the why, but they brought a spiffy sign. It's annoying more than anything.

Level 3: Paralyzed

The thoughts have stepped it up and now I'm trapped in bed or some other place, not moving, because it's so bad that I don't really have the energy to even roll over without considering it for a while. I'm doing everything I can without moving to stay alive. I've let my arm get painfully numb. I've let my stomach cramp from hunger. I've let my tongue swell in my mouth from dehydration. But I'm alive.

Level 4: 123GO, 123GO, 123GO!!!

I've stepped over the threshold. My thoughts, no longer content with sitting back passively, have now taken the steering wheel both literally and figuratively and start to drive my actions to end it. I've nearly crashed my car, took pills, cut, or drowned myself. I haven't actually done any of those things. Not ever.

I imagine there is a level 5, and that's when I'll actually try, but I've worked like hell to keep from going there. I'm not so naive as to think it will never be a part of my repertoire. So where have I been since Thursday? Started at a 2, then jumped to 4, back down to 3, then 2 to finish out work on Friday. Stayed that way until all of Sunday where it was a mix of 2, 3, and 4 and this morning I was a mix of 3 and 4. My med doc wanted me to go inpatient. I probably should have. I'm scared. I'm managing.

Remission

The scariest part of getting better is remembering all of the other times you got better before and how bitter you felt when it went away again. I once had a two-week remission from my depression. I can't explain what happened, and for people who don't know what it's like it might be hard to understand, but I was just, without explanation, free from all of my depressive symptoms for two glorious weeks. I was productive, happy, and the tapes in my head were mysteriously not present. This has happened exactly once in my life. Besides that, I've had a couple of good days to string together, but basically I've suffered from depression for as long as I can remember.

Recently my brain decided to get over my most recent trauma and I've been much happier since. Even while I watch the people I love struggling, my brain has managed to stay afloat. I'm productive, calm, happy, and I can even relax (no small feat for a deeply traumatized person who carries the trauma in their body in the form of low-key tension so bad that every professional that's ever done muscle work on me is alarmed). I've had much less hours at work, a bounty of new clients to work with, time with my husband, and time for self-care. It feels nice to be able to do my hair and makeup more often now. It's how I do some of my self-care. I've also continued therapy, done my affirmations more mornings than not, journaled a bit, got a professional reiki session, and attended a meditation class. EMDR sessions start in November. I'm hopeful, but cautiously so.

A lot has changed about my life recently, and the brain likes novelty, so it's probably giving me an extra dose of feel-good chemicals that I don't usually get because, you know, depression. This isn't like that one remission I had before. That felt like a whole different level of great. Still, I wonder and fear how long this will last. I hope this is just the way life is right now, and not just another remission, but I know better than that.

It Hurts

This is not to diminish the experience of those who deal with chronic pain. I hope it's not taken that way at all. I'm in psychological pain all of the time. I can't remember a time that that wasn't true. It doesn't help that I can't remember significant portions of my childhood.

That's annoying, by the way. Like, I'm kind of scared of what my brain decided to hide in my subconscious and I've gotten little tastes of what it had hidden for years and it wasn't nice. Still, I'm a fan of actually knowing myself and understanding why I feel the way I feel, behave the way I behave, and think the way I think. I'd rather know, honestly. I'm safe now. I can handle it. To that end, I'm getting EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) therapy to sort those things out as much as they can be sorted. See related graphic.

Anyway, back to my constant psychological pain. Most of my personal therapeutic work in the past 9 years has been about maintaining and managing myself. I've successfully distracted myself and sometimes even forgot how much psychological pain I was in. I don't know what changed in recent years, but it's like I had whatever junk psychological pain reliever ripped away from me all of a sudden and ow holy shit ow I forgot how much I actually hurt ow. Maybe it's the stress and trauma I've endured in the last couple of years. I don't know. It finally got to be too much again and active suidicality became such a constant that I reported the thoughts to my husband as casually as telling him how work went.

The pain had gotten so intense with the trauma of recent months that my anxiety hitched a ride and made the end of my agency work a living nightmare. Perhaps it's not true, but I felt like a shitty therapist. I had to pull back on my emotional labor in my personal life and started to feel like a shitty friend. I missed my friends and activities and affiliations and so very few people seemed to care or be able to respond to my cries for help. The ones who did were golden, of course, but I had grown accustomed to hunkering down in the vast love I had before. The adjustment was hard when I had to step away from that. Painful.

