My descent into darkness was slow, unobtrusive, and almost unnoticeable. Almost.
It was the luster fading with things I used to enjoy doing. It was the way food didn’t taste the same and lost it’s appeal. It was the numbness I felt at what would normally cause joy. It was the darkness that filled me, permeating every single part of me and turning it to shadow. It was the disconnect from those I loved. It was the inability to be who I am. It was the incapability to manage my life. It was the fear, the pain, the shame, the guilt, the gut wrenching, stomach knotting, heart tearing sorrow that became the only thing I could see and feel. It was my life falling to pieces around me, crumbling at my feet, and me standing there, silently screaming with my entire being while I clawed at the edge, trying to hold on. But I couldn’t.
My fingernails snapped, fingers broke, and I slipped into the abyss. It enveloped me, cradled me in it’s dark, cold arms, and welcomed me with it’s black kiss, sucking my soul from me, cutting every fiber of the human I used to be and turning me into nothing. Absolutely nothing. A shell, a husk, empty and shattered. Broken beyond repair, my fingers sticky and grimed with glue while I fumbled to put the pieces back together. Needle and bloody thread, dripping red at my feel as I attempted to sew myself whole. Nothing worked. Nothing could save me.
There I was, soulless, dehumanized, nothing, letter written, hidden, sobbing, shaking, knife to my throat, pressing in, a hairsbreadth from splitting my skin, and I stopped.
Could I do it? Could I abandon my family, my husband, my friends? Yes. But, my children. That…..that I could not do. Leave them pondering their value. Questioning why they weren’t loveable enough for me to stick around? Know that I had left them, walked away, knowingly abandoned them and spending their entire lives wondering why? Deal with the questions, the ridicule, the trauma? Fuck, no, I wasn’t about to do to my kids what had, in a different way, been done to me. I would walk through fire, drink acid, throw myself in front of a train for my kids, and it occurred to me that this, living, was quite literally, and absolutely, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face. But, for my girls, I will do it.
So this is me, doing what it takes to survive. Checking myself into a mental hospital to keep me from killing myself. Spending four days there, learning how to cope with being alive. Taking six different medications to keep me ‘stable’. Committing myself to six hours of therapy a day for the next two weeks, and three a day for two weeks after that, so I can get ‘well’. Knowing that ‘well’ isn’t ‘cured’. That this is a struggle I will be dealing with for the rest of my life. Accepting that. Knowing it as I take my first step forward. Sitting here tonight, writing this, spewing my sad, painful truth for those who give a fuck. All so I can give my kids a motherfucking chance. Knowing that every day will be a different struggle and hoping I have the balls to ask for help when I need it.
Death is easy.
Life, acceptance, change- that’s what’s hard.