Baby Daddy to the Rescue

So tonight, something quite weird but cool I guess, happened to me.

To give a short back story to what was my intended action earlier, I’ve been trying to really dissociate the past week. I’ve been dealing with heavy burden like thoughts that I surely just didn’t & still don’t have it in me to handle let alone deal with (now when I think about it, handle and deal with, same thing). I’ve been trying to space out if I may call it so and tonight being a similar kind of night, I experienced the urge to self harm which I haven’t done in like the past two, three months or so. I quit keeping count of how long it’s been… I’m not proud that I settled myself into doing it earlier but yeah, I was going to do it and then drown out the thoughts from my head by numbing my emotions.

As I was settling myself to doing the deed, I’d just happened to put on the DVD player and I’d just put up Baby Daddy, the series about Emma, Riley, Ben, Tucker and Bonny, forgot the tall guy’s name (Ben’s brother)… As I was just about to go on ahead, I got distracted by the movie and it wasn’t even two minutes in, I was laughing, like really laughing… Forgive me if this sounds morbid but allow me to paint the picture in your lovely heads.. I was holding up a razor blade to my arm while laughing my heart out…again, my apologies for the messed up imagery. In that moment, I genuinely couldn’t bring myself to do it anymore, like for a second there I was like I need not get distracted from what I was about to do. I had everything set right there, the razor and the after care kit (yes, I have an after care routine for when I self harm, I’m not entirely a mad person, I’m just one with hygiene standards) but anyway, yeah. I had an urge and I was intent on fulfilling it… At least until, Baby Daddy, completely pulled me out of that head space. I started laughing at how absurd it felt to be holding a razor to my arm when the emotion behind it was no longer there and as ridiculous as this may sound, things got too weird and I just couldn’t anymore. So I packed my kit and stored everything back and resumed watching the show.

Two hours and season one down, here I am writing of that weirdly saving encounter I just had. A part of me is grateful that I didn’t go through with harming myself because it would probably have kicked off a habit I am still very much battling down and every so often have the reigns over. I wish I’d say it was some form of higher power that allowed me to find a disc that’s been years old in the corner of my sister’s room to which I came across as I was technically stealing her cotton wool for what was to be another scar on my arm. What are the odds, the disc was not scratched up and had a series that’s turned out to be my saving grace for the night. I’m in an entirely better mood for what it’s worth so I guess I owe this night to season one of Baby Daddy. Y’all should definitely check it out, might work some miracle for you too.

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.

I’ve racked my mind of where I can say this without the fear of judgement, pity or any consolation.. I honestly don’t need or want anything of that right now. Not when I’m so deep in my depression. I’m not sure if I should be alarmed that I’m finally thinking of death and just throwing in the towel. Earlier I shamed myself over how I can’t even put a deep enough insition on myself… now, I’ve rid myself of that shame cause I can assure you, I have a cut that won’t be healing anytime soon. It hurt easier to see the blood trickle down my wrist than having to feel the ache inside my chest and the sorrow that only I seem to understand.

This isn’t a post or an entry. No, I just needed to let it out. This isn’t a cry for help, no…I’m too far gone to be worth help. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time. It’s safe here enough for me to admit that I self harmed and it helped. That I got the relief I so desperately needed. Thought that maybe I could tweet it but my sister is on my timeline, she’ll see it and that’s absolutely the last thing I need right now. I would be scared that she’ll see this post but she quit reading my blog when it got to heavy for her to read of her baby sister’s troubles. I don’t blame her, I’m glad she doesn’t have to see the damage I’ve become.

..and lastly, I sit in bed in the dark, all I wish I had right now was if my demon could just for tonight, hold me. Just that…wrap it’s arms around me cause it’s all I’m assured that knows how I feel. I’m tired and just want to be held. I hope I’m not asking for too much.

So yesterday I did something very bold. I term it as bold because of how unconventional it was & risky since it would have turned out very invasive to some. I’m actively on Instagram & I was going through my followers instagram stories & I came across a picture of a girl’s arm that had marks on it. She actually wasn’t taking the picture of her arm, it just so happened her arm made a cameo and I just happened to see it. I wouldn’t say I was being observant, it was like a glance that led me to contemplating whether confirming my suspicions of what the marks were was a smart thing to do… Let’s just, my conscience didn’t fail me. That was last night and I was sure to include in my dm to her that she was at all under no obligation to answer back to me. I know I would be a bit skeptical opening up about anything remotely mental related to a stranger. Today morning when I woke up, it had completely eluded my mind that I’d sent her a message, that’s until I saw my message icon ping that I had an unread message. She was honest enough to acknowledge that what I’d seen was indeed self harm marks. Getting to the point of this story, (not really sure there’s one) , it was uncomfortable seeing them on someone else other than myself, but I twistedly felt connected to her by her self inflicted marks on her hand. I felt the bond of having another understand that one is capable of being a mess enough to hurt themselves. It was relieving but sad. I quit feeling sorry for myself after the first time I cut , I no longer chose to see it as a fault but as a survival coping mechanism. It’s just different because I relish in the feel of a cold blade to get some damn needed peace of mind.

