This is the last time…

I never anticipated the most difficult part of ending a marriage. I thought for sure it would be the effect on our kids: the fear that they will struggle, the sadness they will experience, or the resentment that I will eventually be uprooting them from half of what they know in our nice little suburban small-town neighborhood life and moving them into a city of over a million people. And maybe it will be; maybe the most difficult part of this journey hasn’t even started yet and I’m fooling myself by thinking this is as bad as it will get…the 30 minute showers where I just silently sob because it’s the only time I can get it out without scaring anyone…the scream-singing commutes home as I dread walking in the door and facing that level of stress each night…the work meeting where I unexpectedly sprouted tears as we discussed summer vacation plans not because I thought I may have to work my birthday weekend (as my boss mistakenly took them) but because I realized I may be spending my birthday weekend alone this year.

No, the worst part is knowing that I’m the only one who truly knows we’re going through a year of “lasts” and it’s slowly eating me alive. It started around Christmastime last year, shortly after I came out and really let him know how unhappy I had been for so long. The truth of the matter is that over time the walls I built around myself allowed me to begin putting distance between us long before December, and I carry so much guilt that maybe I never gave him the chance to “fix” things, because I had already started considering that this would be the last Christmas we spent together. The last time we filmed our kids coming down the steps in that house on Christmas morning, the last time I spent much of Christmas Day at his mom’s peaceful old farmhouse, and the last time I get to be part of “Friendsgiving”, and event I helped start over 15 years ago, but also an event that I know I will be excluded from in the future because his brother’s family also attends.

We just scheduled a weekend trip in May with our best friends, and I know it’s probably going to be the last time we do this as a couple. What will the future look like with this? Will we both find other people and occasionally take separate trips with this couple that has been with us each for 20+ years? Will they choose sides and one of us may never get to travel with them again? This isn’t just a “normal” friendship. They have supported us through pregnancy loss; we’ve supported them through cancer. In small ways along the way, we have helped them begin and run a thriving business. Not knowing the future is terrifying, because they are truly family.

We’re planning our younger son’s 4th birthday celebration, and I already know it’s the last one that we will do as *this* family. Have we already experience my eldest son’s last birthday together? Did I miss that last? The last first day of school? The last baseball opening day? Have we been to church for the last time as a family? Was my nephew’s birthday party last weekend the last time we go to my sister’s house together? If we’re already separated by the time I go to the beach house for the first time this year, what will I do with all of his stuff there?

There’s a lovely, heartbreaking book about not knowing when your kids’ “lasts” come along until you’ve already had them…the last time they want to snuggle, the last time you put their shows on for them, the last time they ask to be rocked…it makes me cry every time. And let’s be honest, everything males me cry so that’s not shocking, but I never imagined that I would be experiencing the lasts of an 18-year relationship in much the same way.

And I don’t know what he’s feeling exactly, but on some level I know he suspects the same thing, that these are our lasts. He knows that the slim hope for reconciliation he has is just that: slim. The next month will be hard on both of us. Hard on him as he comes to terms with what I’ve known for months, and hard for me to watch him process it, even from the cool, detached, emotional distance I’ve put between us. I know we will both be okay, and I know that each of us has our own well of strength to draw upon, but I make friends easily, share easily, and allow myself to lean on others easily when they offer, and he has never been that way. He leans on me. So hard that for the long years I allowed it, it nearly pushed me into the ground. Now that I dug myself out of that and into the understanding that my faults don’t make me a faulty human, I worry which way he will fall when I remove that support beam.

What is Love, Anyway?

If you are looking to get lost in an alternate reality, Twitter is a crazy world in which to do it. And the vast majority of people are unhappy. Single people are unhappy, married people are unhappy, even the happily single or happily married often seen quite the opposite. And as humans, we seem to be built with this one driving force in mind: love. What is it? How do you find it? How do you know it’s real? If you lost it, how do you get it back? Do you even want to? Is the pain of losing it really worth the joy that having it briefly provided? If love is the dissertation, then Twitter is the most beautifully fucked-up research college around.

