Coming to terms with the bitter sweet…

Not too long ago, on this very platform, I did something very unlike myself. I let out emotion and vulnerability in what I believed was love. Now, a lot of things just took a turn and I’m not here to take back what I said but I am here to unarmour myself again and to somewhat cry for lost love, unrequited love and a tinge of heartbreak.

It seems as though I may have bitten a bit more than I could chew earlier when I got into the current relationship if I may at all call it that anymore. When I first spoke of it, I was certain that it would be different, it would have me wishing for nothing more. I wrote of how I was trying to navigate the whole idea that love didn’t equate to time as I had perceived it for quite a while. Now when I think about it, I just might have to stick to the ideology that it does, at least for the sake of myself and to possibly avoid anymore misleading emotion. Can’t really say that the current downfall of my relationship right now is sourly the fault of my perception that maybe love could happen in a matter of a couple conversations and what felt like one’s show of their heart. It wasn’t an absolute misjudgement of my part, sad to say, life happened too. It was SHIT, it still is. I never thought that apart from situations in the like of long distance relationships or toxic partners, I’d ever feel out of emotion for a person due to issues not exactly their fault. I’m embarrassed to say that I can’t quite reveal my reasons for just yearning to end this so called relationship because it genuinely would paint a poor picture of myself. I’ve gone back and forth with myself on whether my reasoning is anyway valid to ending this and I believe in the midst of it all, I stopped feeling so strongly for him and now all that’s left is some form of dull care. The kind of care that in time fizzles out.

You might be wondering why I’ve not ended it yet. I question myself over it too. I realized that I had banked so much hope for this working out, now it just feels like a failure I don’t know how to let go of. A dead heart that I’m still trying to resuscitate. It leaves a bad taste in my tongue just having to admit that even despite thinking it was God sent, it still didn’t work out. Maybe that’s where I went wrong, I misplaced God’s unanswered prayers for one that was entirely my doing. So here I am, trying to work out how to let go of an already sank ship. In the time I’ve had to ponder over how to let go, I came to terms with the fact that I’ve grown scared. I’d secretly held out hope that it was finally no longer going to be lonely for me anymore, that I’d not have to go through life as a lone sailor. I was undoubtedly overjoyed when we started, I knew he’d slay through the thicket and climb over my walls, past the monsters both in and out of my head and through the tight locked door where I stood, ready to quit being alone. It sounds selfish, that the only thing keeping us from absolute disintegration is my fear of being alone. He undoubtedly deserves better than that. I believe in leaving things on a clean slate, I’ve never been one to carry a grudge, at least when it comes to boyfriends turn exs. My poor soul can’t stand to have someone mad at me, it’s a terrible perk. I’m aware that I’m gonna have to sever the ties, regardless of my fears. It’s all I can do to hope I will find contentment within myself and being by myself.

So yeah, with finality in my heart and my mind made up, I know I need to end this. Our so called love was virtual, it spoke and felt volumes of what we wished we would have been. Promises were made, deep words were thrown around in hope that we’d be together in an unbreakable bond. It’s also been terrifying to think of going back on my promises, promises that shouldn’t have been made at all now that I’m no longer under the haze of clouded infatuation. Truthfully a lesson to be learned not to throw around words like ‘need you‘ and ‘can’t survive without…’ around all willy nilly because as of weeks ago, neither of us could keep to our promises of need or survival for each other. The distance between us hasn’t entirely severed my affection for us, for the the short time we got to share whatever we did. I likely still hope, even against my better judgement that maybe just maybe if I’d have the soul to wait, we’d still work something out. But I need to make this final first before I can jump into anything else. It’s all I can do, to hope that it makes sense to him why I am doing this. I can’t speak for where his mind or heart lies in all this but I can hope that it at least makes a tiny bit of sense as to why this is our possible best shot. I will miss what we could have had. I’ll hurt, that’s for sure.

…😔

I’m feeling a lot. Where to start is hard. I’m angry, very angry but most of it is hurt. I feel drained because it feels like all I’ve been doing is giving. It hurts, like a lot…and that’s just it. I don’t have more to articulate the ache I’m feeling. So this is all. I’m hurting and I have no way to further elaborate that.

Letter to 30 year old me.