Not too long ago I had a friend of mine frown upon the fact that I recently got a new tattoo. He’s exact question was ‘You enjoying hurting yourself with this tattoos?‘ He didn’t realize how close to home he hit by asking me that… In my own twisted way, I love the feeling of the needle skim through my skin, it’s just that this time, I’m left with a beautiful artistic reminder of things that mean more to me than others. They are the murals to those I love and to the times in my life I can never seem to erase from my mind. They are my stories, I just receive the both ends of the stick when I get them, the pain that comes with getting them, and the artistic beauty created.

It amazes me how I can never seem to let go of my mental struggles even when I’m not in the gutter . I can’t cut loose the strong hold at which I hold them close to me & how much relevance I constantly give them. I’ve written before that I felt special being ill, I felt like I belonged being depressed & fucked up generally. It gave me a sense of purpose. I was constantly sad & I got to write the best of my blogs while in that funk. Call it fear of the unknown, which in this case is anything that’s remotely good and happy… that damn H word I never seem to like very much. I just can’t grasp myself not unhappy & miserable. No need to pity me, I don’t pity me either. The most surprising thing is, despite not wanting good change, I feel inadequate for depression. I feel like I sometimes lack the magnitude needed to be special enough to be depressed. Like I can’t just catch a break with the inadequacies in my life ; I’m just not cut out for happiness or depression . Really beats the point of why I got my damn enough tattoo in the first place. I need to find a bearing of where I belong, in the darkness or the overly bright light .

Tonight I wasn’t really writing as a means to vent, I guess I just needed to release myself a little. I had a relatively good day, went out to a lovely ice cream parlor in town that touched my old soul. It’s entire vibe and setting was the eighties and it’s ice cream was as legit as legit can be. I honestly didn’t wanna leave because for those few minutes I was there ,the world around me seemed right and peaceful… content even. I wanted to stick there and live on ice cream for as long as my mind chooses it’s ready to go back to our sad reality… Sno – Cream parlor was my heaven in hell…

It’s been thirteen days … I don’t have a general term to express what those days have been for me… In honesty, they have been a blur ….typically my normalcy. I laughed ,I interacted, I left the house, just my typical blurry life. But, despite all that, I haven’t cut. Wish I could say I felt proud of myself but truly it doesn’t feel much of a win because it doesn’t rule out that I still thought of it. In every single day of those thirteen days ,it crossed my mind. Felt like an unfinished piece of myself I kept leaving out. Sad how much of it has become part of me now.

I wish I felt worthy enough to fight this waging war in my head but I’m not sure where to start. Everything is at a pause. Can’t seem to bring myself to sit through therapy again, just extremely exhausted to keep going on in circles with it. I’m done being cliche about this. I’m done writing about it despite it being the only possible outlet I have for my emotions & thoughts. I’m exhausted and just want to rest. I’ve lost focus on how normal it is to handle life’s challenges without needing an escape. I’ve quit trying to be strong. I don’t know what it means to be okay. I now understand what it’s like to have a cloud shadow over my head because in all honesty, I can’t focus on anything besides the voices in my head. That’s my depression, that’s my battle. I can’t keep trying to act normal when my mind keeps tipping over the edge every chance it gets.

Thirteen Days . In the last ten minutes or so, this thirteen days would have been irrelevant. They would have held no sense of importance to me. With a slit of my wrist, those thirteen days would have been twelve days of my ‘sobriety’ down the drain. I read somewhere that relapsing doesn’t mean I failed. It doesn’t mean I didn’t make steps forward. Well, if it doesn’t mean failure, what exactly does it mean? Not really expecting a response or an answer for that matter. Just cause I can afford a smile on my face, doesn’t mean anyone can see the pain & hollow fade behind my eyes . I’m not sure I want anyone to see it anyways .

I’m waiting it out. Waiting for the storm that’s coming. I can feel it. I’m not done falling. Until I can get the strength to hold on to something, anything, I’ll keep on falling, I’ll keep on sinking deeper into the depths of darkness that’s my mind. For now, I am hoping to keep up my facade till after my birthday. Not that it’s as important to me as I wish it was prior. I just don’t have it in me to feel excited about it. So until then, I’m gonna fake it. I’m gonna stand under my heated shower & pretend to wash away the waking ache to cut. For my birthday, I will pause that fall. Can’t promise I’ll make the most rational decisions after because again, the storm is coming and it’s unrelenting. It’s just a matter of time.