As someone who struggles a lot with accepting that I am not so terrible that I’m unworthy of being loved the way I want to be one day, I’ve found some interesting conclusions. Everyone is a therapist; everyone has an idea of what love looks like, and the truth is, we’re all wrong. And we’re all right. This is the great epiphany. The way I want to experience love is not likely to match up with anyone but a very small percentage of the world. Single women post things all the time like “if he cooks and cleans and is willing to go down on you, then keep him”. I’m sorry, but that’s like the bare minimum of what a partner should be (and let’s be honest, I’ve learned the difference between ‘willing’ and ‘it’s my favorite thing because it makes you feel good’). Maybe it’s enough for them? Maybe my judgment of their low standards is misplaced, because I cook just fine on my own and I’d much rather have someone around that makes me feel like I have the freedom to be myself without judgment or criticism. Other would-be love gurus think that my ideals are selfish: that if I love someone and there are things they don’t like about me, I should be willing to change those things to make them happy. You know what? If that’s what you value, then fine. I’m not going to stop you from believing in love the way you think it should be. Just like religion, please allow me the autonomy to believe in my version of love as well.

For a long time, I’ve mistakenly believed that loving someone means being their rock, propping them up when they needed it, absorbing their pain and replacing it with lightness. But the reverse of this school of thought is that means in order for you to love someone, they have to be willing to “let go” of their burdens and share them with you. Why? Why do they have to? What if their burdens are what keeps them moving forward? What if it’s what makes them feel as though they are conquering their demons? Our pain and regret can reside inside us without festering. It can just be there, silently pushing us through whatever life hands out, reminding us that we can make it through because we have a silent strength that other people can’t even fathom. Some people are simply their own rock. They don’t need you for that. They need you for other reasons, and it’s up to you to discover what those reasons are, if you want to be there for them in the way they will appreciate most.

In the end, it’s not up to me to decide what this words means for anyone but myself, and the people that I choose to share it with. Whether it’s in a romantic way, as a friend, or in the way I love my children and family, it’s up to me to decipher what the people in my life need the most and give it to them. I’m not going to get it right all the time; I’m still going to have moments where I think I’m doing the right thing and find out it’s not what they need right then. Rather than let that make me retreat into my shell and take it personally, I need to remember that they may not need to be loved the same way I do. If I can give them that even part of the time, and if I know I’m trying to let them be who they are and love them for it, then maybe I have a chance of convincing myself that I deserve to be loved the same way.

This is a huge change for me. For a long time I’ve simply thought I don’t need any kind of romantic love in my life: that my family, my kids, my amazing friends fill my heart up enough that I don’t have to worry about “falling” ever again. Once I’m free, I thought, I’ll just have a string of lovers…I’ll be a love ’em and leave ’em type. I’ll date younger men that can satisfy my needs without getting involved in the sticky mess of “love”. You know what, though? This is all bullshit. This is the insecure part of me talking, the part that whispers “you’re not good enough” constantly whenever I get ahead of myself, knocking me down a few pegs lest I think I’m SomeBody. I’m learning over time and reflection that the voice is wrong. I don’t want to be somebody’s good time. I want to be, as a friend recently put it in a raunchy but succinct way, somebody’s “life-altering fuck”. I want to be the one that makes them forget about whoever it was that broke them before. And I want there to be somebody for me that makes me feel calm and secure when my mind races and my body won’t sit still. And as I recently told a friend, when I find them, I want to be the one that lights their world on fire in the best kind of way.

I want this for all of us. I didn’t believe in love for a long time, but I feel like while it never quite left, maybe it just disappeared over the horizon for a while and now, like a sunrise, it’s going to make itself known again. If we’re patient and we pay attention.