Dear Mercy,

With a cigarette in my mouth and a glass of water in my hand, I’m writing to you what’s on my mind because we both know, a lot of it tends to easily fly itself out of my mind and that my thinking capacity tends to slow itself more than that which I can retain. This isn’t like those wishful letters people write to themselves telling about how much they hope for the best for you. No, this isn’t a love letter to you and I don’t expect from you then to believe it ever would have been a love letter. Here now, especially in the matters of love, I hope you’ll have unlocked those secrets that remain a mystery to me on what truly loving oneself means. I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of loving the ever living being that is. I can’t promise you that you will either. It’s come to my knowledge that I feel love for everyone else before having found out if I can ever deem it worthy to reciprocate the same said love to myself. I call it a mystery because it seems hell might freeze over before I can tap into whatever valve that others have, to show just an enough amount of care for myself. Who knows, maybe you’ll have gotten better at it or maybe you’ll still be searching through every crevice for it. I personally ain’t even searching for it myself, just in case you might not recall. I seem to have found contentment in life’s little pleasures, asking for something more grand would be pushing my luck a little too far. Love is too grand for my old little soul.

It’s only a guess of mine but hopefully you’ll handle things better than I do. As of now, it’s still a wager on whether you’ll live to exist by the time you’re thirty. Don’t be doubtful of the fact that I do wanna get to meet you at thirty but as of now, a month away from turning 23, I can’t make you the promise that you’ll be alive. Our demons just don’t guarantee that far, even when they are less stirred and more quiet. You’ll know them as well I do for they’ll not have left you then. Be rest assured, you’ll carry those fucks till our last day. Or better yet, you could surprise me and you’ll have gotten a hold of the rails on those demons and you’ll have found a way to coexist with them but as for now, they are still very much there.

As I said at the beginning, this isn’t a letter to wish you well. If it were, it would mean am more hopeful for a future than I let on. Can’t tell you much about the smoking though. That I’ll just have to leave it to the fate of time and see if I’ll have stopped trying to kill myself slowly with every cigarette I take. The question on whether I do it for the soul purpose of dying, I don’t really know. My subconscious is aware of the damage I can’t seem to stop inflicting on myself hence my feelings of guilt. At thirty, I do apologize prior for the possibility that I’ll have given you lungs worse than those of a fifty year old smoker. As I said earlier, I’m not big on being kind to myself. Hope you’re not too hard on your past then, it wasn’t our fault for not choosing better. Today I made what I’m sure will eventually be a broken promise to myself that I’d quit smoking the minute I’m done watching Peaky Fucking Blinders, (p.s Have a rerun marathon on them, you’ll have surely forgotten how good of a series that was). That’s the sadness of it all, being aware of my mistakes but never taking initiative to right those wrongs. I never seem to know better even when I should.

With my mind having lost its train of thought, I still take it to consideration that you still probably don’t like to read long posts so I’ll summarize this here… If you do get to live to see thirty, my wish for you is that you’ll have at least accomplished to finish school till your Masters. That’s the only thing our mind is good at, being a good psychology student. Make those who need to be proud of you not regret giving up on you. Love them and pray for them. Prove to them that even despite the demons that haunt us like the dementors from Harry Potter, we still got a little bit more going on for us in our so ever fucked up mind. If you do get to do this, I promise to tell you just how proud of us I’ll be. This isn’t everything I wanted to say but it is everything I can say as of now. When I thought of doing this, know that I’ll be glad to meet you. I’ll be glad to have taken all the antidepressants in the world if it means meeting you at thirty. I’ll slit through every vein to survive getting go see you, even if it means we’ll die right after getting there. Don’t weep for me when you look at our battle scars, just let the boy then who’ll be rocking our world kiss them and never forget that we are strong in the best way we knew how. I know you’ll probably find our walls still as high as those of a castle but know that I kept them up so I could keep us in, we are not to taint anyone else apart from ourselves. That’s my only hope for you. This is where I stop. Hopefully, I’ll get the honour of meeting you the author and psychologist that you’ll soon strive to become.

Sincerely yours, Dawn.

Choosing to Care just a little bit More..

To be truthfully honest, I am summing up courage and will to put my current thoughts out here. I’ve kept repeating to myself that maybe it’s a bit too early to be expressing what I’m about to write out to the world but what the hell, it’s sorta now or never. It’s in the same concept of how I view loving someone and when is it more than just love…when is it the right time to admit not just to self but to others that you are feeling in love. Stereotypically, I’ve come to the acknowledgement that I affiliate love to a period of time. It always has seemed absurd that people could bring themselves to believe that in just a couple of months of knowing someone and exchanging vulnerabilities, one could peg themselves into thinking that they were in love with the person to whom they were getting to know. It was more absurd to me if I mentioned to a friend that I was talking to someone new and their first question would be whether I love the guy… It just doesn’t seem possible to feel such intensity in such a short manner of time. Though, maybe I am wrong because I’m beginning to see that what might have been and felt impossible and beyond absurd to me, is slowly & steadily changing right before my eyes.

