I’m far from perfect; however, I’ve never claimed otherwise. I get lonely, I feel rejected, and I struggle with my self-image. I have waves of self-doubt and self-pity. These things are less than attractive, but such is the human condition, and we all have our moments.
What’s different today is that I get up and I try, even when I do not want to. Maybe it looks that way to people, maybe it doesn’t—trying looks different on everyone. I’ve struggled with depression and thoughts of suicide since I was ten years old. I’m no longer on any medication and haven’t been for two years now. I’ve spent most of my life seeing counselors and therapists and being on medication. I have rarely given any of them or the medications a fair shot, but sometimes I have.
The truth is, I’m actually better today—better unmedicated than I’ve ever been. But I still struggle. I really think everyone hates me sometimes. Sometimes I really hate me. Some days I avoid sharp objects; some days I can’t bring myself to shower or change clothes. For several years, I could barely go into public, much less a store alone. Most days, I’m okay to do all these things now. I’ve just never stopped trying, even when it felt like I was walking through quicksand. Even when I was terrified I would burst into tears if someone looked at me. Even when I felt like my heart was splitting in two because I just wanted human touch and was too scared to ask.
When someone says I make things look easy or that I appear put together and calm, it kind of breaks my heart. I feel like I’ve let them down. The things that have helped me most the past couple of years have honestly been seeing other people openly struggle—or openly with me, at least. There is solace in numbers: seeing them struggle and actively apply the same principles they have taught me to get through.
I’m tired of holding back. I’m tired of saying I’m okay when I’m not. I’m tired of being afraid of letting people see me. And I’m scared to death of people seeing me. I don’t know how much more loss I can take. That’s the fear. What if you see me and leave?
What if fear wasn’t a factor?
The Existential Diatribe 