It doesn’t take much. A gloomy day. A harsh word. A slight rejection. Not to mention a major one. Or a major setback. Of which I’ve had…many.
I struggle to outrun the depression. The sadness. The intense sadness.
It’s weird how a few moments of sunshine can lift me. Revive me. At least to the point where I can find the will to live. To keep going.
But in the gloom, the truth is exposed. In the fog, reality is strangely revealed. The depression. The intense sadness. The lack of hope. The despair.
My world is filled with too much despair. Too much sadness. Too much to be offset by the few good things that have come my way. The very few things.
My first suicide attempt was made when I was about 11 year old. Looking back, it’s hard for me to imagine why an 11 year old child would want to die. But I did. Want to die. I took a half a bottle of aspirin, all that was available, and went to sleep. Much to my disappointment, I awoke. Hours later. Groggy, but alive.
And disappointed. That I was alive.
My father was sexually abusing me. Had raped me. More than once. Among other things. Despicable things. But the first time he raped me, at least as far as I can remember, was when I was 11. Coincidence?
Wasn’t the first time he abuse me sexually. Wasn’t the first time he fondled me. Made me have oral sex with him. Or that he acted out his sick sexual fantasies with me. But I think, maybe, the first time he raped me was when I was 11. After which I tried to die. And failed.
My parents hit me. They rejected me. Certainly did not love me. Life didn’t seem worth living. Even as a child with the entire world ahead of me. My entire life ahead of me. The abuse ate me from the inside out. Hollowed me out. Isolated me. Made me strange. Broken.
And left me sad. Intensely sad. Unbearably sad.
In a deep, inexplicable way.
Depression ambushes me frequently. I fight it. But it is always there. Haunting me. Imprisoning me. My shadow. The haze that engulfs me.
There are good things in my life. Some sunshine between the clouds and storms. But my heart is damaged; so deeply damaged. My heart has been marinated in sadness. No part of me is untouched.
My soul is damaged. In some irreparable way. It was crushed when I was too young. Too young to protect myself. Too young to understand my soul needed protecting. Needed protecting from those who were supposed to be protecting me.
There are many things for which I am grateful. Many, many things. My life could have been so much worse.
But it could have been so much better.
Even a little bit better would have been incredible.
How do I balance the two?
My second suicide attempt was more serious. Deadly serious. I planned it for over a year. Hoarded medication. Adderall. I was prescribed 20 mg 3 times daily and I took them zero times a day. Because I did some research. Research that indicated I could kill myself with a mere 60 of these little beauties. I took 300 of those 20 mg pills. And lived to tell. Inexplicably lived to tell.
I was surprised. Surprised to wake up. Alive. Alive and…intensely sad.
I’m looking for good things. Holding on to them with all of my might. Trying to cast the sad things, the hard things, the ugly things, out of my line of sight. Trying to cling to any little good thing I can uncover.
Trying to escape the sadness. The intense sadness.
I can’t seem to outrun it.