Realization -- It Goes On

The past six months have been hell for me. Literally, a living, breathing hell.

First my grandfather is hospitalized, then I have a huge blow out with the person I considered my best friend. For a long while I was both depressed and suicidal. I hated myself. I hated my life. I wanted to die.

My depression medication was not helping at all. So I stopped taking it. Basically cold-turkey, though I told everyone that I'd weaned myself off of it. After that, I simply grit my teeth, grabbed on to the edge of sanity, and clung for dear life, pulling myself back up and over the edge bit by bit by itty bit.

For a while, I was a mess. But it was a secret. I hid my instability behind wide smiles and bright eyes.

And while other people would complain of how they couldn't go do this or that, or how they didn't think they were going to pass this assignment, or how they wanted in/out of a relationship, I just smiled and offered advice.

I viewed myself as a broken individual, one that no one really wanted around. And after my grandfather's death, it was even worse.

My mother cried. My aunt cried. My brother (who, upon the death of our grandmother five years previous, failed to understand she was gone forever) cried. They all cried. They had their moment of tears, of weakness. And I stood strong, a pillar of strength for them. And at their funeral, they flat out sobbed. Everyone cried.

I didn't. I still haven't.

Thanksgiving came and went, followed shortly after my Christmas. Both holidays were hard. Much harder than I'm willing to admit. But I was getting better. I was eating regularly again. I'd begun to smile again. I was taping together the pieces of my soul.

Then, the kicker.

My house, my home, the place I lived the most important years of my life, the place I'd lived in for nearly a decade.... Burned.

It caught fire, and it burned.

My life was in that building. All our pictures, the things grandma had given us before her death, our [mom's and my] degrees, every story I'd ever written from 7th grade to the present, my senior project, mom's figurines, the couch that I'd fallen asleep on so many times thsat it became my bed, the baby swing that Vaeh stayed in the first six weeks of her life while she lived with us. Three cats that had so many years ahead of them.

After that.... I lost it. Literally and figuratively.

I viewed myself as more than just broken. When I looked in the mirror, I saw someone who was shattered, a person who would never again be whole. I decided that no matter what I did, no one would ever love me. I couldn't even love myself, after all, so it made plenty of sense.

I still do.

I often forgot to eat, sometimes on accident, others on purpose. I indulged in a lesser known act of self-harm (accidentally): biting/gnawing at the cuticles around my finger nails.

I kept my prcarious grip on sanity through random acts of silly kindness

Today, I am a college student surviving 17 hours. I am clean, free of medication (excluding Vitamin C and a dose of naproxin sodium for my knee). I have a support group filled with people that care about me and my wellbeing. I'm in love. And?

I have come to a realization.

I will survive.

"In three words, I can sum up everything I have learned about life: It goes on."

Here's three more. "So will I."

So even if I hate myself right now, I'll come to terms with my hate some day. I'll come to terms with the fact that I can't love myself. Until then, I simply plan on surviving.

Ever yours,
and ready to sleep for a couple hours before piano,
The Night Thief

P.S. - In the coming days, I will be giving free hugs. :3