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby

We all know the truth: when the sexual health dies in a relationship, that’s where a lot of the other day-to-day issues that you could choose to deal with lovingly become things that grate on your nerves to an extent where you just can’t. do. it. anymore. I’m not going to lie; this is one of the areas in my marriage where I have totally and utterly failed. Weight gain, breastfeeding off and on for 6ish years, the stress of raising a family, and a rollercoaster of anti-depressants with sexual side effects all but ruined me. I’m ashamed to admit that we became one of those couples that engaged intimately maybe 3-4 times a year.

Sadly, while my body and mental health have started bouncing back over the past year or two, my sexual attraction to my husband has never found it’s way back. I don’t know how to fix this. I’ve read articles, I’ve consulted friends about how they survived their “rough patches”, and I’ve tried to follow the “fake it till you make it” philosophy of just “doing it more even when you don’t want to will make you want to more”. Negative.

I mean, don’t get me wrong…I *want* to more. And I think about sex about as much as any red-blooded American 17 year old boy. Or at least lately it feels that way. It’s just not about the person it should be…some days the idea of intimacy with him is the biggest turn off. Sometimes I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I see single women all the time who describe all of the qualities they’re looking for in a man, and honestly I have to admit I have a good one overall. He somehow still finds me sexy even in the moments where I can barely look at myself naked. The idea of cheating would never cross his mind for any reason. He cooks, cleans, and tries his best to be a good parenting partner (even if sometimes it feels like a hassle for him to do the things I usually just handle without him even knowing).

It’s just that the more time that passes, the more I feel like it’s not what *I* want or need. This would be so much easier if there were clear signs of verbal/emotional abuse or cheating. I know that is a completely horrible thing to say, but part of me feels like I’m throwing away what others would perceive as “a good thing” over nothing but my own personal hang-ups. Is my self-esteem so low that I feel like I don’t deserve “a good man”? Is my heart so cold and dead and black now that I would just rather be alone than have to smile and fake my way through a relationship that is comfortable at best, and wholly unfulfilling at worst? Am I just overwhelmed at that feeling of “never being alone”? Sometimes when I’m driving home I pray for bad traffic, just so that I can spend more time alone in the car, singing and crying and trying not to pass my exit and keep driving until I’m alone at my parents’ beach house and no one can contact me for a few days.

Even so, when I do get those little “breaks” from reality, when I return to real life it’s a horrendously jarring experience. I feel like I’m retreating so far into my daydreams sometimes that I just can’t experience reality in a positive way anymore. I know none of this is healthy; I know all of this is my fault. I just don’t know how to fix it, or if I even want to.

Wait, this is a weight loss blog?

Yeah, no, whatever. I’m an idea person; execution has not always been my strong suit. So having a blog where I write about my efforts to look like a normal, average fucking human being instead of a middle-aged mom who “would be pretty if she weren’t so fat” haven’t gone so well. Most everything I try to write turns into just “my life as a dumpster fire slash sometimes political ranting slash occasional inspirational crap”.

However. Somewhere along the way I have actually started to lose some weight. I think it was the apathy of depression/stress rearing it’s head at first, like “I have no desire to put anything in my mouth at the moment”. Followed by a trip to the mountains where my cousin and I took a picture together and after looking at it, I kind of wished I could just jump off the overlook we were on. Then, and this part is strange but stay with me, while in the mountains I saw “Bohemian Rhapsody” (for the first time; I’m not saying how many times I’ve been since it’s been in cinema, nor how many cast/band interviews I’ve watched since)**. I rediscovered my love affair with Queen that I had all but forgotten about in the past 15 years. I used to listen to Queen all the time; I distinctly remember buying the Greatest Hits album at the Virgin Superstore in Times Square in the late 90’s (or very early 2000’s…one of my closest friends lived in the city and I visited about every 9 months for a solid few years). I also distinctly remember watching the broadcast of the old concert at the Bowl at Milton Keynes several times as a teenager (I swear BBC used to air it and PBS picked it up), and I thought Freddie was a God (I was right). I remember watching LiveAid with my parents in the 80’s and Honest to God, her majesty’s performance is the ONLY one I can recall from that day.