Earlier in the year, in what I’d call my Faith moments, I prayed to God for a boyfriend. I told Him that I wanted someone who’d make me their world and not just a part of it but more so all of it. I was quite serious with my prayer and I was devoted to believing that God would come through. Over time, I fell back into routine where praying just kind of drifted away from my mind (p.s God forgive me) and I completely forgot that I’d been praying for a boyfriend with specifics in check. Now, over near three months later, here I am deliriously happy in a relationship that isn’t even a full two months old. It seems I’ve been breaking a lot of my own ideologies concerning love & falling in love. I’ve always separated the two aspects of love. Even the term caring hasn’t been one I’ve used lightly before, it’s actually what I’ve considered a lot of my past relationships as, them based on care rather than love. Caring to me is showing affection for one’s well-being and maybe due to that limiting factor, I didn’t suffer the intense aggony people seem to feel when they part with their partners. In my previous relationships, I struggled quite a lot to let my walls down and my guard as well. I had boundaries my partners didn’t even know existed. I was well aware I cared for them, for the physical and mental well being but I couldn’t bring myself to involve emotion into that sequence. I cared, but not too much. I let my guard down, but just enough for them to feel my presence. I didn’t love them and I wasn’t in love with them either. Back to the present, something has changed. Things have supposedly become everything emotional. Maybe it’s because, my current significant other showed me his flaws before he could introduce me to the rest of himself. Or maybe it’s because he expressed love for my flaws before he could see the less damaged sides of me. I can’t be certain what among the mirage of things between us has made our relationship special but I can say with certainty that emotions are now the biggest part of our relationship.

On the day we asked each other if we could be each others significant other, I remembered the prayers I had talked to God about giving me a boyfriend. Before then, I was ridden with doubt that this would turn out to be just too good to be true but in that moment when I remembered that I’d prayed for this, every sense of doubt dropped from my shoulders like I weight I had been carrying. I told myself that I’d take that as my sign that God had heard my prayers and He’d given me what I had asked for. A boyfriend who’d show me that my vulnerability to emotion could be something beautiful. That I didn’t need to time myself to how fast I’d care more than I was accustomed to. Now, I kinda do believe that love knows no time frame because it’s early in my relationship but I know for sure that I love him and he has relayed to feeling the same towards me. I’m no longer gonna just put one foot in and the rest of my body out. I definitely do deserve to be loved by someone with the emotional depth of more than a pin cushion and I definitely deserve to express more than just care to someone deserving of more love than my mere words can express.

P.S I’m not too sure if I’ve made sense with this post but hope it’s clear enough to have brought across the point of it all. Love, Dawn.

Stranger Enigma

I need you you know, and you need me, it’s just a matter of time before we realize just how much. “

He wants to fall with me. I’m uncertain he’s ready for whatever that might mean, for either of us. He insists I shut up every time I try to tell him that he’s always gonna have an out from me… right after, he insists that if he hurts at the end of it all, it will be on him. He is quite strange but I’ve gotta admit it’s beginning to grow on me. Quite the straight forward boy he is, can quite easily come off as cocky and you know what’s said about cocky boys… Me too, I’m not too certain what they say about cocky boys but I guess there’s gotta be a saying out there somewhere. Back to the straight forward stranger, if I were to be honest, he had me when he had the gall to text me that I needed him. Me who is trying to eliminate the term need from my vocabulary, here he is with the very word I’m trying to uncling myself from. I have never had anyone pack a mean pair of balls like he has approaching me like that. I wasn’t sure if that pick up line has worked for other girls but I was sure not gonna let him know it worked on me. I handed his ass back right to him for I have a reputation to maintain. #noemotion 💪🏾. Curious question though, is playing hard to get a thing that everyone does, girls to be specific and how long should it go for before you burn out of bullets to shoot him down with…? Anyway, this stranger keeps seeming quite different from the typical boy who’s chances of giving in run much higher. I don’t know what to make of it, still treading carefully. I might be a tad bit emotionless in this field but a girl’s gotta still armour herself, just in case you know, he is the one who finally breaks through.