I don't know what clicked lately, but suddenly I don't miss Novitas any more. I don't regret it, mind you, but I don't get that sting of jealousy and longing looking at pictures my friends post from there and status updates showing they're going. I'm actually relieved to not be there. Friends have asked me already if I'd consider going back if X happens or Y is no longer a factor and I've said yes or I'd consider it but at this point I don't think I would. I always loved that community and that game but like most things in my life it wasn't until I got distance and embraced the trauma of being forced at that distance that I realized the negative aspects of the relationship I had with the community. I was so in love with them that I couldn't be honest about the flaws. I don't believe those things will ever change, so I guess considering whether or not I'd return if they did is kind of a useless thought exercise.

But that's not what this is about. This is about my pain. It's subsided to normal levels. There was an intense surge there, and very few truly understand the depth of pain I'd been dealing with ever since. I'd smile and actively be thinking, "I want to die." I'd be at work and wishing I'd been in a fatal car accident on the way there. I'd be holding loved ones close and wishing I'd never met the people I lost so I didn't have to feel the pain. I was in crippling amounts of psychological pain, and it was hard to describe to anyone. Even the ones I could describe it to naturally took it for granted that a good day meant I wasn't feeling that, but of course that wasn't the case.

Anyway, like I said, the psychological pain is back to normal levels. No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay for as long as I can remember. I'm maintaining. I'm managing. I'm not actively planning to end my life. That's the best I can do right now, maybe the best I've ever done. I'm headed toward a treatment plan that will open up the possibility for better than that. I've always said that I wish my brain could understand how wonderful my life is now. I'm not being abused by the one person who was supposed to love and protect me. Not any more. I'm not trapped. I have people who really and truly love me, a career I love, a safe home, lovely pets, more financial stability than I ever had before. My brain doesn't give a shit. The pain endures. I'm tired of living this way. It hurts.

The Next Year

I have big plans for the next year. The past one has been traumatizing. Between intensive work for too many hours per week for entirely too long, the traumatic and sudden loss of an important community and friends, the treatment I've seen my husband endure, this presidency, just... so much... I haven't taken care of myself in a way I deserve. I've always deserved better treatment than I've given myself. I've been in therapy for 9 years and while I've made great strides, I've never buckled down and allowed myself intensive treatment and comfort. Here's what I have figured out so far for the next year:

I will continue my severe cut in emotional labor. There can be precious few exceptions as previously outlined when I started this, and I am allowed to make mistakes.

I will focus on my health with regular exercise and fueling my body instead of harming my body. I will also take my supplements as recommended by my surgeon.

I will keep reasonable hours at work and not give in to accommodating outside of set parameters. I will not over-function for my clients.

I will engage in EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) therapy and finally integrate my trauma, and then I will continue with a recommended course of talk therapy. I will also take my medications as prescribed (piece of cake).

I will attend meditation class as scheduled, ideally every week. I will also integrate practices like reiki as available.

I will journal or write consistently (not blog, that's more an occasional thing).

I will regularly engage in my favorite self-care: my beauty rituals.

I will spend more time with the people I love.

I will have more conversations with the people I miss.

I will take more time to myself and away from all of the noise, and do this regularly.

I will start to read again.

I will get to bed at a consistent time, and wake up at a consistent time.

Yeah, that's about all I have now. It's going to be a good year. I'm ready.

The Circus

It's unbearable, really, when the circus comes to town in my brain. It's a semi-regular schedule but sometimes it doesn't show. It's rare, but it happens. The posters go up and I prepare for the inevitable, but the week goes by and there's no circus. The show is something I've memorized yet it's torture each and every time and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I can only fight as hard as I can. The taunting clown is the very worst of it.

For my first act, an extensive list of why you're a horrible person who deserves to die. | Not very original, but you never were.

Everyone hates you and will leave you. | That's overly simplistic.

But what about that thing they said? It's a sign! | No, it's not.

It is! Keep thinking about it! Keeeeeep thinking about iiiiit... | *yawn*

You're still thinking about it, aren't you? | Can we move on?

It's only a matter of time before they get bored with you. | That's not a fair assumption about them.

Or they'll see what a trash person you are and leave. Everybody leaves eventually. Think about everyone who's left. | This is really getting boring.

But you're still thinking about what they said. | You know, I could just talk to them and ask for clarification.

Ha! Yeah, that definitely won't make things worse. Besides, you already did and that didn't help, did it? | ... no.

Now watch me go! Have you considered that you might be awful at everything you do and people might just be really nice because they don't want to feel bad when you die? | Well, now I do.

You're still thinking about what they said, aren't you? | *sigh* | Good. Balloon animal? It's in the shape of a sword, which is a tool you could use to kill yourself now that I think about it. Right?

A co-worker pops their head in to say goodbye to me on my final week here and asks how it's going. I conjure up a convincing smile easier than nearly anything I do and say, "Pretty good!"

