I’ve wanted to open up in this post and share a little bit more of the personal stuff that I’ve been dealing with. Since I haven’t told anyone that I know (other than my boyfriend) about this blog, I feel like I can write some things that I wouldn’t necessary share with people that I know... not because of the fear of being judged, but simply because I wouldn’t feel very comfortable sharing it and being vulnerable with people that don’t mean much to me and, the most important thing maybe - I can’t stand when someone pities me.
So, here it goes...
For the most of my life I’ve been struggling with depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts that would come and go depending on how deep the hole I was in at the time was. It wasn’t a constant thing, more of on/off phases that started as early as I was 12, 13 years old. I didn’t talk about it to anyone, but I used to write poems and express myself through drawings that my mum stumbled upon one day and completely shocked by their content, sent me to see a therapist, afraid that I might harm myself. I don’t know whether that therapist was good or bad, but the fact that I didn’t want to open myself up and let someone take a glimpse of that deep dark pain that was filling me, wasn’t helping.
So it continued... I thought I was just weak and sensitive, that was what everyone used to tell me, however. It got better somewhere around the beginning of high school as I discovered alcohol and effects it has on my body and mind. I was relieved. There was a thing in this world that could drag me out of my mind, that could make a little easier all that weight I was caring around, even if it was just for a couple of hours.
I know that it is sad and pathetic, but that was my salvation at that time. I got through high school relying on distractions that can take me out of my head, as alcohol, weed, shitty people who I thought can give me that love and warmth that I was craving for so much...
However, I knew there was still a problem. I knew that people shouldn’t feel the way I was feeling all the time. Or there was something really wrong with me or I was just too weak, a pussy, I needed to toughen up - as my parents used to tell me often.
I have a big imagination and I have always liked to daydream and fantasize. So, I created my own little fantasy about going to college in another city where suddenly everything will fall into place. I will study design, express myself artistically day by day, meet new people, be in different environment... actually, what I was hoping for was new personality, new head that that new city would somehow give me...
Yeah, right. It didn’t happen.
It got much worse. I reached the point in which I was unable to do anything, spending my days crying or just being numb and purposeless, thinking about the relief that suicide would give me. I didn’t have the courage, though. Maybe I even didn’t want to kill myself and cause pain to people that love me, but I wanted out. I wanted noise to stop. It was too loud and it was driving me crazy.
I quit uni and spent the second semester taking antidepressants, going to therapy and doing only things that make me feel even a slight sense of anything positive and those were running, Italian lessons and thai box classes.
...to be continued in the next post...