Now I can say this is with utter conviction, this stranger brings out the heavy lain corniness outta me, I’m half the time embarrased by our conversations. Like its beyond cringe worthy if I had to expose it to the world but there’s a minor joy brought about by the corny which makes me happy and giddy, like a little happy girl which I know I’ve not felt with anyone else besides him. I wanted to start this update with the heavy disclaimer that this isn’t a love letter to the said stranger. It’s just a bunch of spitballs to bring clarity to me and my mind towards this boy who promises me the world over and over again, and despite the impossibility of that fact, he always seems to bring out a smile on my face. He and I haven’t met in person and if either of us were normal human beings, we’d have our first meet all planned out but no, he and I intend to surprise each other. Just basic conditions in place but he seems to like walking around with an air of mystery to him. Truth be told, I’m trying to keep up. He’s a dreamer alright, seems to have ‘our‘ time together all planned out to the very last second. I like it kinda, men who thrive on control ease me up a bit … I no longer know what we are doing, he is an enigma right now, maybe he’ll retain it but my attention is definitely drawn…for emphasis, he’s got me picking up his phone calls which many can attest to of how bad I’m at when it comes to picking calls, as a matter of fact, he’s gotten me doing it every nightfall. I sure don’t recognize myself anymore when it comes to him. Here I am making adjustments to myself for a stranger…. but, a little secret, I’m totally okay with the changes he’s bringing out.

Like I said earlier, this isn’t a love letter or anything close. I don’t even think I’m poetic enough to conjure words that resemble those of lovers to each other. We can call this an introduction of my new enigma. I’ve obviously not delved enough for y’all to seriously see why he’s got my attention captive but maybe down the line, I’ll rope y’all in on more about this quite interesting stranger of mine. But for now, just know, a girl just might be smitten. 😅

Under a full moon, I sinned tonight. I did what I thought I’d vowed in my heart to not partake in but here I am, with the stench of it as a reminder that I broke my silent promise. Sanctity destroyed. I’m numb and guilty all bundled up in one. I wish I could say I had the chance to stop myself and truthfully speaking, I had all the chances and enough reason not to defile that promise…but I did. It’s done, and will probably happen again.

I’ve been on a quest for the past week, a quest for a poison I truly didn’t need. Fueled by some miniature need to fit in; where, I’m not sure. The quest deemed futile which made it all the more enticing to attain. Today, I got what my mind thought it needed, for I can say with certainty, my heart knew it wasn’t essential.

That’s the thing about illusions of the mind, they are insatiable to say the least. My quest was sought out to satiate an illusion of a need that had nothing to do with my current state of mind. I knew better, but I still went ahead and sought it out. The feeling was fleeting, less than I had hoped it would last. I thought that if maybe finally finishing my quest would feel victorious but despite it all, I wasn’t that out of it to believe I’d feel a false sense of pride for getting to the end. Curse my mind for not being deceiving enough.

Guilt reeks off me like the stench of the two cigarettes I just smoked. Behind the latrines of my backyard, approximately seventeen minutes after the assurance that my dad just left the house. I swore I’d never smoke at home, it’s sanctity should have meant more to me than tobacco in my lungs. There I was, breathing it in, in the very same darkness I claim to fear so vehemently but it seems like tonight, I was hoping to disappear in it, to keep my cover hidden. Like the smoke blown from my lungs, I hoped that the guilt of my doing could fade into the night as well. My dad may be in the dark from my defilement but my mum’s spirit, not so much. I apologized to her picture in my room just before I took the cigarettes from their current hiding place, just so it wouldn’t feel like I was figuratively pissing on her grave. “I’m sorry mum, I know I knew better.” I’m sure you wonder, if I knew better, why go ahead and do it, or maybe, you might already know the answer.

I took up smoking for the fancy of it. Thought that maybe it was about time I picked a poison. I’m not a drinker, so I thought why not smoke, add to another illusion of being aesthetic to my already messed self. Got over it quite as quickly as I’d picked up the habit, got bored if I can call it that. It wasn’t doing for me all that I felt I needed it to do. So then why after months later, did I so insistently yearn to smoke again, for I can assure you, the two cigarettes I just had, didn’t do what I thought they would for me. I can say with absolute certainty, I’m not the definition of a good person. At least, not with the stream of choices made recently. Tonight, I’ve defiled not only my home, but the recovery process of my mind. Like I said, guilt hovers like a cloud formed halo, this time, just one made of smoke.