Misunderstood

I've been used to being misunderstood my entire life. My mom didn't really seem to understand me growing up. Maybe that's just a thing between kids and their parents, but like she really didn't seem to understand me. She never understood where my emotionality came from, why I behaved the way I did, what my intentions were, anything. If my own mother couldn't understand me, my friends and peers didn't stand a chance. Many of them would be alarmed or even mocked my upbringing, not realizing that the things they found shocking didn't hold a candle to the truth I was hiding. Teachers? Forget it. When teachers tried to understand me I had DYFS (CPS) called. I was told I was a know-it-all, that I was bright but didn't seem to understand why other children didn't know what I knew. I couldn't explain to people how I reached the right answer, but I often did.

Really the only person who seemed to understand me at all was my little brother. We were only two and a half years apart and he was forcibly glued to my hip. When we were really young people thought we might be twins. For a long time he was the only one I could look at and we'd both know we were thinking the same exact thing at the same exact time. It almost felt telepathic, but it only made sense. We had shared so many life experiences that we were bound to think in similar ways. There came a time when, as we grew, that bond was lost. When I started going to therapy I mourned that lost and lamented that I would never feel that bond again. It turns out that's not true, it just takes a lot of time and special kinds of people I hadn't met yet.

All of that is to say I've been largely misunderstood my whole life. I understand why. I say things, I inflect in a certain way, I write in a certain style, my face moves and people think they know what's going on with me, but the truth is so many just don't have a clue. It's only natural and normal to make assumptions. Thoughts need to work quickly. Decisions must be made swiftly. Time's a-tickin'. Still, being misunderstood has burned me so many damn times in my life when so much could have been avoided if people just asked me one simple question, "Hey, is this what you mean?" Because no. Likely, that's not what I mean. Let me see if I can explain further and let me know what you get from what I'm saying.

I really don't know how smart I am. I've been told I'm smart my entire life, but I'm not sure what that means or how smart I actually am. I was never in the gifted programs. My grades weren't perfect, merely good. I knew how to understand what people wanted from me and give them exactly that in school. A friend once told me that did make me smart. He might be right. I just don't see how it helps me, though. It got certain people what they want and only seems to contribute to me being misunderstood.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I think a lot of people misunderstand what's going on with me or what's going on in my head. I write a lot about it and talk a lot about it but the god's honest truth is there is just so much that happened, and so much still happening, that I can't talk about. I have no right to talk about it. It kills me that I can't say things. I just can't. If I could, so much would be clearer. I know it would. But I can't. I promised. It would hardly matter to most, anyway, I fear.

What I can say is that some have certainly misunderstood my reactions. Maybe no one owes me anything. Maybe I take things too personally, but I've been begging, begging people to talk to me since before I could tell anyone there was a problem. I had the door slammed in my face and was told no, we don't get to talk about this. No, you don't get to lean on our friendship. No, you were wrong about the love you thought was here for you. Maybe it's selfish or wrong, but I thought I had earned more than that after everything I'd done to be a good person, a good friend, everything. I thought I had at least earned the benefit of the doubt or a moment's hesitation to ask, "Hey, is this what you mean?"

There is a portion of this that is my fault. I don't know how big a portion, and I don't think that matters. I need to believe there is a portion that belongs to me because if there isn't then I'm not in control of anything and if I'm not in control of anything, then what is the point of trying? Of living? Of anything? I trusted people more than I should have. I misread and misunderstood them, and didn't accurately assess what we had or believe them when they told me what they were about and how they were. That is on me. It absolutely is. I know I'm an optimistic person, yet I set these traps up for myself every time and let it hurt me.

So, when those metaphorical doors got slammed in my face I straight up lost my damn mind. You might think you know how this affected me and what my reaction was, but if you weren't in my head you really can't know completely. I lost. My. Mind. I've never really been prone to paranoia, but there was some sort of wellspring of it that flooded out and everywhere I looked my brain was screaming. I saw betrayal and abandonment, conspiracy and two faces. I was still with it enough to know that it was paranoia, but then came the one lie mixed in with half-truths and I fully lost it. It didn't matter what the truth was. Truth is of no consequence. I am of no consequence. None of this is real. I'm not real. Reality isn't real. I well and truly lost it.

It's interesting that I was able to make semi-logical decisions during that time, because I completely lost myself and felt truly alone. Now I know that people were afraid of me because of misunderstanding me. Somebody please talk to me. Tell me. Tell me, please. I screamed and cried that over and over again and there were precious few that answered the call, not the least of which was my husband. I trust him completely. I've said time and time again that I don't believe he's perfect, but I know him and I know what he told me was true (except for a brief period while I was losing my damn mind that I thought even he must be false and a liar, which wasn't fair). People thought they knew my position, knew the whys, knew the order of events, but really the overwhelming majority still don't know everything or much of anything, can't know everything. I promised. People were afraid to lose me, to challenge me, to talk to me at all, let alone ask, "Hey, is this what you mean?" The ones who were finally brave enough got the correct answer from me, but so many were not that brave. I don't blame them, but it was so fucking painful and lonely.

