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.
I’m having a fucking miserable night. My coworker taunted me because of my self harm scars then offered me a knife to go and do some more. And hey, surprise, now I REALLY want to! I’m just so miserable and I wish it had worked. I’m envious of those with completed suicides because mine failed and now I have to live this horrible life that I don’t want to live anymore. I just want my boyfriend but he’s busy so i guess I’m crying myself to sleep tonight, alone. Better start preparing for the rest of my life.
For those who don’t know, I attempted suicide last Tuesday. I was hospitalized. Got out yesterday. And here I am. I’ve been admitting that I’m happy to be alive for the past two days but it’s late. I’m in a house where every other person despises me, resents me, and makes me feel like we’d all be better off if I had gone through with it. My boyfriend is asleep. I’m tired. I’m sick. And god fucking dammit… I wish it had worked.
Anonymous asked How does it feel to be bipolar? No offense
how does it feel to be bipolar? well fuck. this is quite a difficult question to answer. a lot of the times, it feels like your brain is fighting against you, trying its best to make sure you suffer. it feels like jumping off the high dive and getting a wonderful high when you’re at the top, like you’re invincible and the world can’t hurt you and nothing will be bad again, but then you land in the cold water and it all comes rushing back to you and you realize that your high was a fake and nothing is ever going to be ok again. and the higher you jump, the further you fall, and the harder it is to kick back to the surface. it feels like a huge identity crisis. who am i? am i manic Erika or depressed Erika? is there even a normal Erika? or am i just major depressed Erika, dysthymia Erika, hypo manic Erika, or manic Erika? and how do i KNOW? every part of me is determined by my mental illness. i’m this or that, up or down. i don’t know what it’s like to just walk down the street like a normal person. i’m either walking down that street wanting to jump in front of a car or walking down that street wanting to jump on top of a car and go for a ride. it consumes. that’s what it does. bipolar consumes. that’s why i don’t say i have bipolar disorder. i say i am bipolar. because i am. everything i do and every decision i make is because of bipolar disorder. should i drink this soda, eat this cookie, watch this movie, take this class, stay up this late, read this book, talk to this person? will this trigger my mania or my depression or my anxiety? i shove five pills down my throat a night and go to weekly therapy because of this disorder. it’s really fucked up because my life has to revolve around bipolar disorder for me to get any sort of relief from bipolar disorder. so to answer your question anon, it sucks. count these 300+ scars on my body and read my journals and track the tears down my cheeks and observe my lack of sanity, my lack of friends. hop onto my ups and downs and ride this roller coaster with me and try not to throw up at the end of it. but it’s not the end, it’s never the end. get an endless supply of barf bags because these roller coasters will last forever. we’re never free. we’re forever slaves. welcome to bipolar disorder.
Recovery isn’t perfection. It’s not never relapsing again as long as you live. It’s not being happy, healthy, and sane 100% of the time. Recovery is buying razor blades and throwing them away an hour later. Recovery is crying yourself to sleep and getting out of bed the next morning with a smile on your face. Recovery is relapsing and making mistakes and learning from them. Recovery is making a conscious decision every day to fight; fight for a better life, a realer smile, a reason to keep going. Recovery is living a shitty life but still seeing beauty in the sun, the smiles of others, and, most importantly, yourself.
is there anyone out there who knows tumblr user this-darkness-i-became in real life? she just sent me a message saying she’ll be gone tomorrow and i don’t know what to do. i feel so helpless