“Baptize me in river of guilt, but raise me back up with rivelts of forgiveness” Dawn.

A girl has been bored. When am I never though… But despite everything else your caught up on, (#always your reliable depressive ), I don’t want to dwell on that as of now. I’m in too much of hyped up state to ponder over as of my current bestfriend & long time homeboy, depression. I’m gonna assume your curious on what has me feeling less forlorn than my usual state of being and from that assumption, I’m gonna share what has me feeling different. You’re girl’s been horny as hell (cue the audience’s laughter) …like majorly to the degree I’m fliker’ing my twickie…😂😂 That’s a statement I came up with two nights ago while keeping my sister company as she got drunk on a new alcohol she’d been meaning to try. We were sharing on our impending states of horniness and I told her how it’s in my next budget to get a rabbit vibrator but I’ve got no idea where the money’s gonna come from, ( PS. I’m taking willing donations to get a girl a vibrator, any amount will be appreciated 🤗). So yeah, in the midst of that conversation, I came up with the statement flicker your twickie. What can I say, I’ve been on a journey of forced celibacy for quite a couple months now and it was bound to take a toll on me eventually. Truthfully speaking, I pride myself over how long I can go before giving into my body’s urge to mate if I may call it so and I think this has to be that limit because I can’t help myself from needing some sort of release, (cue the major embarrassment ) but yeah, since I don’t have a man, the next best thing is a little playmate who’ll be utterly at my beck & call and who’ll I’ll not need to impress as much to get a little bit of pleasure from.

Whilst in the subject of partnership, I recently thought about the subject of having a Dominant again as a partner for myself. After such a while of me have stashed away the submissive in me from the front of my mind, she snuck back to remind me that she’s still there and that maybe she feels ready to make a gradual come back. After my last relationship as a submissive, I purposely took a step back from being in any sort of relationship, in regards to being in the normal kind of relationship or the Dom/sub relationship due to the matters of my ever loyal companion, my mental instability. Despite it all though, I have immensely missed the clarity and beauty that I feel as a submissive. The immense pleasure & thrill of it is a high that’s unmatched for me. It’s impossible to forget what it’s like to have such care given to you by a Dominant worthy your submission. I’d be lying if I said the sexual connection isn’t among the bigger perks of why I miss being in a Dom/sub relationship. Therefore recently when I thought about it again, I pondered over whether I feel ample enough to take up the role of a submissive partner to a deserving Dominant. I went through a couple of internalized questions and just really delved deep on whether I feel like I can put myself back into that head space. Let’s just say, I feel I may be ready for it but I’d have to make a few adjustments in concern to my mental health and whether the Dominant will be up for the task of handling me with all my luggage.

Entirely away from that, I’ve been meaning to seriously gush over a book I read recently that I can’t seem to get over just how incredibly wonderful & hilarious it was. Allie Brosh’s book Hyperbole and a Half is a book I didn’t realize just how much I needed to read. It brought me such joy & laughter. I read it in bed at two in the morning and I was laughing so hard, I started wheezing from it. Despite how short it was, it was an incredible read and I’d recommend it to anyone. I can’t forget to mention the imagery used in the book that accentuated it’s hilarious nature all the more. The writer’s sense of humor in the book had me wishing she could be my best friend. The book is mental health related and I loved how I was able to relate with her in some of her experiences with depression. The way she brought out her encounters with depression felt a lot like home for me due to the sense of familiarity & relatability. Hyperbole and a half will probably be among the best books I’ve had the pleasure of reading this year and I’d love to read more of Allie Brosh’s work.

In my spare time, apart from when I’m self loving & reading books, I recently started listening to podcasts as well. Through a girl I follow on social, I came across her podcast which I thought was super cool & insightful especially since the episode I listened to first had a touch of mental health to it. From listening to that episode, it made me wish that I had a friend who related on issues mental health & depression. I’d genuinely love to have someone by my side who understands what it’s like to struggle with an invisible battle. Hell, I’d love to have a best friend who relates on being a fellow crazy and we can laugh at how badly we are done existing, in this life at least… So yeah, I loved listening to that podcasts, it’s called The First Draft on Sportify and Apple Music if anyone would like to check it out. So yeah, I’m glad I got to rope you in on the better parts of my time bored and just in case anyone wants to be my friend, my one requirement is that you’re a touch of crazy and maybe a tad bit depressed too, for the days we both need to hurdle together in our depression 😅.

