I’m Still Here

I’m still alive.

 

A couple of days ago, I suddenly wondered if the followers of this blog (who are not my friends on Facebook or Twitter) think that I’ve done something drastic, like, ya know, kill myself. I have been writing about clinical depression and have suicidal tendencies, after all.

I’ve been meaning to post something since the two and a half week absence. A couple of somethings, actually. I never get to finish what I write. Either I suddenly get anxiety attacks or my mind’s too preoccupied with absolutely everything. I’m at that stage of my treatment where I’m feeling everything again. Even the smallest of things affect me now. I get these wild mood swings that comes out of nowhere.

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The Bravest Thing That You Can Do

“I’ll be honest and say that at first I was shocked and confused as to how you could post things that are supposedly just for you like things about anxiety and depression.”
That was among the contents of a message I received the day after my last breakdown. It was the first sentence, actually. I dialed in on that sentence for a while. I had to understand it. I had to digest it. Analyze it. The sentence that came after stated that the sender did realize how I could do such a thing, how I can be so open about my anxiety and depression to others.
I read the whole message and went back to that first sentence. I kept rereading it like it was a mathematical equation that I was trying to decipher.
“…supposedly just for you…”

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The Aftermath of 3/24/2016’s Battle

It happened again last night. A couple of friends were over. I was with someone who makes me truly happy and calm. I was having fun and enjoying life. We were drinking and just making the most of the time we shared.

I had to leave the festivities for a bit for the saddest part of the night: driving the girl I like to her house. Didn’t want to let go of her hand, but I had to.

I came back to the friends I had over, to the alcohol that was for us, and continued drinking. It was a perfect night. Until they all went home and I was left alone to ponder on what was said to me by one of them.

That’s when it all spiraled again.

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Providence & New Ghosts

I say this with no confirmation as getting it would be impossible at this point, but my mother may have passed her mental health issue on to me. Genetics play a crucial factor in our wellbeing. That’s a scientific fact. Heart issues run in my father’s side of the family. I have one. Nothing major, but it’s there. On my mother’s side, well, that’s one where nothing can ever be known. My mother’s family is a black hole to me, unfortunately.

After my mother’s funeral, her whole family cut ties with us. I don’t know why, but I can speculate. Her sister, whom I assume she was close with, blames my father for my mother’s suicide. We’ve tried reaching out the only way we can: by leaving our contact info to the caretaker of the Marcelo mausoleum to give to the Aunt that is a stranger to me. I may have passed her, or anyone from my mother’s family, on the street and I’d never know it.

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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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