Something always felt wrong to me. I could never explain what it was.
The first time I thought of dying was when I was 13 years old. I woke up on an ordinary day and just wished it was all over. It was simple moments that continued through the next few years. What if I slit my wrists, or jumped off this building, or swallowed these pills? Would this pain end? I didn’t know what the pain was or why it was happening to me. I’ve had hardships, many, but why couldn’t I feel any joy?
I cut. I cut my wrist with anything I could get my hands on. Scissors-nail clippers-knife. It felt a relief to feel something. Adrenaline maybe. I did it until I was caught. I was begged to stop. Promised it gets better. It didn’t.
I hurt every single day. Some days I could barely move. Barely get out of bed. Couldn’t look in a mirror, couldn’t breathe sometimes. I wanted to die. To feel nothing anymore. Even moments with sparks of joy were tainted.
I surrounded myself with unhealthy people. They loved me, I loved them but we hurt each other. Everything got worse until I was completely numb. I told someone I loved them, they rejected me. I drank. I planned my escape. I would do it soon. Finally end it. I chickened out.
I found some peace for a short-lived time. I fell in love. He loved me back. It felt like I finally would have some relief. It was short lived. He hurt me so badly I didn’t think I would survive. I took some pills and tried to end it. I went on suicide watch.
We found each other again, again it was pain and suffering. I finally saw a therapist. She called me out on my bullshit. If I didn’t get better, it was all over. 20 years old and barely making it through a day. Awful, wasn’t even the word.
My therapist told me it wasn’t my fault. I had something wrong with my brain. I didn’t believe her. She pushed me to think. She pushed me to realize the weight of my life. I fought but I tired. It was a struggle.
Another attempt and finally a taste of freedom released me from my relationship. I cut again for the first time in years and it no longer brought me the relief it once did. My therapist rang in my head. Fight or flight.
Diagnosed Depression isn’t a joke. I’ve come to find it’s a family gene. It wasn’t my fault I wanted to die. The chemicals in my brain told me I didn’t deserve to live, I know now I do. Every day struggles, some days worse than others. I wish I could tell myself back then it’ll all get better. It’s a fight but my life is worth fighting for.