when i was young i always hid my depression. always. there were no exceptions. i didn’t have one single person that i confided in and told my deep, dark secrets to. yes, i had a best friend. no, she knew nothing about the poisons i had flowing within.
it just wasn’t acceptable to speak about your troubles. being sad, being down…being suicidal were just not ok. especially for a small child like i was. it most certainly was not ok to to tell anyone anything about my home life. the consequences for that would have been far worse than death. death would have been welcome, even at such a very young age.
if i would have spoken of my home life to any other living soul, even another member of my family, the ramifications i would have faced would have been a torture unheard of. unspeakable. unimaginable. these facts were just known. no one had to tell me.
growing up it never occurred to me to talk to anyone. it never crossed my mind to tell another living soul what i was feeling, what i was going through or anything of the like. i just simply went about my days and suffered in silence.
i developed my own coping mechanisms, or lack thereof. i became a master of disguise. i can wear a million dollar smile that would fool anyone. anyone. to this very day,
i am capable of existing throughout an entire day, laughing and playing, carrying on as if not a thing were wrong…all the while planning each and every detail of a suicide i intend on carrying out later that night.
it’s happened. clearly the attempt failed…but no one ever knew. i have had a lifetime of pretending to be fine. being anything else was never an option.
when i was little, kids weren’t suicidal. kids weren’t depressed. for the most part, kids were kids. we hadn’t really even overcome the whole “don’t speak unless spoken to” rule yet. kids played outside until dark. no tv. there were no computers, no cell phones, no tablets, no gaming consoles. kids were kids. we weren’t really listened to much…and we weren’t really paid a whole lot of attention to.
it was easy for me to slip by. no one was looking. i never caused any trouble. i was an “A” student. i was quiet. i wasn’t awkward or weird. i had decent social skills. i was normal. i had above average intelligence, and that kept everyone pleased.
i came from abusive homes. my parents were divorced and both households were abusive in their own respective ways. i preferred the abuse i endured at my father’s…which i got less time at since my mother had primary custody.
my grandmother (my father’s mother) was my saving grace on many occasions. but even my saving grace was a crippled grace. i was not her favorite, or her preferred, grandchild…and she liked to remind me of all of my many shortcomings. even with that, she provided the most love. half loves is all i ever got. i suppose half loves are better than none.
no loves are what i got most of the time from my parents and my step mom. my father was an abusive alcoholic and a drug addict. step mom wasn’t abusive, but was a neglectful and jealous alcoholic and drug addict. my father had actually left my mother and i for her when i was young. old enough to remember, though. it was an absolute mess.
my mother came from a long line of mental illness. generation after generation of abusive drug addicts, child molesters, alcoholics, schizophrenics, bipolar, depression, rapists…etc. you name it, i’m sure it exists somewhere in her family. seriously. and so decade after decade, life continually just repeated itself because no one ever made a change. people just kept living the same life. making the same choices. living the same mistakes. no one ever sought out help. no one ever made any attempt to end the cycle of absolute horror.
my mother’s father was an abusive alcoholic, drug addict, schizophrenic. his drug of choice was heroin. heroin before heroin was popular. i mean, we are talking…hell, 70, 80 years ago. he was honorably discharged from the army before WWII. he was such a mess they didn’t even want him to fight in a war. he sexually abused his children. he beat them constantly. he did the same to his wife, my mother’s mother.
my mother’s mother is pure evil. there’s really no need to elaborate on that. i mean it exactly how i said it. she is an awful woman who delights in the pain and suffering of others. she was, and is, a horrible mother. she was a horrible daughter to her parents. she was a horrible grandparent (that i have not had any contact with since before i got sober…so…almost 8 years now). she is why hell was created.
so my mother lived through that. she made no efforts to make any changes in herself. she then had a total of 6 children die (miscarriages, ectopic pregnancies, etc) and had one child live (me). she repeated almost all the same mistakes her mother made. my mother’s first husband was a very sick (mentally ill) man. i won’t bore you with all of the details, but he was abusive on every level and was an addict. mom did her fair share of drugs and drinking but she was spared the addiction gene. however, mom suffers with her own slew of mental illnesses that she refuses to get help for. it was hell growing up with her.
after her divorce from her first husband (and my dad’s divorce from his first wife, who cheated on him with his best friend) mom met, and married, my father. i got my first beating when i was in the womb. mom was 7 months pregnant. i am told he was wearing steel toed boots. she was kicked down a flight of stairs and then he just laid into her. we ended up in the hospital. he ended up in rehab. i almost didn’t make it, they say. apparently beatings hurt, even in the womb.
mom’s saving grace was her grandma. the only good and pure family member on that entire side. the one woman who made a difference. i remember her, my great grandma. she was absolutely heaven on earth. she had Jesus written all over her (metaphorically speaking, of course). she was pure. if it weren’t for her, who knows how my mother would’ve turned out. i credit my great grandma (and the Lord) for every ounce of good and normal that managed to make it into my mother. she was my saving grace, too.
my dad’s parents were decent. grandma was a registered nurse. retired long before i was born. smart. very smart. she came from a wealthy family, all of which were arrogant drunks. wealthy only after the depression. grandma and her siblings each were sent to live with relatives during the depression because her parents were very poor. grandma went to her aunt and uncle’s. they were very well off. grandma was a good woman. she had a kindness to her that the rest of her family did not. still, grandma had an edge. she could be lethal. ruthless. cunning. i loved her very much. she was an extraordinary woman. and so very beautiful. all things considered, i’d have never made it without her. she loved me more than everyone else combined. crippled love and all.
