Don't Think About it Much

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[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

You died. In the most messed up way. There was no happy ending. Your story ended in the worst possible way. I don’t know how to accept that…that that’s how it ended. How you end. There was supposed to be more. We were supposed to be suffering for a reason. I thought we were going to survive it. Get through it, beat it. Instead you’re just gone and the world, well it’s all the same really. Just that you’re not here.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

There are only so many people in life who get to truly know you. Or, perhaps it would be more fair to say there are only so many people you allow to truly see you. Some of those people are in it for the long haul; they stick around as main characters. Some die. Some drift. Some leave abruptly, maybe explosively. No matter how they leave, you will still think about them from time to time. You will still wonder about that part of you that you gave to them. The part that existed in the in between.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Inside of me is a swirl of mixed emotions.

On the surface, there is the anger, intense love and adoration, fatigue and laughter.

Deeper below there is sadness, anxiety and grief.

Each day I move from one activity to the next; this feelings soup sloshing around inside.

Sometimes, the deep feelings spill over. Sometimes the surface feelings splash out.

There’s a part of me that worries about the mess. Worries what others think.

Sometimes, if I’m really careful I can keep it all contained. Hide my contents; protect my innards.

Is it working? Or are you able to see my ugly insides right now.

I’m sorry about the mess. I wish I knew how to clean it up.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Hello.

It’s been awhile.

I didn’t realize how far back our story went.

I started this blog 11 years ago.

A lot has changed in 11 years; and to my surprise, it appears some things are exactly the same.

I’m a mother now. A strange thing to say out loud.

I still feel the loneliness sometimes; I think I still have depression locked down. I say “I think” because, well, who knows, really.

There’s so much change that happens in your 20s. There is so much possibility ahead. It feels like in the last few years the dust has started to settle. You would think that would bring relief, calm…instead, I feel anxious. I feel like the mold is hardening and becoming more and more difficult to break. It feels like I’m losing control.

I imagined there being so much more love in my life by now. I don’t know who else to blame for that but myself. A part of me wants to blame the global pandemic for creating distance, but perhaps that’s only because it feels good to take some of the blame off myself.

My father died. Kidney and liver failure. The ending we always imagined - so why does it still not feel real? I guess a part of me was expecting a surprise ending. I hate how his story ended. I hate how we ended. With no resolution, no solutions. Just brokenness.

I hope I don’t hate the end of my story. I don’t want to hate the end of this story.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Drip, Drop

One more sip, one more drink Scream some more, shake the floor I’ll be here, silent and obedient Don’t shake the boat. Hide your disdain. Don’t be a child. Don’t start a fight.  Be a good girl. 

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Healing Hurts

The truth is that healing hurts.

Growing hurts.

And I think people forget that.

Shy away from that.

When the reality is that as long as you’re shying away from the uncomfortable

You’re denying yourself something better

And the truth is

As long as you stay with something that isn’t the best that you could have

You suffer

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

It’s funny

In the movies they make it seem

Like if you live the life of an underdog

Eventually

People will notice

And you will start to reap reward

But the reality is

That as long as you think you’re the victim

The longer you’re an idiot

Because, in truth

No one looks out for anyone but themselves

And no one is keeping score but you

So at the end of the day

You will be left feeling just as alone and worthless as you started out

Unless,

You’re willing to do something about it

Because the truth is

You’re the only one with power over this

The only one

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Mental H-E-Double Hockey Sticks

It feels like I noticed this thread sticking out of my sweater and while it wasn’t a big deal, it was big enough that I started to find it hard to ignore. So I went ahead pulled on the thread. I pulled on it and of course, it got bigger. So I pulled some more, hoping, just maybe, that I would reach the root and the problem of the thread would be solved. 

Of course, that didn’t happen and instead, by the time I realized what I was doing, the sweater was almost entirely unraveled and now, I don’t know what to do. From my work, I have learned that it is entirely possible to fix to the mess I have created. However, in order to do that, I’m going to have to learn how to knit and possibly get some new tools. All of this is going to take hard work and the thought of it all makes me want to take what’s left of my sweater, hide it under the couch cushions, and just go about my day in my ugly skin. 

