I haven’t been writing because I’ve been surviving. I wish I could say that I’ve been okay but the reality is that I have been barely getting by. The Ache, the quicksand, the darkness, were about to engulf me. I was frightened. I was scared of myself: scared that I would do the thing that is tragically permanent. The thought of going to the hospital was getting stronger in my mind as I was sinking further and further and my mind was waging a violent battle within itself.
I sought help: I cried out to God, I emailed my therapist, I called my psychiatrist’s office, I texted a wise friend. Desperation was pulling me down and suffocating me. I was gasping for air.
I’m on the other side of this living hell. I’m shaken and exhausted. I’m angry that this is not the first time it has happened. I fear that there will be a next time and I’m so scared that I won’t survive it. But that’s a lie – that’s the darkness and the Ache talking. This is often a lonely journey but not a hopeless one. There are people there to reach out to even if it is excruciating to admit that I need help. Even if it is strangers in a hospital staff (if it comes to that) there is someone to help. It’s damn hard, though, admitting that I am drowning and hopeless. The pressure of the deep waters crushing me, engulfing me, obliterating me.
I’ve come up from the depths relishing the air that was getting increasingly scarce – my body and soul filled with life once again. I’m on the path of this lifelong journey trying to take the steps that move me forward, trying not to sink. I still need help. I often feel like I’m limping along and loneliness overwhelms me. I need to remind myself every day (often every hour) to breathe and remember that I am not alone.