In any case, when I remembered what I had been missing all these years and found the access to Queen’s catalogue on Spotify to be beyond measure, I began jamming. When I get home between work and dinner, and after dinner while cleaning the kitchen, I’ve been putting on my Queen Pandora station and rocking out. (I am truly obnoxious to live with; I will sing and dance to anything recognizable at any moment.) I’ve been having more frequent dance parties with the kids. I’ve been parking my car at the back of the parking lot at the movies when I go revisit the film. (Joking. Maybe.)

This inspired me to start taking more walks, both alone and with the family. As an extrovert that still desperately needs alone time, I’m starting to enjoy my after-dark walks once the kids are in bed. I’ve been drinking water and cutting soda as well. I know there are other changes I can make down the road, but I figure it’s best to do this slowly by making one simple change each time I hit a plateau. Before I’ve tried to go whole hog into Sweeping Life Changes all at once and honestly, I fail fast on that. (This also started in November, lest you think I’m the type of person to make New Years’ Resolutions.) Now all of a sudden I find myself the owner of a FitBit (a gift) and tracking my sleep and shit.

I’ve lost about 5lbs a month and it does make me excited to step on the scale and see a smaller number. It also makes me very, very happy to put my pants on for work and realize that I have 3 pairs I have to get rid of now. I’m buying new pants and not looking back. I have a long way to go, yada yada inspo or whatever…but I’m buying new fucking pants and giving life the English V. And listening to Queen 40. A lot.

 

**I’m not going to make a whole post about the Golden Globes, but if you want to know my honest opinion, it’s kind of a weak year for the type of movies that win awards. In almost any other year, this would not have happened and I’m cinephile enough to admit it. I do not think it’s a “perfect” movie, but I do think it’s more than most critics say: it’s entertaining, all of the actors gave absolutely terrific performances, and it celebrates Freddie. It has scripting problems and feels a little cut/paste at times, but overall I’d pay to see it again (and I will absolutely buy it, hoping to see the cut scene of the live performance of my fave Queen song, ’39). Rami’s was the only nominated performance I’ve seen, but I thought he was brilliant. And now I’ll stop talking about. Maybe.

I’m not a quitter. Unfortunately.

Despite the fact that the thoughts and feelings contained in this post have been brewing for months, or likely years, it’s still going to tumble out of me like a jumbled mess that makes no sense. NBD, really, since the only two people who ever read this already know most of these feelings. It’s basically an online journal for my own personal use, and if someday, someone else comes across it and says, “holy shit; I never knew anyone else could feel this way” well then, this one’s for you.

Sometimes I guess the camel’s back can be so low to the ground, that the final straw is something that feels so benign and harmless to everyone except the person who feels it. Yesterday, I think I finally had that moment. It was confirmed this morning when I put on an old Natalie Merchant album from a time long, long ago and the lyrics of almost every song seemed to push me towards this revelation. I’m done. My marriage is over. I mean, not technically, because I still have to convince the person on the other side since he’s still fighting. And honestly, I have such a mix of heaviness and relief at this point, even though there is no action and the thought of breaking up my family is terrifying.

For so long, I have hung on while knowing I’m not happy or fulfilled, for all the reasons you hear about: the kids. The thought of navigating Christmases and Birthdays in the future. The cost of two households when I feel like it’s hard enough to stay above water with just one. The fact that I love his mother and my niece and nephew dearly and can’t imagine letting go of them. The fact that my two best friends on the entire planet are his cousin, and his childhood friend who introduced us. Trust me when I say that those thoughts of “who gets to keep them in a divorce” are real. Hardest of all is the fact that I’m giving up on someone who is not a bad person. Someone who loves me, who thinks he accepts me the way that I am, who is by all accounts a great father, and who is trying really really hard to be a good partner right now.