I know it's probably not fair, but I thought I had earned more than their silence and fear. I thought I had earned the benefit of the doubt, and just so many people assumed the worst and left me to rot. I've rotted, and most people have hardly noticed, or maybe they blamed me for it. Like I said, there is a portion of this that belongs to me. Besides what's already been stated, no one asked me to put myself out there like that, to love like that, to be there for them like that. Pretty much not a single damn person did. I just do it.

A friend said they believe that I'm a true empath. Truthfully, I roll my eyes at people who claim to be an empath and post listicles and memes about how they're such an empath to the point that I hate claiming the title myself, but I am. This is why my mom couldn't understand where my emotionality came from. I don't think it came from her or my biological father. I don't know where the "gift" comes from, but I've always had this ability. I know how it sounds. Trust me, I know. It sounds haughty and self-important, even delusional, especially because I never let on how much it truly hurts to be this way. Only the people closest to me have witnessed it first-hand and therefore know it's real. I've been drained and incapacitated for weeks because of my empathy. I've learned how to adapt over the years, but it's like a damn mutant ability not dissimilar to Rogue's. I can't control it, I can only manage it. Wear gloves. Remove myself. Try not to get too close. I even weaponized it, used it to start a career and make money. I am a true empath, and it is sheer torture. In my head, I have this image of myself curled up in a ball and just absorbing everyone's feelings in a 5-mile radius. That starts to approach what it feels like. I don't expect everyone to believe me. I do expect people to find it co-dependent and toxic, but I know my truth and that's the damn truth. Why would I lie about that? To what end? What the actual fuck does that get me?

I guess what I'm trying to say... somehow... is there is a really good chance that if you haven't been talking to me, or haven't been asking me to clarify what I mean, you just have no idea and you're misunderstanding me. I thought I was making myself clear, but I guess only some (precious few, really) speak my language. So few people can actually see me. That doesn't make you bad or wrong for not having that ability. It just is what it is, but I'm asking you to try to understand and to ask me the question. And I've been begging you please, please talk to me.

I don't know if any of this makes sense. I think it could do more harm than good, but it's been kicking around in my brain and needed to go somewhere. It lives here now. I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

A Reason

So, it finally happened. I finally had to spend an extended period of time confronting people who have turned their back on me or fell into silence. I didn't know where I stood with these people, not all of them and not really. I've been sick with anxiety about this weekend for a while now, but it finally happened and I'm glad it did.

Friday night was the hardest. I didn't know how to act, who still wanted to know me, and what I had permission for. I waited and watched and let how others behaved inform my moves. I'm a hugger. I'm a lover. I want to yell and run into my friends' arms and hold on for a good, long time with a good, hard squeeze while telling them how much I love them and missed them but I didn't do that to virtually anyone. I noticed who came to me and embraced me. I noticed who merely addressed me cordially. I noticed those whose behavior didn't change at all from what I remember. It was a hug from a dear friend and his kind, loving words that broke me. I knew he loved me. I knew he always loved me, and always would, and my heart was so relieved that I cried.

But unfortunately the ill mind doesn't know how to prioritize these things, and what kept nagging me was the cool indifference coming from those I loved, probably still love. I fell to pieces. I tried. I tried so hard not to. I managed to mostly make it back to the safety of the camp I was staying in, away from those who wouldn't understand and in the loving arms of those who have my back 100%. It didn't take long to compose myself and return to the festivities but I learned a lot this weekend.

I learned that, for me at least, managing my mental health takes a lot of energy. Energy comes from calories. When I'm on restricted calories (like, say, after a gastric bypass operation), I don't have as much energy to manage my mental health. Wacky fun times ensue.

I learned that I am worth more than just what I can do for people. I am relentlessly cruel to myself and if I'm not serving every purpose possible, I am useless and lack value completely. This, as it turns out, is completely unfair and untrue.

I learned that it's okay to need help. I'm used to being so independent. I lift the heavy things. No, I don't need help. Thank you, though. I spent all weekend apologizing for needing help because, you know, I was about a week and a half post-op and on all kinds of restrictions (which I did not faithfully adhere to, but whatever).

I learned that having a new perspective is really good for me. I fight toe-to-toe with the toughest people. No, I don't want to sit down and play nice. Not my thing, but you're free to do so! Getting to sit around while the fighting was going on and interact with different people than I usually do for longer than I usually get to was so nice, even though I was pining for beating up nerds. Even wandering the fighting area, casually fanning myself and giving hydration to my loves was fun in its own way. I got to see everything unfold, see their story from the outside. I never get that opportunity. Mind you, I still would have very much preferred to have been a more violent part of that very story but whatever.

