There's a kind of safety in the hurt that you already know and experienced. For me, It's the little things -sitting alone at lunch or not understanding an inside joke— that take me back to the times where days were a struggle to get through, without the constant thought of, "When will it be too much?" It's not often, but when I do feel it, it feels comforting and good. A sickening good. The type of good which is frowned upon, which shouldn't be there. But I cannot help it. It akes me feel safe. It's all I've known for most of my life. believe I'm getting better but sometimes the thoughts persist. Urging me to write the letter again, wondering if people would miss me if someday, I did commit. During these moments, I stare at the box of medicine a second too long. The want to give everything away feels far too enticing than it should. The overwhelming need to hug my unsuspecting mother for perhaps the last time feels utterly devastating. I despise feeling these thoughts. I don't choose to feel them, it is just what my mind repeats what it often used to think, thoughts it now tries to bury down, to forget. But I know, it will always resurface.
"My mind is my best friend."
Is what I used to believe when I was going through this time. I still believe it. It's the only thing that truly understands me because it is me. Yet sometimes, I cannot understand myself the way my mind does. Confusing, right? But, I cannot explain it any differently. But as much as my mind often comforts me during my hardest days, it also causes said hardest days. Depression is complicated, as expected. It is not just feeling sad or occasional bed-rotting. It is a constant battle between yourself. The desperation of wanting to actually live and the absolute hopelessness you feel when you're stuck in the never ending cycle of self-sabotage. One that requires so much work and time to break. You want to get better, but getting up from bed and acting normal seems impossible. It's even worse when you hide it from everyone. You want to be perceived as okay, alright. Most people don't catch when someone is going through something. I didn't have actual friends at the time but If i did, I don't think they would've noticed. My family didn't. Not because they didn't care, they did. I just hid it. The overwhelming fear of how they would react to their youngest daughter having these gut wrenching thoughts made me physically unable to speak up. I f dizzy, nauseous and was drowning in a sea of my own thoughts whenever I came close to telling them. What would I even say? There was so much to be said.
I did tell them, at one point. But it wasn't me who actually broke the news. My counsellor knew what was going on in a vague sense with the little I told her and just told my parents to check up on me. My mother did the best she could, my father did as well. I pretended to get better; to put their minds at ease. But I still suffered for the next 2 years or so.
I don't remember when I got 'better'. I don't believe I will ever get truly better without acknowledging the unspoken, unthought of feelings that exist deep in my mind. Perhaps one day I will have the courage to lay out my feelings and thoughts to decipher and acknowledge, provide closure and let go. But perhaps I won't. I really don't know. All I know is that I have to get through tomorrow, whether I like it or not. I also believe it has made me the person I am today. That's alright. I think I like who I am, even if she finds comfort in her sorrow.