Through my mental health journey, I’ve grown to learn that it looses it’s aspect of private and individual just cause of what & who it ropes in along the way. In my case, my ongoing journey has roped in a few people, some were strangers who turned into family and others were family right from the start. It weighs heavy on me as a person who struggles quite often with the mental battles I go through, and this is not because of what it’s done to me, but because of what it’s done to those around me who’ve stuck by me despite my ailing mind. I have seen it tear down my sister and it was for me more excruciatingly painful than any insition I’ve ever put on my body. I remember last year when I had my depressive episode for about six months. It was right about the time when my country was on a lockdown due to the pandemic. I was stuck in our apartment with my sister and we had no means to go home due to a cessation that had been implemented on my country which prohibited me to travel. I self harmed more during that period than I ever had before and it became an instinct & it was such an impulsive nature for me to do, I grew numb about it. I ratted myself out to my sister cause I knew if I didn’t, I’d have probably not so intentionally hurt myself beyond what my little first aid after care routine could handle. Even then, despite being so out of touch with anything else besides the throes of my depression, I could see just how much my battle was weighing in on my sister. She carries her emotions on her sleeve so it wasn’t so invisible to me just how exhausting it was for her to see me go through that gutter. It’s not until recently in one of the countless conversations we have about my mental health did she admit to hating her work over that period when we were quarantined together and that she wanted to cry her eyes out everyday she had to do her job. She wasn’t sure if anytime I wasn’t in her periphery, I wasn’t cutting myself and now me being aware of what it must have been like for her to go through that, genuinely breaks my heart.

My guilt in depression is tethered to what my battles have done to others besides myself. I can honestly say, I haven’t found love enough for me to feel guilty over what being mentally ill does to me. It’s what it does to those I care about that shatters me the most. To say I have tried to hide the ugly effects of my battles from my loved ones would be putting it lightly. Sometimes I just rather die with it and let it rip me from the inside out all on my own than let it seep out to those who matter more to me than anything. With my dad for instance, my old man doesn’t know just how much effort it takes his last born daughter to live through each day as a depressive. On some days, I want to shout it to him with such aggression about how I can’t seem to shake off this sadness that I’ve carried around for all my life. On other days, I can’t help but think he’s better off in the dark, from it all. Untainted from my demons.

It’s been both a blessing and a curse having my father out in the clear from my battles. It’s been a blessing because then he doesn’t have to look at me different. For now he knows the bare minimum concerning my depression. He would still be in the dark if I had never needed his help on buying antidepressants last year after starting therapy. It was a hard enough secret to keep cause then it was just me and my sister having to find means on how we would get money to take me to therapy and for me to see a psychiatrist as well. It got so hard every two weeks trying to figure out how to come up with the sum of money I needed for every therapy session because I couldn’t tell my dad that I needed money for something he was completely out of the loop on. When I finaly had to ask for his help, I came home with a prescription letter from a psychiatrist with a list of antidepressants I needed to start taking. This was right after my county opened it’s borders and the cessation that had been put in place due to covid was lifted hence why I got the chance to travel home which put a halt on me going to therapy because it was in different counties.

To say I was nervous bringing up that subject with my father was an understatement. I wasn’t sure he’d grasp what I was saying or if whether he’d even understand the gravity. This isn’t to imply my dad is slow or anything like that. On the contrary, my dad is pretty intelligent. What I was worried about was whether it would make sense to him the way it was meant to, from my understanding. It’s through him and our conversations together that the aspect of being an African and having a technically African raised father that I saw how much ones background and tradition affect different aspects and subjects which in my case was & is mental health. He actually took it quite casually which was what I thought I wanted but turns out it wasn’t what I needed. I didn’t see concern on his face when I tried telling him that I struggle with depression. Instead I got a speech on prayer & exercise and how much it would help keep me less idle. I told him that it had nothing to do with that and that it was a chemical imbalance in my brain that made me depressed and it still didn’t faze him. I was quite frustrated to say the least but I understood him despite it that he couldn’t just magically see it as I did. I gave him the prescription and told him that I needed him to buy me that medication and he was fine with it.

