In my head it feels like maybe I’ve written this letter a thousand times.
I’ve reminded myself over and over in the darkest of moments of these truths, yet still find them buried underneath a pile of rubble I am too terrified to unearth. I just keep staring down at these filthy hands, unsure of where to begin in all the mess.
I’m writing to tell you that right now, I’m struggling to be okay. I’m struggling to not get so lost in the constant clog and cloud of my anxiety and depression, of the apathy that rolls over my body in waves and tries to convince me that I will never be good enough to love. That I will never be a good mother because I never had the example growing up. The lies that tell me that even though I have spent months working towards certain goals, that maybe I don’t really want this bad enough anymore. I won’t ever want it bad enough.
The thoughts and the fears will not stop.
I don’t know how to make them stop.
I keep finding myself at night barely able to catch my breath with the thoughts that just keep slamming into my brain like meteorites. I will finally find myself comfortable. The pillow in the right fluffed position. My body perfectly wedged against my husband. And then the first thought kerplunks its way into my atmosphere and it is over. I try to slow my breathing. Imagine something sweeter. Happier. Put on music that makes me happy or calm. But the thoughts keep tumbling in like the sky is falling and I’m scared my world will shatter.
I have been on this healing journey for seven long years. I have pushed myself to find answers to things I never knew even were problems in the first place.
I’ve looked my terrors in the face and screamed “FUCK YOU!” over and over and over until all the breath in my lungs has dissipated and I am nothing but an empty vessel.
I have slowly found strength in the crushed bones of my enemies, watching them grind slowly into ash as I rise up into a new formed being.
I have wrestled with demons with faces like my own. Demons that wear my smile proudly. Try to convince me I am one of them.
Yet I just can’t get over the missing
The missing is so much some days I am not entirely sure how I am expected to piece myself back together.
My depression has made the apathy so strong that some days I see the glue on the other side of the room and I know it is there, yet I do not care enough to walk there and get the bottle. Some days I don’t know how to get up and get the bottle. I just find myself floating in the atmosphere wondering how I am expected to get enough oxygen to come down and live with this human existence.
I know I did the right thing–cutting my parents out of my life.
I know that one cannot be in a toxic relationship and expect to not also get poisoned.
People often talk about things being black or white.
Over the years I’ve learned that things are far more grey than we will ever give them credit for. Sometimes the right answers hurt just as much as the wrong ones. There is no “good feeling” answer at first. But, over time, I have felt the weight slowly lift off of my shoulders. I know that putting an end to the unattainable expectations, to the heartache, to the fights over the phone 2,000 miles away while I just try to convince them that I have my life under control is the right decision. Right now, it still hurts like a fresh wound. Right now, it still aches like it was just scraped yesterday. But I know the more that I focus on healing myself by working on me, I can heal because I am not drinking the poison daily and still wondering why I am so set back in the process of learning how to love myself.
I’m writing this letter to remind you, that maybe not right now and maybe not tomorrow, but some day, things can be okay.
I can be okay.
Right now, I am trying to find enough courage and strength to find the right person to talk to about all of this.
Growing up in a society that claims that this is weakness, that this openness and vulnerability is not acceptable, that all of this should be drowned out by the clamoring to convince you that I am okay. But I’m not going to try to convince you. I’m not going to try to run to you and tell you that my life is perfect. That the happy things I post are the equivalent to me of all that I am. I am not going to try to tell you that it is unacceptable to be anything other than okay and bright and bold.
It is not weakness to struggle.
I am writing this letter to tell you. I am fighting.
I have been fighting my whole life.
I have fought SO HARD to be here right now.
And I am.
I have fought so hard this year to keep myself together.
But I am fighting to continue to be here. Not just physically. Mentally. Here. Enjoying the sunshine and the rain and the moments spent in the darkness.
Because in the end I will rise.
A queen covered in ashes.
And I can tell you, how I rode the storm through the fear. And made it out alive.