My lot in life has been pretty crappy. Until meeting Ronald in 2002, I felt completely numb, dead, and lonely. I don't know how to express the way those feelings plagued me throughout childhood. They were so intense that I have blocked most of them out.
Once Ronald and I started dating, I became a volatile bundle of nerves and sorrow. I slept in his bed when I went to his house, because I finally felt safe enough to rest, I would sleep for hours and hours. It was the first time in my life I truly felt safe. It took nineteen years for me to get there.
When we got married the sadness and devastation hit. I realized how bad my childhood really was. My self-consciousness and sorrow brought me to a breaking point. I cried and cried. I couldn't work because I cried for hours each day. I couldn't control it. After two years of this I finally went to get help. I have been in therapy and on medication ever since.
Yesterday I looked through some of our love letters (we have shoe boxes stuffed with notes and mementos). Reading the notes I caught a theme: we were writing to each other about hope. That things would get better soon. That my "hard time" or "Jezebel" as we once named it, would go away soon. At least after a year or two, right? We knew it wouldn't be easy, but we believed it would get better, if we just tried hard enough.
But here we are. Seven years of treatment gone by. When I say "treatment" I don't mean occasional counseling, or medication. I mean regular, intensive therapy (at least once per week and mostly two), religiously taking the medication I have been prescribed, and being on so many combinations of pills I have to write down the names and doses not to forget.
I can't express to you how much I fight to stay here. How sometimes every minute is a battle of my wills. I can't explain how hard it is to sleep, to breathe in, to act like things are okay around other people. And I really mean it. I really do fight. I apply the things I learn in therapy. I reach out for help from people around me. I write notes and lists and journals of hopeful thoughts and ideas.
But here I am today, entirely disheartened. I'm coming to the realization that things may not get better. It may never be better than this. Each day I may wake up sad and irritable, I may still take piles of pills, I may always have the temptation to kill myself and self-harm. I may always be on the brink of losing it or ending my life. We may never be able to have kids because of this or our fertility issues.
I'm not losing hope when I say this. I'm not admitting failure. I'm just looking at the potential reality. There is no guarantee or promise that my life will be good, or full, or bearable. The only problem is, I don't know how much more I can take. But I will still try, and hope even when I don't want to, and move because I have to. There is no other choice.
xx, C