An Open Letter

An Open Letter

My dearest ______,

 

If you’re reading this, then it could only mean one thing: I’m in a much better place. If you’re reading this, then I have finally done what I should have done a million years ago. If you’re reading this, it means that I was too tired of fighting, of everything – the voices, the constant dread, the hell I was in, my skin that seemed like it was never my own, everything about myself – and needed that way out. That final step.

If you know me, you’d know by now that I have clinical depression. It bears repeating. I have clinical depression. I HAVE CLINICAL DEPRESSION.

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The Aftermath of 3/12/2016’s Battle

The Aftermath of 3/12/2016’s Battle

I wrote the following last night. Had an anxiety attack as I was writing it.

3/11/2016

My honeymoon period with my anti-depressants is over. It’s been over for about a month now, if I’m not mistaken. I’m afraid. Everything’s real now. That constant rise of my emotional momentum has begun to normalize. Up and down. Rise and fall.

On those first months with Escitalopram, I felt so much lighter. My head was on the clouds. On a high. Happiness. Medicated happiness. I felt an optimism that I’ve never felt before. Positivity without the danger of slipping back into the darkness.

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Always At War With Self

I often worry about what I say to the friends who ask me for advice about problems or issues regarding their mental health. I’m not an expert. I don’t do scholarly reading on matters pertaining to mental health. Although I have been wanting to, frankly. I delay such activities as I have this habit of getting dumbfounded at the technicalities. I’d end up staring into the blankest of spaces trying to decipher what the fuck I just read.

Anyway, yeah, I know how dangerous saying the wrong words is. I know how sensitive and malleable the mind of those who are at the end of their rope is. I’ve been there. I’m still there, in fact. I may be a hundred times better than who I was. I may seem a completely different person – positive and more joyous – but I’m still there. I still feel that dread, that paranoia. I still feel the anxiety and the isolation. Only what’s changed is I can handle it better. Most days, at least.

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The Aftermath of 2/21/2016’s Battle

Like most wars, it started with a girl. Sort of. It was the stressor in a thousand other different triggers that I had overlooked because my mind was too focused on positivity. That one drop that finally filled the brim.

It might seem shallow. Even I admitted that to myself when I was entrenched in another bout with my damaged psyche last night. “You’re fucking shallow” and “You’re God damned fucking shallow” become two of my spoken repeated mantras last night. But it wasn’t about a girl. Not precisely. It was about how my mind is now.

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A Letter to My Mother

A Letter to My Mother

February 14, 2016

 

I don’t even know where to begin. Where to start. It’s been twenty seven years. That’s a grown adult already. Twenty seven years. Twenty seven long years of loss. Of tragedy. Of a pain that I don’t think will ever go away. How can it go away? How do you even move on from the way you left us? Especially now that it’s all coming into light that I am just like you. That your legacy of sadness and madness has passed on to me.

How can I move past the way you died – taking your own life – when I myself have more than flirted with doing the same thing since I can remember? There’s too much we have in common, as they say. We share the same disposition. But do we share the same fate? No. Of course not.

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Note To Self: Don’t Die

That’s how it starts, right? You stare at a blank white wall stained with age and cracks and ants marching on a line into an invisible hole. You grab your imaginary marker and start writing your lists and dreams. You paint a picture of what your life could be, of what your life must be. And then you realize that you’re still decades away from that life. You realize that all those lists and dreams are next to impossible. Next to impossible. Improbable. But given the right encouragement and the right amount of drive, it’s achievable.

And then it creeps up on you. That realization that you’re actually moving forward from a life that became your home. That you’re letting go of the darkness that was a part of you. You’re shedding a life that, despite the insanity it brought, you made sense of. Their insanity became your sanity. Their tempest became your serenity.

And then in one Thursday afternoon, everything changed.

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I Feel What You’re Going Through

I have a list of topics to blog/write about scrawled across the walls of the numerous rooms in my mind. Some have been swept away. Some have been replaced. Most have been forgotten.

I remembered one of the topics today after reading the news of BMX superstar Dave Mirra’s self-inflicted gunshot wound. I know of him from a skateboard / BMX video game I played in my youth. I remember playing his character. I remember doing the 360s and wheelies with his character.

I was reminded of the topic because of the nature of Mirra’s death. Suicide.

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