Whoever believes that they can go through mental health on their own have it quite wrong. I never knew just how much I’d need my father’s understanding until I finally brought him into the know about my struggles. A few days before my last birthday, my dad finally bought me the antidepressants I had been prescribed and I decided to start on them the day after my birthday. I’d already been on a different set of antidepressants two weeks before and they had really exhausted me out so I didn’t want to be loopy on my birthday since I was gonna have a little shindig going on that day. Cue to when I finally started my new meds did I see true & genuine concern which was more than his impassive nature had ever expressed. A few days in after I had started on my new meds, I got some really scary side effects after taking them and I thought I’d get them under control by buying some antibiotics. I had major and I mean major heartburn and aside from that, my heart rate was over the roof. I had heat flashes and I could hear my own heart beating so loud and quite fast, I was certain I was having a heart attack. My dad’s girlfriend is a pharmacist and I asked her if she could prescribe something for the heart burn and she asked me about the meds I was taking and I told her what I was newly on. Later that night when my dad came home, he was beyond agitated. Apparently, after my conversation with his girlfriend earlier, it was apparent to her that one of the antidepressants I had been prescribed to was very severe and was mainly for schizophrenics. In basic language as was explained to my dad, he was told they were for ‘crazy people’. That was genuinely the first time I saw my dad loose his calm and look so terrified. I believe it dawned on him that he’d just bought his daughter over the counter meds that were going to completely alter my mind and irreversibly damage it for life. For the record, I never once thought of it as my dad’s fault because it wasn’t, neither of us would have known. He felt responsibile for that mistake since he hadn’t done research or any enquiry about the meds he was buying me before he handed them to me. I on the other hand was more upset that a supposed legal & professional psychiatrist had prescribed to me medicine he knew wasn’t meant for me and which would probably have adverse effects on me but went ahead and prescribed it regardless of knowing all that. I was livid and after that, I quit taking the meds all together because despite how badly they were reacting to my body, they weren’t meant for it from the very start.

After that experience, I have not had therapy or been on any other antidepressants since. I soon after asked my dad if he could look for a different hopefully better psychiatrist to whom I would see and get a better diagnosis of my mental health as well as better effective treatment. This is where it has proven to be very difficult to get my dad on board because he quickly fell back into his slow paced process of doing things. It’s been a few months since that encounter with the antidepressants and after that, my life sorta fell back into routine. School opened and everything else took a seat at the back of my mind. I didn’t get better per say but the depression went back to being my day to day cup of tea, the one I was accustomed to. Now, due to different triggers, I am in the middle of another depression episode and I thought it would be perfect timing to see a new psychologist & psychiatrist but mainly the latter. I made my dad aware of my need now for a psychiatrist and told him I have been struggling again but he doesn’t seem to see the urgency of it. Even just thinking about it right now, is nerve wrecking. I’m triggered by his lack of motivation and urgency in getting me help especially now when I’m not at my best mentally. I admit he’s not fully in the loop of just how bad my mental instability goes, he is clueless of my self harm which has started again after I’d been clean for 98 days. I have racked my mind on how to bridge that information to him without alarming him but I just don’t know where to start. On some days, I want to just show him my arms and let them speak for me but I get scared of what he’ll think or do. It’s taken me a lot to admit that I am mildly suicidal as of currently and I am going through the days trying to find the will to see through the end of each day. He isn’t aware that I don’t know how much waiting I can do anymore before I can completely disintegrate. I am trying to be patient but it’s hard when my mind isn’t on board. So yeah, that’s where I currently am. Mental health is so contradictory in how personal & individualistic it is but also how communal it trickles down to. I hope that the wait isn’t going to be longer than my mind can hold off from completely falling apart.

“I’d been depressed for so long, hiding it wasn’t an option anymore, not by choice at least. My body took the choice out of my hands.”

Last night as I lay in bed thinking as usual, my mind drifted off and I began to wonder what the world around me sees whenever they look at me. In all natures, be it physically, emotionally, spiritually and even more so mentally. Only a substantial amount of people can give just a little bit of insight on what they think they know about my mental health and the struggles that enslave me on a daily. They see what they perceive as just the basic stressful day to day experiences one has to go through being at the point at which I’m at right now in life. It’s absolutely okay in their eyes that I’m stressed out about not knowing what I want to do in my life or whether I have a plan for the next phase now that I’m done with college. I can say with certainty that nobody sees what I feel or have to live through on a daily… not even a fraction of it. A friend of mine earlier last night mentioned to me that she has noticed that I’m extremely general on everything I relay to her and my response to that was that the world isn’t interested in the specifics of one’s life. People rather just know enough than know too much. It’s enough for them trying to be allies but too much to be a friend. It’s extending support but without having to be presently there, in the middle of it all. I would honestly rather not have any ally at all if that’s the case, therefore having to maintain my specifics to myself.