Finally, I learned what is perhaps the most important thing of all: there very well could be a good reason for everything that happened to me over the last six months. I'm still working it out, and I don't believe that "everything happens for a reason" or that anything really happens for a reason, but what seems to be happening is that my life appears to be clearing out people that needed clearing in order to make more room for the truly good people who truly love me. I love so many people so much. It's easy for me to love. I just know that language, you know? Maybe it's time for me to stop spreading my love vertically and start expanding the love that I have. That feels different to me.

I hugged some people and I felt their love enter my broken heart. I cried more happy tears than sad. If I believed things happened for a reason, I would believe there is a reason for all of this and it's all because of this weekend.

Us

I never thought it would come to this. I hoped and I wished and I might have even prayed once that this would stop, but it hasn't. And it's finally enough. I've had enough. I've had enough of people slinking off in the shadows, enough innuendo, bandwagoning, and enough blind people falling into a convenient narrative because it's more comfortable than taking responsibility for what they should. It hurts too much. I don't think people understand how much it hurts. Every time it comes up, even six months later, I have suicidal thoughts. That's how much it hurts. It hurts so much that my brain thinks, "Dying would help." I try to reason with myself, tell myself I'm being melodramatic, and try to trivialize my own feelings, but I'm done with that. I can't any more. It's literally hazardous to my health.

You know, people often like to tell me that so many people love me. I believed them. I guess in a way I still do, but the thing is... what does that even mean? What has that even amounted to? Why does that even matter? The vast majority of people who supposedly "love" me can't be bothered to show up, to dialogue with me, or even check in on me regularly when I've been crystal fucking clear that I've not been okay for a while now and crystal fucking clear why.

I was assigned by my therapist to write a list of people who love me, and she was impressed by the large number I managed without even completing it. I wasn't. What she should have asked was for me to compile a list of people I actually feel loved by. That list is much, much smaller. I try to reason it out. People have lives. People don't know what to say. Blah blah blah. The truth is I throw myself in front of the people I love and take bullets for them when they wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire. My boyfriend says that's not about them and he's right. That's a deep flaw of my own that I desperately need to work on.

Here's where I stand. You can't say you love me and not be there for me. You can't say you love me and talk shit behind my back. You can't say you love me and believe I'm married to a monster. You can't. Not any more.

I'm humiliated that for years I let people do this. I let them loathe my husband and love me, mostly because I was blind and stupid and thought they couldn't possibly loathe him as much as he feared but then I see how easily people re-write history and accept false narratives to make spaces unwelcome to us.

"Don't take it personally," you might say. "This isn't about you." Well, it is personal, and it's about us. I will not argue those points further. I'm so tired of being disappointed by people. Even if I didn't over-extend myself in relationships, this behavior is disappointing. How much does it cost people to do the right thing? How much does it cost them to be there for someone they love? I guess for most the price is too high, even if it isn't for me.

You don't love me. You love the idea of me. You love the shiny wrapping paper. You love me when I serve a purpose for you. You love me when I'm quiet and compliant and stupid. I don't need that love. Take it with you and go. I have what I need, and I'm done.

I Don't Think You Understand

I don't think you properly understand how much I want to die.

I was so little. I'm not even sure it is a true memory. I remember it always being dark, and now I realize it's because that's when my mom would get drunk. I remember cowering in dark corners and crying for her to stop, but it quickly became clear that she wouldn't or couldn't so I prayed to God to make my pain stop. Sunday School had taught me that He loved me and didn't want me to be in pain. I thought maybe He could just take me to heaven where I'd never hurt any more.

I don't think you could truly and fully understand how much I want to die.

School was always hard for me socially. No one could really get to know me because no one could really know what was going on at home. I was already an outsider because my mom was an immigrant. I was a liar because my mom was an abusive alcoholic. I remember the phone call that broke me. My friends were tired of my lies and suddenly I had no friends. That's when I put on a lot of weight. That's when I stayed in my room a lot and cried more than I ever had in any other period of my life. In a couple of years, I was sitting in my kitchen and staring at a knife I got from the drawer and trying to work up the courage to make it all stop.

I don't think you can see how much I want to die.

I made deals with God that I could be gay (I thought I was straight at the time) if it meant I was happy. While I hadn't internalized my mom's homophobia growing up I knew the societal implications all the same. I made another deal that if I didn't get to go away to college I would walk out into the ocean until I drowned. I read that in a book in high school. I also hid a bottle of asprin in my room. The deal was that if the pain stuck around too long, I was allowed to take them and He'd just have to understand. No one had the slightest clue, least of all my mom. I was bubbly, smart, and capable.

