I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it. Maybe I thought that growing up would solve all of my problems, or perhaps I just believed that I would figure out how to fix everything by the time I grew up. Truth is, nothing has happened. I’m still crazy.
I think the worst part is that explaining this crazy is so damn difficult. It won’t fit into paragraphs. It won’t follow the rules of grammar. It’s messy and gritty and the kind of thing that most of us try to avoid. I choose sides and never stick to them. I’m here and then I’m there. I fit so many of the “Which Mental Illness Do You Have?” online survey answers that I should probably commit myself. There aren’t any books written like that. Someone is either depressed and suicidal, or they are not. They aren’t hypocrites and monsters and wavering. But I am.
And what if I tried to explain it anyway? What would it look like?
It would look like this:
I sit on the bathroom floor, holding my knees up to my chin, wishing to die. Do I have the courage to slice my wrists just one time each? Finally end this? I want to die. I beg to die.
I’m afraid to die. What if I have cancer? What if I’m dying? No, please. I have things I still want to do.
I want to die. I don’t want to.
I go years without slicing my body.
But then I throw the lamp against the wall, I see the shards of glass. The sweet temptation overpowers me. I close my eyes, hold my breath. I cut. Exhale. Somehow, I become clear.
I stop eating. I am losing weight and finally seeing something more than fat.
I eat everything in sight until I cause damage to my body. I am sick all of the time. I am getting fat.
Sometimes I take out the bottle of anti-depressants that I have been saving for a year, and think about taking them. I keep them by my coffee maker so that I have to face them every morning.
I take one. Then I put them back in the drawer.
I dream during the day about all of the things I will never be.
And at night, I have nightmares.
I love my husband.
I hate my husband.
I hate me. That never changes.
I want to be a mother.
Let’s put it off, I will only ruin the child’s life.
I want to write. I need to write.
I have nothing to say.
I want to travel the world.
I have a panic attack on the plane.
I don’t care what any of you think.
I’ll hold my head down and be and do and say everything you want me to.
Please like me.
You laugh and I laugh because I talk to myself.
It started when I was little because I was so lonely and had no one else to talk to. It stuck. I still feel that way sometimes.
I am jealous all of the time.
I will never be her.
I am just me.
And that will never be enough.
I’m so shy, so quiet.
I’m obnoxiously loud, even in public.
The silence scares me.
The noise scares me.
I still feel fear when I think about high school.
Those girls still have power over me.
I spend every penny I have because for that second, I feel in control.
I have something tangible in my hands.
Then I lose my apartment because I can’t pay the rent.
Everything I say is with the utmost conviction.
And then I change my mind a second later.
I mean everything I say until I mean something else.
I am crazy.
Or maybe I’m not.
Maybe I just feel more than everyone else does.
And despite all of this, most of the time, I am okay.
That is just my own personal brand of crazy.