Baby Steps…

Ever felt lost? I feel lost & more so foreign to myself .Not too long ago I was numb beyond my reckoning. I have had some really low lows this past weeks. It was hard enough to wanna pick myself up and now here I am slowly trying to get back on my feet again.

Over the past weeks of my “depressed funk”, I got to learn something about myself that I never really quite knew. I’m two people in one. I’ve been having a little fourteen year old girl who’s life was once very bright, warm and if I may say happy. She was sheltered, protected and so oblivious to what growing up meant. That was seven years ago…Now that little girl hasn’t grown much since. She’s still stuck somewhere inside me. I wish I had a more elaborate artistic way to explain where in the depths of my mind she’s stuck at but that’s the best I can do. Then there’s me,the soon to be twenty one year old who’s life is a shitting mess. I couldn’t begin to explain what the past seven years have been for me. I feel her within me you know…. My little girl wants out of the cage I put her in, and I wanna help her out .

I seem to want to apologize a lot whenever I’m writing because subconsciously I feel very guilty for always yapping about how much my life sucks. I am sorry ,I wish I had more rainbows and crayons to write about. This journal entry today wasn’t supposed to be another elaboration to my sob story. On the contrary ,I wanted to write more about the first step in releasing my little girl and that’s admitting that I wish things were different in my life. I wish I could shit more glitter out than spewing darkness & possible insanity. I wish I could have been more receptive to happiness earlier & been more open to having better days but I honestly just don’t know how.

They say healing is the hardest part because it means letting go & stripping yourself of the dark amour you had held onto as a shield for so long. I am scared I may never get there because whenever I think I am ready to release myself from the tightly held amour ,I always find myself still heavily shielded. I feel like I have so much to learn about myself and how to heal . I for starters would like to understand how to love myself . To be gentle with myself because I’ve hardly been the kindest to myself. I’ve a lot of forgiving to do for myself ,to myself & to others as well. My baby steps in this case is acknowledging that I need to be less toxic to myself. It’s all I have been to myself. It’s all I have felt. Self pity, shame ,lonely & sad. I embraced them and covered myself in them as my shields. I’m scared, terrified to be honest because I’m choosing to embark on a journey that seems entirely foreign for me. I wish I could promise to not give up at the start but at least I took my first step.

Keeping Score

It’s been four days… Four very lengthy days. Four days where I want to give myself a little bit of credit over… I haven’t cut myself in four days. I really had hoped I never would have to say those words out to the universe because I thought if I withheld them long enough, they would have simply just been a bad nightmare. It’s still been a nightmare, just one that’s been very real and not just in my dreams. I want to say I wish I had no recollection of it happening but I have it clear as day in my mind. The very same mind that’s been hurting and suffering in a tag of war between sanity and slipping.

One of the hardest things I have felt in the recent couple of weeks is sitting on the edge of so many queries and trying to wrap my head around why I would feel or in this case not feel the need to hurt myself. It’s been as foreign to me as it would be to anyone else. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would come to this but it’s here now and its my struggle.

I haven’t been kind to my mind because I felt like it wasn’t being kind to me. Maybe I should not have turned it into a war between myself and my mind. Maybe if I had offered myself enough love, I wouldn’t be forced to look at cut marks on my wrist every morning of every day. I have a lot of maybe’s of how I wish things could have turned out different.Writing about this right now poses such an anxiety to me. I’m doing the very thing that despite how numb I have been for the last few weeks, I have offered to feel one thing and that’s fear. Fear of how people would soon look at me different for what I have been doing to myself. Fear that I may be slowly and steadily loosing grasp of rational thoughts and putting in place my irrational actions.

Sometimes the stigma doesn’t have to come from everyone else, sometimes it comes from ourselves. I want to hate myself, I already do for what I am doing. I wish I could say I had the knowledge to switch it off but I feel like my hands are tied behind my back.

Cause I know I’m only human, don’t know how many sunsets I got left. And I don’t want to ruin, this moment by wondering what comes next. I just want to love me, like its all am living for. Hold myself close ,enjoy me more and spend a little less time Keeping Score.

The BRIDGE I crossed

I’ll try be discreet… It’s all am trying to be right now…not draw any attention to myself .Today I crossed a bridge. A bridge I never in my wildest dreams ever thought I would cross. A bridge I never thought would be in my life story .I always thought I was better than that….Ironic huh! That I would never have to feel the need to cross that bridge, but I did.