But the fact is, I dread going home. Every day. I was able to take a girls’ trip recently and realized that I didn’t miss anything about being away from him. I almost always cry when I leave the mountains, because to be honest I’m an emotional person (I’m crying now, obviously) and because the mountains are the place I feel most like myself. You know when else I feel most like myself? When I’m not around my husband. It’s not even his fault. I have spent our entire marriage asking him why he decided to marry ME when I am so obviously wrong for him. And I blame myself, constantly. Isn’t your soulmate, your partner, that person you are in love with, supposed to make you “want to be a better person”? I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to be the person that measures up to his standards, and I’ve spent years failing.

I want to put loud rock music on and dance around and sing off-key while cleaning the kitchen every night. I want to take hour-long baths without feeling guilty. I want to cuss like a sailor after the kids are in bed without the response being eyerolls and reminders to “stay classy, now”. I don’t want to be told I’m laughing too loud. I’m tired of being asked my opinion only so someone can say back to me, “you don’t think it should be xyz?” every time. And Jesus Fucking Christ, I don’t want anyone to touch the stove’s heat settings while I’m cooking or be asked why I’m not following the recipe ever in my life again.

Sure, these all seem like really asinine things, but I have spent over ten years telling myself that I’m not good enough and that I’ll never measure up. I’m not abused, I haven’t been cheated on, and as far as anyone can tell on paper I’m treated pretty damn well. But what you can’t see is the soul-crushing way that the joy has been sucked out of almost everything I have tried to enjoy for the past few years. How every decision I make is questioned with a raised eyebrow. And how there is just an assumption that there are certain things that will always fall on me to take care of.

For full disclosure, let me make it clear that I’m no fucking peach to live with, either. I’m sarcastic approximately 87% of the time. I’m not a nurturer, at least not to a grown-ass man. I get easily frustrated when I have to explain the relationships of characters in a show we’ve been watching for 2+ years. I use the F word A LOT. I name-call. I answer almost every question with, “your mom”. And I also suffer from depression and if I don’t stay on my medication the right way, things go from normal to really-fucking-not-ok in a fast minute.

But the bottom line is, every time I try to fake it until I make it, I cannot imagine myself ever falling in love with this person again. I don’t know what’s going to happen from here. I don’t know if I’ll chicken out and live a lie for the rest of my life, stifling my obnoxious personality as best I can for the next ten or twenty years and retreating further into the daydreams in my head of whatever alternate life I wish I were living. I don’t know if by my 40th birthday this summer I’ll have a plan and be packing. I just know I needed to let this shit out somewhere before I drive home tonight.

Rip Current Truths

I grew up in North Carolina, and while I didn’t live on the coast, my parents had a boat and a trailer at the beach for as long as I can remember. (Actually, they had to sell the trailer to be able to afford their first “real” house in Raleigh, so for several years we actually camped at Emerald Isle in a tent, or in the lucky years, in my aunt’s 1970’s era motorhome. Still kept the boat, though. When I got older and we moved from “lower-middle-class” to “blue-collar slightly above average middle-class”, they bought a home with a pool. I’m pretty sure I learned to swim before I could walk. I’m pretty sure I learned to swim by being thrown off the boat into a lake or sound, but it was before my earliest memories so that’s unverifiable. For two years, I was a Camp Waterfront Director, teaching swimming and canoeing to 60 campers. At one point my career was lifeguarding, teaching Infant/Parent swim classes, teaching adult swim classes, teaching group kid swim classes, and teaching private lessons. To get the certifications to do this was about 1/10th of the rigorous water training Marines have to do. (Not really, but I did have to demonstrate that I could swim all 4 strokes, a minimum of 200 meters without stopping, and tread water with my hands holding a brick for somewhere between 2-5 minutes.) And I grew up swimming in any body of water I was near, including the Atlantic Ocean.

So yeah, I’m an experienced swimmer. It’s been a while so my endurance isn’t where it used to be, but I’ve still got the goods. (And true story: extra fat means I can float. No one is winning any treading water contests to me. I could literally go all night.) I still swim frequently in the summer, and pretty much have to find an indoor pool at least a few times in cold weather, too, because it’s the best stress reliever for me. Most exciting, my kids are learning how to swim. My oldest son swam a beautiful, face in the water freestyle last night and can do front and back flips off the diving board. My 3-year-old thinks he can swim, and he actually can move himself forward underwater, but can’t quite get his head back up to breathe. We’re working on it, though. As a lifelong swimmer, this is one of my proudest parenting moments.