grandpa was amazing. a good man. i never met him. he died before i was born. drowned. died trying to save a man when their boat capsized at the lake. he was young. around the same age my dad was when he passed. dad was 56 when he died. i think grandpa was 57. grandpa grew up very poor. he was a hardworking, honest man. he made a good living and provided a nice life for grandma, my dad and aunt. he was funny, easy going, kind…loved animals and children. sober. the only member of my family (both sides) that i can say that about (other than my mother). i’m told he would have loved me. i’m told that i am a lot like my grandma and grandpa. if only. he served as a CB in the navy during WWII.
he and grandma were very much in love. she never dated or remarried after he passed. he was the love of her life. they had a child who died when he was four years old. freak accident. grandma never recovered from that loss, or the loss of grandpa.
dad grew up spoiled. they tried to overcompensate for the son they lost. he also grew up living in the shadow of a dead brother that he would never be able to live up to. dad was selfish and self centered…and yet kind and generous. under the influence he was the absolute worst person…sober, he was the absolute best person i have ever known. he was abusive, but never sexually abusive. i am thankful for that. the sexual abuse i have suffered came later in life, and from men who were not related to me.
for the first 7 years of my life dad was sober. well, that’s what they say. between us, i don’t think that’s completely true. i know dad, i know drugs and alcohol and i know addiction. i think he tried. i think that was probably the most sober he ever was. i am sure for the first few years he might have been. but…the drugs called to him like my lungs call to the air, or like the drugs call to me. never has a greater love story ever been written than my dad and drugs, though.
eventually his love for the drugs was too strong…and i was always nothing. mom was always nothing. we couldn’t compete. ever. he left. and life was never the same.
the sanity that he brought to mom left, too. the sobriety that she brought to dad disappeared. everything that was somewhat stable and good…vanished.
hell descended into my world.
what i later found out, though, was that hell was already there.
they became who they always were…and i became me. no one ever came to save me. i just lived through it. alone.
i slowly began to open up a bit in my late teens, early 20s. but by then i was really into the drugs and drinking. i was hardening. i was so far withdrawn inside myself that it was just too much. i trusted no one. no one but one. a man who became a father to me. who took me under his wing. protected me from myself. protected me from my own father a few times. protected me from my mother. but couldn’t protect me enough. because i won out. the drugs took over. and they took my 20s along with the previous years.
i kept searching for death. daring death to come find me. begging death, at times. and God kept interfering. saying “no.” pissing me off. the guns wouldn’t work, the overdoses never took. i would increase and increase and increase…enough drugs to kill a village…and yet i would live. it was impossible. i would load the gun, i would pull the trigger…and nothing. i’d check the safety. it wouldn’t be on. i’d dick around with it. cuss at it. bang it on whatever i could find. i’d pull the trigger. nothing. different day, different gun. different bullets. same result. pull the trigger. nothing. safety? not on. fuck around with it. try again. nothing. try to overdose again. nothing. increase the amount again. nothing. mix a cocktail of drugs. nothing. increase the amounts. nothing. i got a knife. i got distracted by the pain. i liked it too much. and then i tried overdosing again. and again…and again. so many times. i tried a total of three guns. three. three guns failed. the same three guns worked just fine outside shooting at beer cans, though, with the man i was seeing at the time. i lost count of how many times i tried to od.
death didn’t want me. i became very angry. very angry.
when i got sober i started to talk some. it’s encouraged. however, i am me…and it just isn’t something that i am good at. overtime it got a little easier. not the part about talking about my past, but talking about if i was sad…mad, etc. i became in touch with my feelings. something that is hard for addicts and alcoholics. we spend so much time and effort avoiding our feelings.
now, though, i find myself reverting back. back to the old me. the me that doesn’t share with anyone (that i know…you guys don’t really count so much. you know, since i don’t know you. since it’s unlikely this is even read. lol). i’m tired of being open. i’m tired of people knowing my business. i’m tired of being vulnerable to others in that way. and the ones i wouldn’t mind knowing…well…it just doesn’t seem like it would be good if they knew.
it doesn’t seem like it would be good if they knew how truly sad i am. how messed up everything is right now. how destroyed i am. so i have been flashing my million dollar smile around like i’m getting paid to wear it. i have been posting nothing but funny and happy things on social media (although, i never really post the sad crap everyone else does). i have been lying and pretending that i am perfectly fine. happy-go-lucky.
when really, the anxiety and depression feel like they are at a very high level. i feel like i am suffocating. i don’t know if i want to scream or just lay down and die half the time. i cry in the bathroom when no one is around. and i fantasize about taking a gun and just blowing my brains out in the bedroom on a daily basis. i just can’t breathe.
there doesn’t seem to be an end these days. no light at the end of the tunnel. no end to the day. and the people i am surrounded by have been…just awful.
the pain inside about a few things i’m going through just threatens to swallow me whole. i find myself just begging…begging no one…the air…the universe…to just let me fall into the arms of the person who makes me feel safe and to just let me get it all out. let it all out.
the pain, the sadness is so deep and overwhelming i don’t even know how i would get it out with words. i feel myself wanting to revert back to my old ways of dealing. self harm. a way of release. either that or having some really good sex. that has always proven to be a very effective way for me to communicate everything bottled up within. or my personal favorite…drugs. the sweet release that comes from the drugs…
and i beg God to just end it and be done. just be done finally. let this life be over. because i am so tired of living it. so tired.
but i keep my mouth shut. i smile. i laugh. i’m fun. i just have another cup of coffee. but even the fucking coffee is hurting me lately. i fear i have developed an ulcer…i have stomach pain. for months now. the stress…it’s getting to me finally.
life is slowly killing me.