If there’s a chance that the world around me thinks I’m normal, then truth be told, I’m offended. In the stereotypical sense of the word, normal is boring and I would be highly offended if anyone considered me boring. I may not be your ray of sunshine, but neither am I living through the normal cycle of being this person who believes that everything sorta just falls into place… not to piss on anyone’s parade who might live by the notion that everything does sorta just fall into place. Alright, maybe I am, even if just a little. Entirely, what I’m saying is that, I don’t think I have been afforded the luxury to believe that my life is following a mystical path where I’m meant to entirely live through mental suffering just for it to get better in the far future and that I’ll look back at it and think that it was all worth it. Simply, I’m not cut out for normal…and I’ve learned to accept that and maybe even embraced it.

I’ve mentioned it before to my sister that the worst possible thing that could happen to me in life would be to be termed as cliché. Just the thought of it, makes me want to buff in my mouth and it wouldn’t be pretty. Cliché in my eyes would be anyone thinking that I self harm for attention. Just so you know, anyone who does self harm is seeking attention, just not for the reasons that the world thinks they are. It entirely could be a subconscious reaction to emotional pain but, from what I have felt in that moment, despite trying to hide it, there’s a part of you deep inside that seeks out hope that someday someone will see that invisible but obvious cry for help. That they won’t look at you like a loon but will take an initiative to get you help, the help that you might not have had the courage to ask for.

How can I afford to feel self conscious over my body but can freely walk around with no sleeves covering my wrist and with my scars bared out to the world.”

I thought about that yesterday and if that screams normal to you, maybe you need to check yourself. I don’t have an answer to that, just like I don’t have answers to a lot of other questions about things that I do but can’t seem to have an explanation over. How I can even afford to walk out of the house with my marred wrist but can’t wear a dress because it will show out too much of my curves or in better terms, my fatness… It’s intriguing, isn’t it? That I am more ashamed of what was God given more than I am ashamed of what I self inflicted on my own body. It leads me back to the question of what it is the world sees whenever they look at me. Do they see the internal turmoil I have to face just with having to decide if I look more fat in a dress or whether I can pass on the lie that I was in a car accident to explain the scars on my hand? Are they remotely aware that I want to die but not necessarily from my own hands. “That I’m not suicidal but sometimes the lines get all blurry.” I know they don’t see all that, and it’s why my friends can afford to read my blogs and tell me that they’ll kill me first if I ever attempted suicide. That it will be selfish of me to choose my life over hurting them if I died by my hands. Oh, how selfish I will be if I died anyway besides what is considered natural. Well news flash, suicide is as natural as it gets. Until they can see beyond their hurt over me taking matters into my own hands, they will never see what truly lies beyond my eyes. They will never see beyond the lies of the fabricated stories meant to explain the scars on my hands. It’s not until they are ready to hear more than just the general, will they be aware of just how truly miserable I feel just having to live through everyday without the knowledge of why I’m even breathing.

So if you think for a moment that I’m normal, then I think you’re the worst kind of ignorant. It’s like if you treated a cripple like you would treat an able walking man…you’d be of great insult. Don’t look at my scars and then express indifference. I had that happen to me once before and it’s taken me over five months to express just how of a dick move that was. To completely disregard of my pain, is to disregard me as well. Don’t deceive yourself into believing that you’re doing what’s best by ignoring the elephant in the room. If you’re not going to kiss those scars like you would kiss every other part of me, don’t bother touching me at all.

I wish that sometimes, I didn’t have to act like am normal as well. It’s a deception from me too. Why can’t I just scream my lungs out in the middle of the streets just because I feel like it will be the next best relief? Why do I have to hold the pain till I’m behind closed doors to make deep enough insitions on my skin just to bleed the pain away? Why can’t I just break completely apart and not question myself over it or care about what it’s consequences will mean for me? I wish I didn’t have to fight so hard to keep the crazy tucked in when all I yearn for sometimes is to disentangle myself to little bits and pieces. All I ever feel like is a sitting duck or so in this case, a sitting crazy. I can’t tick off cause I should care enough about the consequences of what it will mean to the world but what about me, what about what I’m having to hold inside to prevent it from breaking out. A jar can only hold so much of anything without spilling out. I can’t even be crazy enough to finally get the attention I need that will get me help. All I wanna do is be crazy enough to get help and maybe if I’m lucky, stand the chance to gain a little bit of normal, even if it means gaining a bit of boring.