We also work frequently (ie: at least once every trip to the beach) on how to escape a rip current, something my parents ingrained in me from birth even though I always thought the likelihood of actually having to use that knowledge was slim. Incorrect. It took nearly 39 years, but it finally happened a few weeks ago. Obviously I’m still here, and I didn’t have to be rescued, but let me fill you in one some of the most terrifying moments of my life.

First step: don’t panic. For the first time in my life, I see how people freak the heck out when they realize what’s happening. As mentioned above, I have years of experience and consider myself a pretty strong swimmer, and my first thought when I realized I couldn’t make any progress to shore was “Oh, shit, this is how I’m going to die. My family is going to look over from the shore and I won’t be here anymore.” I first realized I was in serious trouble when I looked at people to my left and right, each about 50 yds away and parallel to me (so, the same distance from shore, only about 25 yds) and they were in waist deep water.

I. Was. Not.

Second step: stay calm. After experiencing fight mode for about 30 seconds where I would swim 5m and be in the exact same spot, I stopped swimming. I floated as high on the swells as I could, knowing that the current is strongest at the bottom. I collected myself, took some deep breaths, and let the childhood training set it.

Step three: Swim parallel or diagonally to shore. If there is nothing else you remember about rip currents, remember to swim parallel. I would rest between swells and then swim like hell with each wave, kind of positioning myself on a diagonal track. The rest periods are important, because this is still a slow process. I was only making up a few feet at a time, and I would imagine this part took me about 3-5 minutes before I could safely put my feet on the ground.

Step four: exit the water immediately. No explanation needed. First, you are just ready to get the hell out of the water. Second, no matter how strong a swimmer you are, the adrenaline will make you realize a sudden exhaustion.

When I collapsed safely in my beach chair, I was a little shook up. On the one hand, only about 20 people die each year from being caught in a current. And there were several boats out a few hundred yards from shore, so worst case scenario I would have probably opted to just swim to them and motion for help (and hope they weren’t sex traffickers). On the other hand, if I didn’t know how to save myself, I would have probably been a goner. The lifeguard stand at EI is about 400 yds away from where we were, and at that moment I realized that every lifeguard as well as police in a 5-mile radius were gathered around an ambulance on the beach. I thought maybe it was just other people getting into currents, but it turns out someone got stung by a stingray barb.

So yeah, someone had a worse day than me.

Moral of the story: I can now call myself a survivor and badass, right? Instead of making me fear the ocean, this experience has emboldened me, and I plan to spend my 39th birthday in a few weeks in the exact same spot, swimming alone in the deep water, and being thankful to be alive.

Live Through This

It’s time to address the elephant in the room (I mean, no one reads this except my friend Dawn anyway). I have never attempted suicide.

I have never attempted suicide, but I have been close enough to park my car 100 yards away from a really large tree and scream/cried for 30 minutes while I considered gunning it. I have thought about running my car off the road. I have come very close to slipping under the ocean swells I was floating in and just not coming back up. I understand why people get to the point where they feel an inescapeable, suffocating pressure to succeed, and also feel that whatever goal they’re reaching towards is unattainable, and that they’re not worthy of it anyway.

Being that I began this as a sort of “weight loss” blog, I didn’t expect to share so much about my mental health. The truth is, I think that my mental health and weight gain have always co-existed in some way. My depression didn’t cause the weight gain, but it certainly contributed to it, and in some ways my weight keeps the demons that fuel depression fed. Truthfully, all of us (not just women) are evaluated daily on the way we look. It’s hard to make strides in thinking you are a worthy, beautiful person when men stop holding doors for you (except as an occasional afterthought). I’ve been on both sides of the weight coin. I was teased in high school, called anorexic, broken up with by my Senior boyfriend in the 10th grade because I wouldn’t let him get to second base. I waited until 19 to lose my virginity, not because I was overly pure, but because I was too self-conscious about my underdeveloped body to develop any physical relationships.