The reality, though, is that I no longer have that option. I no longer get to go into self-destruct mode, as sabotaging my wellbeing has implications for more than just myself. I know now that I am responsible for my own mess and no one is going to come along and fix it for me. Does knowing all of this make it any easier? The answer is no, it doesn’t.

But it sure as hell makes it a lot more difficult to make excuses.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Addicted by pris Via Flickr: Khodovarikha Serge Devant - Addicted Radio edit

Just Like That

Before you know it, the days slide into months. The pain turns into familiarity. The discomfort turns soothing. You begin to believe that this is it now. And so, to survive, you adjust. You become comfortable with the uncomfortable. But it’s more than that. You’re not just comfortable. The darkness is a part of you, it is you. And you’re okay with that. You lean in. Fuck, you do more than lean in. You lie down. Lie in the cold water and let it envelop you. Let it seep into your deepest crevices. The parts of you that are too dark for you to even see. And there it stays. Infecting you. Quietly.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Tell me about the pain...

It doesn’t hurt the way it used to.  It feels like the hole in my chest has begun to heal and I can... breathe.  I can breathe, even though I didn’t want to before. Even though I begged, pleaded, not to.  I’m alive.  I’m alive and it doesn’t have to hurt anymore. But, sometimes, I think I want to hurt.  I want to feel the suffering, the pain.  I want to remember what it felt like to drown. 

So I take a trip through my memories.  I flip through my book of pain, looking for something that still hurts. And while I know that it’s a good thing, there is a part of me that feels disappointed that there isn’t much left that still aches.  There is a part of me that misses that feeling...and I don’t know why.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

Time To Slow

When the pain finally lifts and you take that first breath of fresh air You feel it right down at the bottom of your stomach The flesh on your belly stretches and a quietness takes over

That’s what it feels like to feel a moment. 

To be a moment.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

The first time I attempted suicide I was in grade 8. I read the description on the back of an extra strength acetaminophen and thought that “maximum 3 pills per day” meant that if you took four you would perish. I will never forget the calmness that came over me after I took those pills. I went back upstairs and laid on my bed feeling warm all over. I woke up the next day. Rather than still being alive causing me to feel shocked, I instead just felt numb. I carried that numbness with me throughout the day at school, carrying with me the thrilling secret about what I had done the night before. What I had intended to do the night before. 

The exact time and place for each of my attempts after that get hazy. Pills became my fascination. For awhile I started to collect random pills in this Tylenol bottle I kept in my purse. A friend of mine had T3′s for whatever reason, and I remember stealing some to add to the bottle. It was my safety blanket. I always knew it was there, ready to be used if things got to be too much. It made me feel like I was still in control when everything felt out of control. 

In grade 11 I used the bottle. Thinking back now...I mean my dad had got in a drunk driving accident the year before and at the time, was moving away to Ontario. Thinking back to my attempt in grade 8, I mean that was when I figured out he was an alcoholic. It’s funny how parents can have that effect on you. Though you don’t really recognize it until long after. I was getting bullied as well...I think anyways. Where I stand now today I don’t really know if it was bullying or if I brought it on to myself. My constant attempts to appease everyone and win their approval was certainly not a friend-making trait. Anyways, whatever instigated it all I was the target of everyone’s hatred and I was alone. 

We were sitting in the school library. There was a class, I don’t know which one. An IB class. My friend wouldn’t talk to me. I was asking her why but she wouldn’t tell me. I couldn’t take it. So I went to the bathroom. As I walked down the hall I clenched my fingers around the bottle in my purse. When I got to the bathroom I poured out a handful and took them one at a time. With each pill that familiar calmness came over me. Afterward, I went back to the library. I finished the day. Warm and calm. Until it was time to go home. Until I realized it wasn’t going to work. Again. 

