I couldn’t run fast enough

I felt it creeping up on my back the past month. Its cold breath. Its presence lunging toward me in my sleep. I ran away. I gave in. I remembered how hard survival has been and crawled away. It gripped my ankle and pulled me back; I grew tired so I lay in it.
Hey depression. Did you miss tightening your fingers around my wrists? Whispering horrible things into my soul? Breathing on the nape of my neck?
I’m back. Your favorite lover to wrestle with. That lifetime push and pull. You’ll never let me go for long will you?

I’m sitting on my bed drinking my second glass of bourbon. Eyes red and swollen from crying so much the past three days. For a second I wonder how long it would take someone to find my body.
I look in the mirror and I don’t see anything in my eyes. I quickly lower them. I remember this emptiness. I haven’t felt this level of depression since 2015.

I know I shouldn’t drink when I feel like this. I know it. I understand that it’ll just heighten my substance abuse, but its hard to care when I’m here. And I don’t want to take more Xanax this week, at least with booze I know I don’t have physically addictive tendencies. I just binge. At least I still care enough to care about that.

I wonder how long this round will last. Will this be it? I’m tired. This exhaustion isn’t new to me. When I was 11 I’d cut myself and wonder what it was that made me this way. When I was 15 I’d drink until I couldn’t stand, curl into a ball, cry, and gasp “I’m tired. I’m just so tired” over and over as my friends tried to help me.  At 17 I drank and fucked everything in sight, My boyfriend at the time was an addict I was helping him get sober and he’d hit me. It doesn’t excuse my cheating, but its how I coped with the domestic violence and past sexual abuse. When I was 19 I’d run in the streets of hollywood hoping someone’s car would hit me as the man who loved me chased me and tried to catch me. I’d push and claw at him when he caught me “I’m tired let me die let me die” I’d scream. Then he’d carry me into his car then take me to his home, tuck me in bed, he’d hide his gun and watch me until I fell asleep. At 23 I cried and slit my wrists again after A died. I tried saving myself I tried the meds, they didn’t help. I’ve always been tired. Born into abuse and poverty. The gift of resiliency has helped me pull forward and kick down doors most people who come from a past like mine could only dream of knocking on. But the gift of resiliency also exhausts me. Surviving is exhausting.

The sexual assaults, the emotional abuse, the alcoholism and drug addiction, the verbal abuse, the fighting, the hunger, the poverty. All by the time I was 12. It all sits in my gut. This beautiful woman with a big smile and the ability to make anyone laugh, most would never guess the secrets my gut holds. People usually just think I’m a wild card when I’m being self-destructive, women this beautiful and intelligent aren’t suicidal right?
When will society learn?
The abuse my lungs have inhaled. The trauma my womb held. The pain my hands have fought to stop. The violence my eyes have witnessed…none of it cares how beautiful or intelligent I am. Luckily I never blamed myself for any of it – perhaps thats the root of my resiliency, but I have frequently asked why me? Why couldn’t I have just died all the times I came close? Why do I keep surviving? I’m exhausted.

I want to hide and wither away. The woman who wrote all those posts of strength and resiliency isn’t here right now, she may as well have never been.  Lately it seems laughable that I’ll survive all this pain and become the person I want to be.
All the things I’ve survived, successes I’ve had, the publications, the research I’m doing, the program I’m in – feels like nothing. I feel like nothing.
Today several friends of mine have told me how strong, resilient, intelligent, and hard working I am – I haven’t shown most of them any signs of my major depression coming back so I don’t know where its coming from, maybe I’m not hiding it as well as I thought. I’ve always been a good actress though. Part of survival.

I don’t understand how my friends have always been so patient with me. Through drunken fights to crying in the middle of the street to the cruel words I shoot out trying to push them away when I  want to isolate myself. Through it all they’ve stayed…why?
When will they grow tired of the roller coaster that is my mental state? Maybe they can still see the parts of me I can’t see in the fog of my depression.

I just want to be held. I’m drunk and need to stop writing.

Grief comes and goes in waves, thats what my therapist said

Today I’m Drowning.

All I have left of him is this pain and his stupid hat he wore everyday.
How could I ever let go? I haven’t had a day like this in months and after my interaction in February I thought maybe there wouldn’t be anymore. How naive of me.

As the anniversary of his suicide approaches I find my anxiety at a high. My heart is heavy. All I want is to be held by someone safe who wont judge me, but its been nearly two years…I can’t talk about it anymore. I can’t talk about how much I wished I had told him I loved him or how much I regret not showing up at his apartment or work place to check on him. I can’t talk about how much I worry I’ll never love like that again – or worse yet that no one will ever love someone who still has days where they fall apart crying over their dead partner. I can’t talk about how I sometimes wonder if he regretted kicking the chair from under him as he hung and tried to gasp for air, did he want to live in that moment? who did he think of? was he happy to know his pain would end – everything would end? I can’t talk about how I cry and fall to the floor or pull over wherever I’m driving to catch my breath.
I can’t talk about the fact that sometimes I see someone who looks like it might be him and for a second I think…maybe? I can’t talk about the fact that I still wonder what his life would look like today, I loved him so much I wanted him to be happy with or without me. Would we have ended up hating each other? That would’ve been better if it meant he kept living. I can’t talk about the way I miss his eyes or his laugh. I can’t talk about the fact that after our first date I jumped in my bed and yelled “I’m in love!” and meant it despite knowing that was insane. I can’t talk about the fact that I saw such of a mirror of myself in him that some days I predict I’ll have the same fate. His family said I was his light, but he was mine.
He was my fucking light.

Its been nearly two years. I can’t talk about that.
No one likes the sad girl. I put my chin up and smile, keep busy, stay successful, intelligent, funny, beautiful.
I’ve put everyone through enough after his death in terms of my mental health. People get tired.
So I cry and break alone. I hold myself tightly and play it all in my head on days like this.

Its been nearly two years. I can’t talk about this.

So I write it here, for all you strangers to read.