I don't think you can truly believe how much I want to die.

College wasn't much better. Though there was physical distance my trauma was always a phone call away. Summer and winter breaks at home were torture, even though it had been a few years since my mom had put hands on me. I lived in fear of her wrath returning despite the deal she made in front of my brother and I, her pastor, and God that she'd never lay a hand on us again. I started partying in sophomore year of college. I would always turn in early when my social energy was all out from maintaining my bubbly, smart, and capable persona. I'd curl up in my bed alone and cry myself to sleep. Even physically removed from my trauma, it was still hurting me and I became despondent. I thought it would never end unless I could get up the courage to end it. I tried overriding my protective mechanisms by driving drunk a couple of times, hoping to be truly reckless and do something that would take me and only me out. I was so ashamed, so it only happened a couple of times, but... nothing happened.

I don't think you can understand how much I want to die and fight it every day.

It got the worst its ever been a couple of years ago. My muscles tensed and got ready to pull my vehicle into oncoming traffic or off of the bridge but years of therapy and perhaps the new meds I was on helped to override this overwhelming feeling and forced me to drive to my husband's workplace. I thought I was going to the hospital. We got me help without all of that. Since then it's been sharp, oddly-timed, intrusive thoughts like suddenly being very hungry except wanting to die. I've had to hand over my keys, hand over medications, be aware of my sharps, and have people watch me.

I don't think you can properly understand how much I want to die because I didn't really properly understand it myself.

I failed to see some of my thoughts and behaviors as red flags. I pushed down a lot of memories and pretended I never thought that way or did those things. Now I'm ready to let my inner demons out and embrace them until they can be coaxed into peace, then I have a few moments of peace.

I want to die, but I want to live. I want the pain to stop, but I want the joy I'd be missing out on. Every hug and kiss, every child who adores me, every bit of growth I see in the people I love including my mother have made my efforts to stick around worth it.

But I still want to die nearly every day. No matter how I look or what else I might say, this will probably always be true but it is also true that I don't plan on dying any time soon. Maybe I'm working with a new set of deals with a god I no longer believe in. Maybe the deal hasn't been broken yet. I pray they never will be.

I don't think you properly understand how much I want to die, but I'm slowly figuring out how to put it to words.

The Ground Floor

I think people assume that those who suffer from severe mental illness like myself are all starting out on the ground floor every day. You know, like typical people do. Start the day off like normal, achieve from there. It's much easier to climb up and achieve your goals, however big or small, when you're starting out on the ground floor as opposed to, say, several dozen sub-floors below.

See, people like me can often feel like it's a mammoth climb just to get to the ground floor every day. Sure, we can continue to climb up from there but we didn't start in the same place as those without mental illness or who have only experienced depression and/or anxiety as a mood state as opposed to an illness.

"Well, I was down in the dumps once too and I made it!" Yes, I believe you believe that's true, but when this kind of thing is your daily reality for years and years, climbing to the ground floor can feel tedious and tiring. Sometimes we have nothing left once we've made it to the ground floor, if indeed we made it there at all. Sometimes we learn how to get shit done in the sub-floors. Sometimes we're so sore and tired that we don't climb that day at all.

I just can't climb out right now. The ground floor isn't even visible from where I am.

Showing Up

My mom always said that you might think you know who your friends are, but you need to pay attention to the ones who show up. Those are your true friends. My boyfriend also told me last night that the reason I haven't been hearing from many of my friends in the last three months is because I made my friendship inconvenient for them. I removed myself from events and groups where they could most easily access me, and perhaps my friendships were maintained by convenience and they don't really miss me, but miss what I did for them. I don't think either of them are wrong, but it makes how I feel and what I've been thinking more painful.

Sure, some people have reached out, and others have stuck by me. I've even formed newer, closer bonds that either didn't exist or weren't nearly as close as before. Still, most have seemingly disappeared from my life altogether and that hurts. I knew it would happen. I said it would happen. I tried to prepare myself for the inevitability, but it didn't protect me.

I miss my friends so much, and the sting of betrayal and foul stench of hypocrisy is more than I can bear. I'm sure many of them feel justified in their decision or neglect. I'm wrong. My husband is wrong. They have never turned a blind eye just because it was inconvenient or scary for them to take a stand that one time. They can't recall a single thing I ever did for them, just how quickly I dropped what I was doing or how I was feeling to support them. They can't even see how checking in on me might mean the world to me.

I've mostly felt guilty for all of my thoughts. People have lives. It's my responsibility if I built up my relationships in my head to be more than they were. Maybe I'm just not as good as I think I am. Maybe I don't deserve anything.