I wish I could retrace back so many steps that I took today but I can’t. It’s already done. I crossed a bridge I should never have. Not even in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would be strong enough to do it but crossing it for me just proved how strongly weak I am. I didn’t fight myself from it even when I know I should have. I didn’t try to stop it, I went ahead & did it.

As I took to crossing that bridge, I lost a bit of myself with every step I made. I could feel pieces of myself detach from me and break a little bit more .I wept for each piece of me that died today on that bridge. I wept for each person who I disappointed for crossing that bridge. I most especially wept for I knew what it fully meant me crossing that bridge. Those tears were my grief for the person who kept breaking as she took steady calculated steps across. I don’t recognize that person as myself anymore.

Finally, we crossed the bridge. The me now, took time to look over at all what I had lost over the period of crossing over. I saw the pieces of me that I will never get back. I saw the once hopeful little girl who thought that despite the little dark place in her mind that whispered to her, she could overcome it . She wept for me, she too saw the pieces that died along that fateful bridge.

Now here we are. More hollow than we ever were before. I walked away from that little girl because she no longer could save herself. I am a shell of the person I was today morning. I never quite understood what sort of peace people spoke about after crossing that bridge ;it sounded absurd to me especially since its not a bed of roses. But I felt it. It was crazy how quickly calm and collected I felt. I thought I was numb before, this calmness took numbness to an entirely different level. I didn’t feel, I didn’t hear, I didn’t think. It was QUIET. So quiet in my mind, I haven’t had such an eerie feeling before that that was that calming. I now well understand the peace that came with crossing that bridge. The whispers finally shut up because they got what they wanted. Through that bridge, I made a deal with the devil in my head and there’s nothing I can do to go back from it.

..Wounded Healer

Well here goes nothing… Been a while since I wrote. Been a while since I did a lot of things. I’ve had a really hard and hectic couple of weeks and men has it been messed up 😧. Every time I intended to write I would have an anxiety attack and couldn’t bring myself to face that I was in a black 🕳. I don’t really even know where I would start if I decided to explain what I have been dealing with. The perks are that depression and anxiety are real and they push you to lengths that you are incapable of thinking straight.You don’t have the normalcy you hold every other day of your life. Happiness, joy, tranquility and stability tend to be extremely farfetched in those moments and sometimes you drown in all that but don’t necessarily die so it’s continuous. You wish to talk to someone, just one person to understand you and wish to help you pick up your pieces because at that very moment you’re crumbled to bits of who you were before. You want that person to listen and tell you not just once that things will get better but to walk you through getting there because then your like a baby learning how to walk all over again.

I had emotional breakdowns whenever I was alone because all I wanted was to sink farther in my bed and just drown in the sorrow I was feeling. There are moments when I would feel okay but whenever a memory of pain or sorry would sneak it’s way in, It would be like a snap of a finger and I would turn into a shell of person. Depression got me screaming on the inside but was too exhausted to bother about it on the outside.It got me presumably to start having thoughts of self harm 😔. That was my ‘hit rock bottom moment ‘.I knew then that I needed to talk to someone else about it and preferably a therapist. Best choice I had made in a while.

In my luck, those thoughts of harming myself only went as far as thoughts and it’s thanks to my sister. She has been my greatest anchor, only she knew what went on behind our closed doors. My therapist was finally the shimmer of light I was looking for, she became more than just my therapist but my friend who understood and she has a special place in my nearly destroyed heart. She pointed me in the direction that I could get better and she took my hand and walked with me. She makes me see that I can be happy with myself and with my insecurities too. She reminds me everyday that life is a step at a time,I probably knew that, I was just taking life in fifty steps instead. My friend as I like to call her is the other clutch I was looking for and I am happy I found her.

I am still going to therapy every once a week and it’s opened my mind to a whole lot about my life and how to deal with the things I go through. My therapist/friend has taught me to enjoy the simple pleasures of life and I am learning that for me knitting is one of them too. I haven’t thought about hurting myself for a week now and that to me is progress I never thought I would make. So I am grateful. Mental health is not something that should be downplayed like it is by so many people. Going through anxiety should not be a normal for anyone and neither should depression. I still have those moments where it’s hard to pick myself up but I am grateful for my family and my therapist because I am able to be motivated to pick myself up for me and for those I love. I am a wounded healer.

p.s If you got anything at all you may be going through, don’t hesitate to text me if you want to have that friend I never had and kept looking for. I’m always open to help someone else from dealing with mental health issues. Please don’t downplay it and assume it thinking it will go away. It will always hover like a dark cloud in your mind and when your most weak, it will creep back like it never left. ✌..And a beautiful picture of me 😁.