When I got home I was frantic. I took a few more pills. It wasn’t working. I recalled seeing a scene in a movie where a girl stuck her head in the oven. I wondered what would happen if I breathed the gas from the fireplace. So there I was. Head in the fireplace, breathing in the fumes when finally, I collapsed on the floor exhausted. Finished. When my mom came home that night I told her I was switching schools. I never told her the real reason why. The counsellor never figured out the real reason why. No one really pressed for the reason why. It was because I knew I had a choice; stay and die or leave, and try to live. 

Things were okay for a little while. Well, I would like to think so anyways. Though in reality, they were never really okay. A day where I didn’t cry myself to sleep was rare and daily mantra’s were “please kill me, please let me die”. I had crafted this story in my head that I was some sick experiment. Some test subject created by God to see what would happen to a person if they didn’t experience love. The only person I loved was my dog and even he would get uncomfortable and squirm away if I got too close to him. My despair seeped deep into my bones and made me feel heavy. It made me mean and callous and bitter towards everyone who I thought was out to make me feel worse. 

Naively, I thought that a change of scenery would help. I decided to move away for university. Sometimes I feel glad that I did this. If only because it allowed me to hide aspects of my downward spiral of self-destruction. The drinking, the promiscuity. I was stilling reeling off my mantra in my head. Still begging god almighty to off me already and put me out of my misery. There was one night I got in my car and sped down the highway with my eye closed. Another time I drove drunk. With each escapade, my safety offered no comfort. Just disappointment. 

Eventually, it got to the point where dying felt more like a logical option, rather than an emotional one. I decided to challenge myself. I was a good student. I was able to problem-solve. Why can’t I figure this out?  I decided to do some research. I figured out I had just been taking the wrong pills. See, what I needed was a sleeping pills. A sleeping pill and a drink. 

Finally, I thought. I can experience that calmness again. The calmness I used to feel when I would wrap my fingers around that bottle I used to keep in my purse. Finally, I could be in control again. Except this time, I didn’t feel calm. I felt something I had not felt before. I felt panic. I felt terror. Terror knowing that this was it. That this time it would work. That this time, I would not be waking up the next day. And as I crumbled onto the floor of my bedroom after making this realization it dawned on me that nothing mattered anymore. And since nothing mattered, I thought, maybe I could try asking for help. Maybe, just maybe, for this one last go, I will do what everyone talks about and see what happens if I ask for help. I am about to die anyways, right? Its death, or help. That’s it. 

So I chose help. Mind you, I had my very first panic attack in the bathroom two doors down the hall before I went in, but I did. It was rough. I think I spent the entirety of my first few sessions just crying. It didn’t happen overnight. It took years. But with each passing year it felt like the weight that had been pulling me down, drowning me, got lighter. 

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

We’re Fucked

We are all born into a fucked up world that eventually fucks us all up.

Then, once we’re fucked we turn around and fuck up the world. 

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

It's that moment after a storm A storm that's been ravaging for days but you adjusted so well you didn't realize And after, suddenly things emerge Things hidden beneath the carnage Buried within the chaos 

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

My life is good. Things are good. Yet I can’t stop trying to find things that are wrong with it. It’s like a habit. There is nothing wrong with my present so I scan my past looking for details I’ve missed. Struggles I’ve failed to dwell on. But things are good. I’m good.

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

The Beginning of the End

And then there is that moment. That moment when the fairytale begins to blur around the edges. When the colors don’t seem as bright as you once thought they were. You will try to pretend you didn’t see it. You’ll wake up the next morning and you’ll try to forget. Try to forget that this is going to end. That he isn’t your white picket fence, with a dog and a place you can finally call home. That he isn’t going to be there if you get sick. That is he isn’t going to move with you if you land a great job. That he isn’t going to buy you a ring. That he isn’t forever.  That is when the hurt begins. Long before the last goodbye. Before the fighting begins. It’s that moment when your suspension of disbelief suddenly crumbles around you, and you realize... this isn’t it.   

[dontthinkaboutitmuch]

There's a chip in our armor. 

A chip in our amour.