Have you ever asked someone how they were doing and their response was, “Can’t complain, no one would listen anyway,”? Until I heard it myself from someone, I never realized how true it actually was. I haven’t written in entirely too long. I can recall times when it was nearly impossible to get me to put down my pen or to quit typing away at my refurbished laptop. Writing used to be a sort of oasis for me. Whenever I would feel overwhelmingly stressed or on the verge of a mental breakdown, I could just write without even thinking. I was always pleased with whatever ramblings that ended up on the piece of paper or computer screen in front of me. I began to view writing as my way of venting, without the possibility of annoying anyone around me with my seemingly meaningless problems.
I’m not exactly sure when the exact moment was that writing started becoming a distant memory to me. Actually, it’s not so much that I just let it slide away, it was as though I physically couldn’t bring myself to write down absolutely anything. Maybe it was the shame in how I was feeling, or possibly my feelings were just vacuuming any morsel of motivation left in me. Whatever the case, losing writing has made me feel more and more like I am losing myself.
I never sought praise for my work. As a matter of fact, I never felt as thought it even deserved any sort of recognition. I suppose we can just chalk that up to my lack of self confidence. Lately I’ve been thinking about the love I used to have for words, and expressing my feelings through text. I miss it more than I miss the warmth of summer while I’m stuck in the deathly cold fingertips of winter.
Truth is, I haven’t been doing well even in the slightest. I feel like I find myself looking at my pile of ruins instead of the dreams I once had. Ever since I can recall, I’ve dealt with some degree of depression. I can remember being around the age of probably as young as six, sitting in my dark bedroom, which I shared with one of my sisters, and praying to God that if he wouldn’t take the pain in my life away, then to take my life instead. Constantly throughout childhood I suffered the roller coaster of every emotion possible. Sadly, this was all before I even entered middle school. I’m fairly sure that is when things began to get worse for me.
I can’t recall the first time I ever self-mutilated. I can’t even remember what made me so upset to finally sink down to such a low level of depression. What I do know is that I was in sixth grade when it first began, accompanied by the eating disorders. The most fucked up part about it all is that I’m twenty-one years old, and still struggle with all of this each and every day.
There are times where I can go weeks, hell even months, without even a thought of putting a razor to my wrist, shoving my fingers down my throat, or counting each and every calorie. All it takes is one single moment, one tiny little “problem” and I’m back to square -10, but each time, I’m more lost than ever. Any time after I’ve ever done such things to myself, I’ve completely regretted it and felt so ashamed of myself. Not that helped any of the situations, due to the fact that shamefulness brought on another friend who never tags along very far behind me: low self-esteem.
If any psychologist or psychiatrist would read this, the textbook terms of each possible condition would be poured onto my lap like a Thanksgiving platter. But only one accurately fits my… life: BPD. If you’ve ever seen the movie Girl, Interrupted, I’m sure you have created a vivid picture in your head of how I may act. For those of you who, for some unknown reason, have not seen this, it’s an abbreviation for borderline personality disorder. Which basically is a combination of all my fucked up little traits that I can’t seem to shake, even to this day.
Who knows, maybe I was born to be crazy and stuck in this state of darkness,emptiness, and self loathing. But then again, they don’t call it hell on earth for nothing.