What I've noticed is that most of the support I get outside of my husband are people who've known me for a relatively short period of time, or don't know me very well at all. That's scary, because I don't have a very high opinion of myself and it just feeds the tapes inside of my head. I'm not good enough. I've never been good enough. The more a person gets to know me, the more disposable I am. I'm worthless. I've always been worthless.

Logically, I know it's not true. I can think of times I hadn't shown up and the complicating factors. I know that there are obvious exceptions to the hare-brained theories my depressed mind is coming up with.

I can't stop it.

I kind of don't want to.

I've not been okay.

Remembering and Misremembering

I had a long heart-to-heart with my mom over dinner on Friday night. It wasn't planned. She had a bit of liquid courage in her from the wine we had with our steak, and I suppose I should be worried about this as she is a recovering alcoholic, but I don't think she overdid it. Anyway, she started seemingly out of nowhere by asking me if I remembered when I was little and my brother and I were at a young friend's house. I had been playing around in the cutlery drawer, which I shouldn't have been doing. I was famous for that: doing what I wasn't supposed to, but I suppose that's all children. Anyway, I had cut myself pretty badly on a knife and decided to lie and tell the parents watching me and my mom that my brother had cut me. Somehow my mom found out that I had lied, probably because she eventually figured out that I was a compulsive liar and my little brother had a hard time lying about anything because his anxiety convinced him he'd get caught anyway. I assume that when my brother insisted that I was lying and he didn't do anything my mom rightfully chose to believe him. She brought this up because she was wondering if I remembered that she put myself and my brother in the car, drove up to the mountains and into the middle of the forest, and kicked me out of the car. She then drove away, listening to me screaming and crying in terror.

I didn't remember this at first, but as I let the story sink in I did. I remembered that it was around dusk, and there was nothing around me except for the path my mom had driven up. I was terrified. I was scared of the dark, and I thought monsters or animals would come and attack me. I was screaming for somebody to please help me. What's worse is because I was a child, I believed I deserved this treatment. She screamed at me when I wouldn't get out of the car at first. She said I was a liar and she didn't want a liar for a child, so she wanted me to get out and not to dare come back. I don't know how long she left me there, but I don't think it was long. I think she continued to yell at me on the drive back. That's all I really remember.

She asked me this because she wanted to apologize for that. This memory haunts her. I think she can still hear me screaming in her memories, and that's why she came back so quickly. I don't think any parent in their right mind can hear their child suffer like that and not come to their senses pretty quickly. My mom explained that she wasn't looking to excuse her actions at all, as they were inexcusable. Having my brother and I gave her a reason to live when she was really and truly suicidal during that time in her life, but having two young children to raise on her own was also the cause of an enormous amount of stress and she often snapped under the weight of it. Now that she's older and owning her shit she wants to let me know the mistakes that stick with her, and this was one of them.

My mom then asked me what I did remember. Among other things, I talked to her about the time DYFS had been called and we met them at school. I misremembered the reason why they had been called. Apparently I had let slip to my teacher that my mom left my brother and I alone at night while she worked the graveyard shift at the factory she was working at when I was in Kindergarten. She couldn't afford a babysitter, but she had maneuvered things so that she was only ever gone when we were sleeping, and working from home when we were awake. My mother managed to scramble and say that the same young friend's parents (the house where I accidentally cut myself) would be watching us from then on. They lived in the same apartment complex as us. I have distinct memories of being carried out to the car by the father, I was barely awake and was taken back down the block at some unknown hour to our own apartment. I don't know how long that went on, but according to what my mom said it was long enough for DYFS to conclude their investigation on my mom and her friend to make sure she was watching us.

During this same conversation we talked about a lot of things like how she agonized over whether or not she made the right decision not to let my father's air force captain adopt us away from her, or if her stress had somehow made my brother a quiet baby and troubled young man. This  ultimately led to me being able to tell my mom that I am non-binary. She didn't really react to that. She neither reacted in disgust and horror nor did she accept me with open arms. She just received the information and didn't really question it. She learned why and when I became really depressed - when my friends called to tell me that they couldn't take my lying any more and didn't want to be my friends the summer between middle school and high school. It dawned on her that that's when I really started gaining weight, because I was overeating and not really leaving my room, but she hadn't known what was going on so she couldn't put the pieces together.

I was kind of hoping to get to talk to my mother more on this visit and truly get to know her better, but also have more frank discussions with her about who I am and what we've been through. Slowly over time, we are getting there. I'm learning more about my extended family than I ever realized, like the fact that her father was also "strict" and abusive (so that's where she learned it from), and my aunt (her little sister) had been abused by her husband and that's why she came to live with us sometimes before she was killed by a drunk driver. I worry a lot that my mom will have some secret health problems and will suddenly pass away without me having the chance to really get to know her, or her getting to really know me, but I hope that we keep picking up momentum and build a real relationship moving forward so that I can get some resolution and clarity on my memories and history.

