With September being Suicide Awareness Month, it seems like a fitting time to share my most vulnerable essay yet. Writing is a place where I don’t hide, it’s where I can be completely human. I think that sharing our stories is so powerful. It sheds light on the feelings and experiences we share. There is nothing worse than feeling alone and so, I am sharing this essay. I recently shared it with 2 friends of mine and it was like a weight off my chest. Besides my therapist, no one knew that I had any of these thoughts. But the thing is, they’re real, they’re human, and there are so many others who have had similar thoughts and expereinces.
I have come to realize that strength isn’t saying that I’m fine and brushing off the hard things I’ve experienced. It’s seeking help from therapy and medication. It’s owning the hard days and reaching out to the people I love and trust. When I shared this essay with my 2 friends, I felt empowered. I felt alive, relieved, and unashamed. This isn’t the story of a broken women. It’s not a story about a damsel in disress. It’s the story of a really strong woman. I hope that if any of it resonates with you, you realize that YOU are really strong and that there is no shame in seeking help.
Am I a burden? Am I a burden? Am I a burden? I wonder, I wonder, I wonder. All I want to do is reach out but I don’t want anyone to worry about me. I don’t want to be that person.
Living is hard. Do I want to be alive right now? Being alive is so damn difficult. Is it worth it? It would be so much easier if I weren’t alive. So much less pain. So much less fatigue. If reincarnation is a thing, I don’t want to be. I wouldn’t want to have to do life twice.
Ultimately, I know that living is worth it. I KNOW that. We live in a world with oceans, sunrises, first kisses, Chick Fil- A employees who want nothing more in life than to make you happy (my lesbian twin sister is cursing my name right now- sorry Emily), and jalapeno cheddar cheetos (which I’m convinced are God’s culinary gift to mankind). How could it not be? But still, the feelings flood me occasionally, an overwhelming sense of dread that I have to smile and act okay. I would never kill myself, I couldn’t bring my family that kind of pain. I don’t feel alive though. I used to, but I’ve lost that spark. I don’t know how to get that spark back.
This essay is three years of pain pouring out onto paper
It’s two sexual assults and one rape- because 3rd time is the fucking charm I guess. Lucky me. 1. A man drags me under a waterfall; his hands on my breasts. I try to escape but in my attempt, I slip and fall on the rocks. He pulls me back. The water is pouring over my head, I can’t see or think; what is happening? When will it be over? I’m scared. 2. I’m on a tro-tro, we’re at a stop. Men swarm the vehicle. I’m at a window seat, their hands are everywhere; my hair, my breasts, my face. I’m surrounded by people who watch in silence. I’m drowning but I can’t scream. 3. It’s 2am and I’m in an alleyway. I’m too drunk to say no as a man pushes me up against a wall and takes off my pants. He’s inside me. I shove him off and run away. I get a taxi home. In two weeks, I’ll be back in the US. I’ll get tested for STIs and HIV. I am so ashamed. It takes me more than a year to not be.
It’s a text; “Hey if I have some kind of terrible news, would you want to know now or later?” Then a phone call. Cancer suddenly enters my life in a way I never thought it would. My mother has drugs pumped into her every few weeks, they can cause other types of cancer but hey, maybe it’ll kill this one. She IS strong. I pretend to be. My little sister had to watch this first hand, alone. She grew up way too fast. No 17 year-old should have to watch their mother go through that. It’s the fear that she’s not out of the woods yet. I don’t know what I would do without her.
My heart is shattered. I never hear from him again. Who ghosts someone after a year and a half? After all we’d been through.
It’s depression and intrusive thoughts, bad enough that I have to go on medication. I never thought that would be me, I’ve always been so positive, so full of life. Suddenly, I don’t know if I want to live it. I wake up at 5:45am in a panic. I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. I scroll mindlessly through Instagram, it pulls me back to reality. I go about my day, no one needs to know I wanted to die this morning. I’m fine now.
It’s moving halfway across the country and being told over and over, every single day that I am not welcome. I am not loved. I am worthless. I am not liked or respected. I stop eating because I am afraid to go into the kitchen and face the words of an 18 year old who doesn’t even know me. I’m 22, I shouldn’t care what he thinks. But I do. I eat granola bars at work and cry myself to sleep. I am interrogated; “Why are you here? You don’t deserve to be here”. I have 4 panic attacks in one week. I can’t breathe. I move onto a friend’s floor (literally, the floor). Finally, I am safe.
My boss makes me cry everyday. I’ve never had a toxic boss before. I get laid off due to budget cuts. The next day, my car battery dies. Will I ever catch a break?
The depression and the intrusive thoughts show up again. On my birthday, a friend takes me to a shooting range. I’ve been wanting to try it. But holding the gun in my hand, all I can think about is how easy it would be to make this dark fog disappear. Back on antidepressants I go. Will I ever be okay? Will I ever not need them? Or is this just me now?
My car gets hit twice in one week. My head and neck hurt. My boyfriend’s friends are more concerned about me than he is. Two days later, he breaks up with me, over the phone, while I’m driving. I’m not goofy enough; not funny enough to make him happy. Why did he send me flowers three days before he broke up with me? He doesn’t see anything wrong with the way he ended things. His friends think he treated me like an ass, it’s vaguely comforting. I would like to note that I think my dry-sassy sense of humor is fucking hilarious. I deserve better. I deserve someone who doesn’t run the first time things get tough.
I have spent 5 years searching for God but he still feels out of reach. Will I ever find him? I want God, I want God, I want God. I can’t remember the last time I prayed on my own.
All of this is not to say that my life isn’t full of good things. It IS. Oh, it is. I am so lucky to have the life story that I do. I have traveled the world. I am resilient. I am strong. I am compassionate. I am full of life. If you see me, I’m probably smiling and laughing.
But, behind it all, are these stories that no one fully knows. Behind it all is a girl whose mind is sometimes really fucked and chemically imballanced. Not always, but sometimes. Sometimes, these stories feel like too much to bare alone. And so, I wrote this. Now you know. This is me-all of me.,
We all carry hard things. I’m not special nor are my situations unique. There are people going through so much worse. Who have been through atrocities I can’t even imagine. But these hard things, they’re mine and I want to own them. I want to be open about the ways in which they’ve impacted my mind and I want other people who have had similar thoughts to know that it’s okay. It’s human. There is so much hope and help. Just reach out.
When I wrote this, I was hoping that sharing would help me find my spark…and it has. The moment I shared, the weight was lifted, a spark began to flicker. Does sharing mean I’m magically cured of all the seratonin imballances the last 3 years have thrown at me? Absolutely not, I’m quite certain Zoloft will remain a good friend of mine for quite some time. There will be more hard times and hard thoughts. But now, I know the power of reaching out. I have found strength in softness, in tears, in vulnerability.
If you ever feel like your light has dimmed, I hope you can to.
And to C & I, our Sunday mornings are one of my favorite parts of the week. Thank you for letting me share my heart with you. Your presence in my life is truly a gift.
Hugs,
Elisabeth
