I remember what it felt like when I hated my life. I absolutely hated my breaths. On more than one occasion, I thought I would have been better off dead. I went months without laughing, even if my life was one many would have loved to live.
I thought that my hatred was due to my lack of friends, lack of money, and lack of love.
I was lonely.
I was constantly surrounded by people who pretended to adore me, yet I felt utterly alone. I felt like I was in the middle of a room, surrounded by people who smiled at my face whenever they looked at me, but once they looked away, if I chose to start screaming, they would have never bestowed upon me another glance. I thought I wanted a lot of friends who had excess of everything.
I felt out of place.
Then, the money came. In piles, in bucketfuls, in bank accounts, it came. I had so much of it, and I did not know what to do with it, so I spent it because shopping gave me instant gratification. I experienced little bursts of happiness from spending what I made. I thought having loads of money would fix me.
I wanted to feel loved.
Then, he came. Everything I thought I wanted arrived, perfectly packaged, in one person. At least, I thought he was everything I wanted. That is, until I knew him better and he became less of what I wanted. It's funnily dangerous how a person can turn into a drug. Time with him sucked the life of me, yet I could never get enough. Time away was spent recovering from him. He made me feel loved.
But he couldn't have possibly loved me properly for I hated myself.
Unbeknownst to me, I had been battling a mental illness that developed over the course of a decade. It began when I was a teenager. The years preceding my adolescence were happy ones. I was a joyful, spoiled child. I thought the sun rose and set just for me. I thought that the people around me existed for my well-being and happiness. As soon as I began coming to the realization that my version of the truth was not true, I felt like I had no control over anything around me. I learned long and hard that my control never actually existed. A life event occurred that left me feeling like my world was spiraling out of control. When that happened, I began feeling nothing more than hollowing sadness.
The sort of sadness that does not even feel like sadness when it sets in. It felt like breathing death. My world had fallen apart, and I wanted to know why time still went on. I began bingeing and purging. I then would eat very little so that I would not purge so much, because I hated the way it made me feel. Whenever I did eat, it would happen all over again. I battled bulimia and anorexia for the better part of ten years. I did it because I desperately wanted control over something...anything. My estimation was that the only thing I could control was whatever happened to my body. It ended up being a body I hated, so I abused it. I was never satisfied with how I looked in high school and in my early twenties. I didn't care enough to be self-conscious, I just did what made me feel pretty and didn't care about much more.
I loathed my parents, I thought older adults were misguided, and that the world according to me made more sense. I lashed out, I became rebellious, which is sad because my parents rarely ever said, "no," to me, because my requests were not unreasonable. I guess because of my state of mind, I just had to hate on someone, or something. I had this boyfriend for the later part of my teen years who ended teaching me my biggest lessons on, "What to Avoid in a Significant Other at All Costs." I was a mess, he was himself, and thank God that ended with a clean break.
I worked and attended college, but I was still miserable. I couldn't shake it. No one was ever good enough. Nothing was ever good enough. I could not figure out what in my world I could change to give me a purpose. On my days off, I stayed in bed. For no reason, I burst into tears. I tried to do everything for everybody to make them happy even though I had forgotten what happiness felt like. I dated all the wrong men. I befriended all the wrong BFFs. I kept putting my faith in all the wrong people and things. I'm sure my family knew something had been amiss in me for a few years, but for the most part, they used tough love to try and snap me out of it. It didn't work, it only pushed me away.
It was not until I had a severe, crippling meltdown when I had fallen, shattered into a million pieces, that I knew I needed to change some things.
That was when I knew I had to make one of two choices: stay shattered, or use every way I could humanly figure out in order to put myself together again. I knew exactly how Humpty Dumpty felt.
Everyone I knew who had given me anything other than goodness, with the exemption of my family, I cut loose. I packed my things, got up, and left. I went into myself. I became a hermit. I suffered from mild anxiety, so it was no problem at all the find things within the safe confines of home to keep me occupied. I reached out and held on to friends whom I knew loved me and didn't care about enabling me. I sought those who helped me feel better. Even if at times, I found solace in those who filled the spaces of my tumultuous past within the pages of my snake-skin bound journal.
I clung to fond memories of beach trips and sipping on vodka-soaked Crystal Light slushies upon the beautiful shores of the cold, damp, wintery beach.
I re-lived the fights with friends who soon after became strangers. I forgave myself for the things I said, and for the things I left unsaid.
I still felt the ache I constantly felt for wanting something more, without knowing what that something actually was.
There is something inherently and undeniably sad about having everything and still feeling nothing. I remember an encounter I had with a man whom I knew to be a billionaire. He was so hollow. I remember seeing this empty look in his eyes. He was telling me about his jet plane collection, the trips he liked to take his family on, his stock portfolio and something about derivatives (something I only learned about more recently). I remember him saying something to the effect of,
"No matter how many planes I can make take off the ground, I can still say I am not sure what it feels like to fly. I just go through the motions."
How sad to live life of flying without ever feeling the wind.
I did not want to live another moment and feel that way.
It is only by grace and love that I am alive today. My journey that has finally brought me to finally being healthy. It was more difficult than I had anticipated, but of course, it was worth it. It is, after all, my life. I was desperate to become healthy, and although I fought quietly alone, I have encountered so many people along the way. They have all, both good and bad, left an imprint that I carry with me because from them I know better.
In all the ways that pressure turns carbon into a diamond, the really awful times have molded me.
The good times have been the sun, setting off my sparkle.
Mental illness is nothing to be ashamed about. Many people suffer from mental illnesses of different levels- mild, moderate to severe. Many people remain without being diagnosed do not realize that something is really medically wrong. From a chemical imbalance to an unbearable home/work/life situation, or a combination of both, may stem too many days that feel unlivable.
If you or someone you know may be suffering from one of the many forms of mental illness, please seek help. Speak with a physician, or locate a counselor.
There are ways to get help in order begin the steps for diagnosis and treatment.
Life is too precious for anyone to feel like they have to suffer through it.