A Line in the Sand

You know, things change. Facts are acquired and decisions can be altered so I'm not fool enough to say that my mind is made up and that's that, but this is where I'm at as of right fucking now and I need people to be crystal fucking clear about this.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: my husband is the best person I know. Time and again he's put me first. He's helped me, supported me, and never, ever hurt me. In three months and a day we'll have been together for 8 years, married for 3. I half-expect him to change out of nowhere. This is an improvement from the beginning of our relationship when I fully expected him to change and start to treat me badly or realize I wasn't worth the effort and leave me. The fact is, he hasn't changed. He's been steady. He even got better somehow.

After a week away from him on vacation and coming in later than expected my husband had dinner ready, the house picked up, and was fully ready to take care of me in every way possible. From doing emotional labor with me based on difficulties during my vacation to giving me a full body massage to ease my stress and even giving me space to zone out, he has been utterly perfect. That's not to say that I believe my husband is perfect. He's just perfect for me. He's my best friend, my person, and he makes me so incredibly happy.

So let me be clear: you cannot support me and not support my husband. I do not accept that. I am sick and tired of people treating my husband like shit and letting the both of us down based on lies or people not able to deal with their feelings like goddamn adults. My husband deserves praise and love just like I do. He doesn't deserve the scorn, lies, and abandonment he's gotten. I've been there to support him while people put him down just for reaching out and checking in on them once a fucking month. What the actual fuck, people? Why can't people see this is like the very bare minimum to try to be a good friend? When was the last time you reached out? Alex likes to internalize a lot of how people let us down and make it about him and his flaws but he's owning too much that doesn't belong to him because others won't own their shit and I'm tired of it.

Accept the both of us - our friendship, our love, and our united front - or see yourself to the door. I'm completely fed up.

Dark Hours

It's not that I feel a need to explain myself, but more just figure myself out. Today did not start out well. The weekends are not going well for me in general because I lack the usual stressful social chaos that used to be my life. With this time, my brain has time to ruminate. I tried to make some sort of routine for myself. That didn't go anywhere.

It starts with having trouble wanting to get out of bed in the morning. Hours can pass so quickly. I swear I'm not there so long, but before I know it it's close to noon and I meant to get out of bed at eight. "What is the point?" I think to myself. My depressed mind seduces me with all sorts of awful, mean thoughts about how the people I cared about never really cared about me, how my life was a lie, and how the people who remain are growing tired of me. They would be better off without me.

I know I should reach out, but I'm completely frozen. What if they're having a hard time, too? What if they're having a harder time? I have friends and loved ones losing parents, dealing with homelessness, and having their social lives ripped apart through no choice of their own, unlike me. I feel guilty for engaging in Pain Olympics, even mentally. If they wanted to hear from me, they would have reached out. How long has it been since they did? I check. I get sad. I feel guilty again. People have lives, and I knew how social entropy would work here. I made my choices and I am sticking to them.

The pain builds so much that I start crying just to relieve something, and then I get up and manage to drag myself downstairs to do basic things like take my medications and eat. I even brew up some tea. Now people are reaching out and I can't feel anything. I can't smile. I can't laugh, and I don't want to. I cry again. Now my brain is thinking some more seductive and very scary thoughts, the making arrangements and writing a note kind. I let my mind mull over that for a little while as my tea gets cold and consider not telling anyone what I'm thinking. I tell my husband anyway.

After a long delay, I drag myself to the shower and wash my hair for the first time since I got it re-dyed, which means a lot of dye leaking out of my hair. Feels kind of therapeutic. I decide to do every bit of grooming and moisturizing I can from head to toe, and then I dry my hair and decide to do my makeup. Now I'm starting to feel normal again.

In the middle of doing my makeup, my husband comes up with a vase of flowers from my boyfriend. This is my life now. Yeah, it feels weird to me too, but it definitely makes me feel better. I finish my makeup and head out for a planned pedicure and not a moment too soon apparently. Toenails were about to revolt.

By the time I get home and my husband and I get to the movies, I feel completely like my normal self, but at the beginning of the day I thought that there was no way to salvage a day that started out as badly as this one did seemingly without cause.

I don't know if this is the way it is for everyone. I know what to do, or what I should do, to cope and get myself out of those dark hours when I'm feeling so low that I don't know if I can get back up again. I have a tried and true crisis plan, and I know what works for me. Sometimes, despite my experience to the contrary, I lose faith that my plans and tactics work, or that my support system will be able to catch me this time. Sometimes I wish they wouldn't.

Today was hard. I survived anyway.