So what? Yea, I have a bit of a reputation when it comes down to the shameless oversharing of deep, sensitivity-stabbing, personal vomit. What can I say…I’m a messy woman, in every sense of the expression. Like I own this 3.5 foot tall purple laundry basket that sprouted from the deepest, darkest, angriest corners of hell, full to the brim with unpaired fucking socks. I kid you not. It’s been like that for years. My eyes water at the sight of it. And yes, I contemplate tossing the whole fucking thing out at least 47 times a day, but then that means sock shopping for 5 people which means going out in public and “people-ing” and just no. Fuck that noise. I’m not done:
my sink is never empty my laundry is always behind AF, there are still broken pieces of something I broke against my floor because I lost my shit for 3.2 seconds at who knows what and mosttimes, I’d rather just be at work. Just to give you a glimpse of my bullshit. (Insert eyeroll here: ______).
Anywho! This post wasn’t meant to be about my sock trauma though. Back in October 2019, I hit rock bottom with my (undiagnosed) on and off bipolar/depression episodes. I was hurting myself and I really didn’t have anyone or anything to blame but myself. Sure, life wasn’t nor has it ever been, nor will it ever be- perfect…but nevertheless, things were what any sane person would label “alright”. My battles have always been internal ones against my incredibly fucking flawed perceptions of myself and my life: my body image, my achievements, my mothering, my “wife-ing”, my home-keeping. I have never felt good enough. And the thing is, when you don’t love yourself like you wish you could, no words of encouragement, positivity talks, words of advice, Instagram quotes about being a “warrior Goddess” whatever- none of it fucking matters. When you don’t love yourself or see yourself as others love or see you, nothing impacts you. You’re just numb and indifferent. The mind is so powerful, that nothing and no one can shift it even the slightest. YOU have to be the one to force the shift. And unfortunately, that task can take a lifetime, as it seems to be taking for me.
When I talk about my mental health openly with anyone- I always say that the difference between myself and many others suffering with similar issues is that I KNOW what led me to be this way. I KNOW where the roots are planted. And I am aware of what is happening to me when I have breakdowns; I know why I hurt myself when I do. I KNOW I am making conscious decisions to allow myself to breakdown and that there will be times that I won’t be able to fix or reverse some of the damage I cause. I know there will be consequences. I know that may sound almost, premeditated- but it’s honestly not. My issue isn’t the factor of awareness. My issues are the factors of self-control and self-love. It’s like those are 2 buttons I wasn’t born with (along with a filter- OK who created me and how did I even pass final inspection before being placed on this planet? Bunch of assholes). Anyways. Does that make sense?
Oh and, for the record, this post isn’t admissible in court. Says me. And I have never been a threat nor a danger to anyone other than myself. If you’ve ever read any of my writing or personally know me, you would know that if it weren’t for my kids, I probably would have already taken my own life a while back. I haven’t, clearly… and that’s because the thought of ever hurting my kids or leaving them behind, is too painful to even think about. Plus, I’m the worst at even grounding my kids. I have zero discipline skills. I’m just winging this motherhood thing, bro.
With all of this said, I came across this Instagram account today that offers free peer support groups via zoom a few times a week. Considering that last week I had another breakdown, I reached out, seeking a little more information. The whole account promotes help, asking for help, resources, reaching out BLA-fucking-BLA. I sent them a DM. 3 Hours ago. (Moving on…) And in October, I tried to reach out to the suicide hotline, just to talk my moment out- and I was on a waitlist. There were 30 sketchy people ahead of me. I was on hold for 45 minutes before I gave up. So like- how many fucking people killed themselves while holding? Asking for a friend. Do you see where the problem is? Because I have no energy to further elaborate.
And so I turn back to my writing, as I always do. Because per my usual fuckeries (as I love to say), FUCK people. It’s exhausting, needing to rely on anyone with your negative energy. I try to keep on pushing forward every single day with the help of caffeine and Bone Thugz thumping in the background. Every day is a struggle. Every day is a journey. Every day is a new opportunity. Every day is a blessing that I don’t want to waste or take for granted. Every day is another day that I chose life. That I chose my family. That I chose myself. And so I suppose that takes some kind of self-love, right?
There are so many people who reach out to me, seeking the courage to some day share their feelings how I do, thanking me for being “brave”, and asking for writing advice. I appreciate that love- and that’s why I will always continue to spill my vomit, but I don’t consider myself brave. I just know that I’m not alone- and I just want others to choose to wake up again tomorrow as well. As far as writing, all I can say is, keep a notebook with you, and just write whatever comes to mind, whenever it comes to mind. I started keeping a journal underneath my pillow when I was 7. I’ve said this a million times and I’ll repeat it a million more: writing has literally saved my life. You don’t need to be a writer. You just need an outlet. An escape. A release. Try it. You won’t be sorry.