exactly four months ago today, i was a wreck. i was at the end of my rope. i was the worst i had ever been. the week before, i had slit my wrists multiple times, cut up my thighs, and was taken to the hospital before being brought back home.
i shouldn’t have been brought back home.
bipolar disorder was something i’d come to associate with myself only a few months before. but depression was something that had become a part of who i was. depression had been with me for four years, but this was the worst i’d ever felt it. life wasn’t just gray, it was black. i was on several medications that weren’t doing anything for me at all. i was in weekly therapy but every session flew out of my mind the second i left.
i felt i had nothing to live for.
when i got home from work that night, i got one of my blades and took a bath. i cut my thighs so much that the water was tinted with red by the time i was done. i went over old cuts, newer cuts, scars; i didn’t care. i got out of the bath, went into the kitchen, grabbed my bottle of sleeping pills and a drink and went into my room. a few minutes later, i’d swallowed ten pills. i was stopped by my parents. i’d never been so disappointed in my life.
after that, i spent six days in the hospital recovering from my suicide attempt. i’d spent time in the hospital earlier that year, in March, but it was different this time. it didn’t give me as much hope as it had before. i slept through most of the first two days. they stripped me off all my meds and put me on completely new ones. i felt so lonely and helpless and hopeless. all i did was cry and scratch at my cuts and sleep way too much. when i got out, i still felt as if i was in a haze.
for a month after i got out of the hospital, i felt worse than i had before i’d gone in. life sucked. all i could think about was how much i wished my attempt had worked and i had died that night. i couldn’t do my schoolwork, i could barely do my job, i couldn’t socialize; i couldn’t do anything but sleep and eat and yearn for just one cut, just one fucking cut.
but i held out. i stayed strong. i threw out my razors. i took my pills responsibly. and i got better.
i spend a lot of my time talking with people who have been in the same position that i have. i’ve heard a lot of the same phrases that i used to use:
there’s no hope.
i’m never going to get better.
i’d be better off dead.
my life isn’t worth living.
i’m never going to be happy.
if you only remember one thing i say in this post, please please please have it be this.
you are worth it. life is worth it. there is help out there for you. you are going to get better. you are going to be so happy and so loved. just because it’s bad right now doesn’t mean it will always be bad. i don’t care how low you are, how far you’ve fallen, what kind of hell you’re going through; it WILL get better. you’re going to smile and laugh again. your cuts are going to scar. someone is going to love you. you will love yourself and your life.
i’m living proof.
HOPE. IS. REAL.
stay safe, stay lovely, and if you ever need somebody, i’m here.
I’m not ashamed to say I used to cut myself.
Because I USED TO cut myself.
had a fight with my boyfriend so now i’m sleeping alone tonight. it’s midnight and i should probably go to sleep but instead i’m going to stuff my face with leftover Thanksgiving food and watch Undercover Boss. what i REALLY want to do is cut, but that’s in the past. fuck. i love him so fucking much guys, i hate knowing i hurt him :’(
Fuck. I just want to carve the word fat into my stomach and thighs and arms and face and everywhere else on my body so everyone knows how disgusting and unworthy of love I am.