Dear Dead Girl who wrote this,
Sometimes I look back at all the shit I’ve gone through personally and wonder what good it’s done me. Times like these, I realize, at the very least, my experience can help inform someone else who’s going through something similar, if only to help them come to the realization that certain “saviors” are not really going to do anything on their own.
When I was 21, I graduated college and moved back in with my parents. That summer, I lost or pushed away most of my friends and some of the only people in the world that ever cared about me, and sank into a cycle of alcohol, self-pity, and depression that would take several years to come out of (if that). I would sit in my parents’ basement, getting high, dreaming about how much better my life would be if I could just get to sunny, open-minded Los Angeles. I anthropomorphized the cities I lived in, deciding that they just “had it in for me”, that I would never fit in there because the “city” didn’t accept me or “get” people like me.
I eventually moved to LA. Suffice to say, simply landing at LAX somehow didn’t instantly remove the years of scars that life (and I) had etched into my heart and mind. I always figured if I got away from the people and places I associated with my pain and the worst moments in my life, that somehow that would help me heal. What I had yet to realize was that the thing that I was trying to run away from, the pain that haunted me, it wasn’t carried by the friends I lost, or in the streets and alleys of the city where I felt my heart break, or in the bars where I would binge drink alone, or the empty parking lots where I would break down and cry in my car. That pain was inside me, and no matter where I went, unless and until I dealt with it, it was coming with me… everywhere.
All I had done by moving to LA was separated myself from the only support systems I actually had, and as expected, I eventually broke down completely and ended up moving back home. I felt like a failure. LA was supposed to be my fresh start, my last chance to prove to myself I could move on and make something of myself. I leaned even heavier into drugs and alcohol, sunk into a horrible depression, and a few months later, attempted suicide. It didn’t work, so I tried again a few weeks later. After that time didn’t work either, I realized that one of two things had to be true. Either this just “wasn’t my time” to die, and there was some purpose out there in the world I was still meant to fulfill, I just needed the courage to keep looking. Or, for the more skeptical side of me, the fact that both attempts failed meant that there was still some part of me that wanted to live, as meager as it may have been. I decided that whatever the reason was, if I was going to stick around, I wasn’t going to do it just to wake up miserable every day. I had to try to give myself some sense of purpose, even if it seemed manufactured, contrived, whatever, at first. I had to try.
I went rehab and got myself cleaned up and off the drugs. I signed up to take the LSATs and applied to law schools. Why law school? It was just something I always found interesting and figured it was just structured and demanding enough that it would keep me engaged and not leave me too much free time “with my thoughts.” And being honest, I watched a few episodes of Suits, and I (again) pictured my life in one of those high-rises, and figured my life would be so much better there. Flash forward 3 years later, I graduated law school with honors, and I’m headed to New York for a big law firm job, and I just signed a lease for one of those hi-rise apartments looking over the skyline.
So why am I telling you all this? No, it’s not to brag. I’m saying it because I wish back when I was 21, someone who had gone through similar stuff had told me about their experiences, and how getting “what you want” won’t necessarily make you happier. I got everything I dreamed of at the lowest point in my life, and if anyone “normal” asks me, I will say that I am absolutely happy and satisfied and grateful for everything I’ve gotten. And I am grateful. But I won’t lie to you and pretend that the pain healed. Or that I don’t still feel miserable and alone most days. Even now, I still go to bed many days praying I don’t wake up the next morning. Except now, given that I have - on paper - a life that many would kill for, I have to feel ashamed about it. But I had to make sacrifices to get here. I had to shut down my vulnerability and emotions, cut any possibility of dating or love out of my life completely, because I understood how dramatically those things could impact me, and I couldn’t allow anything to sabotage me before I got where I wanted to be. I had to be aggressive - often cruel - with the most vulnerable parts of myself, because the world would only use them against me.
My point is this: For those of us that are more vulnerable and wear our hearts on their sleeves, so to speak, hopelessness can often tempt us into thinking that a different job or different location will solve all our problems. Because in that moment, when you are at your lowest, any change can - and is - a step up. And don’t get me wrong, it does work, to a certain extent, but it won’t be an overnight savior. I can’t imagine where I would be now if I hadn’t accomplished everything I have. Even though my scars are still healing, changing my circumstances, giving myself structure, a sense of accomplishment, and accountability to others, has given me the skills and strength to fight back with objective facts when the demons come calling and tell me I’m worthless.
But the only way I was able to do it is when I realized that I have to lower my expectations. Not as a self-defeating narrative that stops you from being ambitious, but simply as a survival mechanism. That way, if you don’t get exactly what you expected, you don’t feel like a huge failure. But if you do, you’ve earned the right to the self-worth that comes from that. The temptation to beat yourself down and self-hate will always be there, no matter what city you live in. But every time you set a goal and accomplish it, no matter how small, that’s one more chip you can use to tell that self-hatred to go fuck itself.
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
janainaart
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