In any case, this is where the weight conversation begins and ends today, because I’ve been trying to write this post for a week and I can’t seem to get through it. It’s been about 6 years since I was diagnosed with depression, and as I’ve mentioned before, it probably should have happened twenty years ago. Mental illness is different for everyone. It even changes the way the same person is affected over time. I barely remember much from my late teen/early 20’s when it came to mental health, other than brief flashes of being curled up in the bathtub crying, insomnia, or general lashing out at people when I felt wronged.

After my oldest son was born, it manifested itself as either being extremely overwhelmed (and again, snapping at those closest to me easily) or extreme apathy. It’s hard for someone who has always been “normal” to understand apathy as a symptom of depression, but it’s not always like the TV commercials for drugs. It’s more like the apathy and overwhelmed feelings go hand in hand, and I just want other people to make some damn decisions and NOT ASK ME ANY MORE QUESTIONS. Most people need their opinions heard and validated, but sometimes it just feels like an intrusion on my already busy day to have to discuss ideas for dinner, choose which load of laundry needs to be done next, or help my sister plan a birthday party for my mom. When this happens, it just shuts me down. No, I don’t end up not getting out of bed for 3 days because honestly, I can’t. I don’t have the option of shutting down. I have kids. They need food. I have to work for that. It seems to be a cycle…despite being an extrovert, I do need to have occasional time alone. The last time this happened at an extreme level, I simply told my husband, “I’m not coming home tomorrow night. You won’t know where I am, but I’ll be safe.” I didn’t talk to anybody for at least 12 hours. I got a giant beer and Thai food just for myself, booked a hotel room (SUITE) 3 miles from my office, slept in a king bed ALONE, took a shower that lasted at least an hour while watching a movie because I could see the TV from the bathroom, and got ONLY MYSELF ready the next morning. It was what I needed.

I’ve been on Wellbutrin for over a year now, with moderate success. My doctor and I raised my dosage about 3 months ago and I finally feel “normal” again. This is also something that is extremely difficult to explain to non-depressed people. It’s a realization of, “oh, this is how this isĀ supposed to feel.” As if for years, other people have been eating guacamole and raving about it, but you couldn’t understand their excitement because you’ve just been eating plain avocado that someone told you was guacamole. (This is a ridiculous analogy.) It’s easier now to enjoy the best moments, and more importantly it’s easier to deal with the moments that used to feel unbearable. I still struggle with self-destructive behaviour, with shutting people out because I don’t feel “good enough”, with feeling like other people are doing so much more/better/happier than me. But I’m getting there.

More importantly, I no longer have any suicidal thoughts. All of the things I described above came between 5-1 years ago. In addition to medication, I found a website that I think helps so much. So many people suffering feel two things: first, like no one cares enough to bother hearing your darkest thoughts (and that they’ll think you’re crazy if you do share). Second, like no one else really has ever felt the way you feel. I randomly stumbled across this site from a friend of a friend’s facebook post, and I still have a small section of Lindsey Peterson’s interview saved on my phone to remind myself now and then how much damage I could have caused.

I know the Suicide Prevention Hotline is being tossed around like hotcakes right now, but I was never going to be that person. Many people feel that way. I hope that continuing to share this website’s mission of hope will help others.

LiveThroughThis.org

The stories are long, but so worth reading until you find the one that really matches your story. Lindsey’s is mine. Not everything about it, but the self-destructive behaviour, the lying to cover things up, the feeling that I had so much potential that I threw away. I truly believe that I NEEDED to read her story, and I hope that she’s out there somewhere, living and thriving, and that somehow she knows that telling her story might have saved at least one life.

“Your child would never recover from that.” She’s like, “I’ve been doing this long enough to know that, if you kill yourself, that will affect your daughter in ways that you can’t understand, and she’s not going to recover from that. You’re a mom now. Sorry.” She laid it out there.”