This story was sent to us. The person sharing it wishes to be kept anonymous but hopes that this story can help someone else share their own story. Please no judgment. Thank you!
I’m not entirely sure where to start, I just know I want to
share my story in case anyone else has or is going through the same or similar
thing.
I’ve been struggling with depression for as long as I can
remember. Some days are worse than
others, but it’s a constant battle every day.
I’m an inverted person, so I will hold everything in before I decide to
tell someone what im really feeling.
From what I know, when I was born my father denied I was
his. I think when I was about 3 years
old I finally met him. He was in my life
when he wanted to be. I remember as a
little girl, I would sing waiting for him to come, and he would never
show. But the times he decided to show I
had the best times. We would go to the
city, he’d buy me whatever I wanted. To
a little girl, that’s heaven.
I lived with my mother and brother. It was always us 3. My brother and I have different fathers, and I
think I struggled most with that as a child and in my teenage years. I never understood why my brother got to have
a father who actually cared about him, loved him, and I didn’t. I blamed myself for as long as I could
remember. Still to this day, when I let
myself think about it, I just don’t understand my father’s reasoning, and im
sure I never will. That is something I
have come to terms with. Knowing I will
never know why he chose to not be in my life. The hard part was, my mom is
gay. What I mean by that is, I never had
a step dad who could fill in the role of my father. My older brother did what he could, but he
was my brother, not father. So many
things happened that a lot of people don’t know. I regret a lot of things I’ve done. But at the same time I wouldn’t be the person
I am today, without making those mistakes.
While we were young we moved a lot.
To different towns, different houses.
I remember the first time I decided to hurt myself. We moved into this HUGE house. Well it was huge to me. I had such a big room. My friend at the time had told me about something
called “burning”. Apparently it was a
form of cutting, and since I was too afraid to cut, I tried to burn. I honestly became almost addicted to the feel
of it. When I would see the red welt on
my skin I would automatically cry. I had
no idea what was wrong with me. Why couldn’t
I be a normal person, with happy thoughts?
I was in 8th grade at the time. I remember soon after that, thinking about
killing myself. I was in the bathroom,
and had a cup of bleach. I was going to
drink it. Not sure if that actually
kills you. But like I said I was in 8th grade and thought it
would. I chickened out. I couldn’t do it. I had to find other places to burn myself
because my arms were too obvious. I couldn’t
keep covering them. I remember one time
me and my brother were wrestling and he saw my stomach. I had a mark on it, and at this point from
what I remember my mother had found out about the burning. So my brother knew about it. He saw the mark and was almost
disgusted. I remember the look on his
face. Disgust and disappointment. And it’s exactly how I felt about
myself. He never said that, but I knew
he felt it. In 9th grade is
when I started really acting out. Drugs
and sex, hanging out with the wrong people.
Running away. I didn’t care what
happened to me honestly. I tried
everything. Didn’t care. I was 18 when my mother disowned me for the
first time. I’ll never forget the look
in her eyes when she told me she was done with me. It was then that I had finally hit rock
bottom. I was sleeping on my friends
couch. Became a full blow alcoholic. I would black out every night. Had no care in the world. I would wake up and start drinking immediately,
and not stop until I was sleeping. It
was then that my husband came into my life.
I like to think he was sent to save me.
He came from a family of alcoholics and wouldn’t put up with it from
me. Granted he smoked a lot of weed, but
it was better than drinking. And so I stopped drinking... Enrolled myself in
school, and tried to make the best of my life.
We later moved in and started a life together. I was 19 when we moved in. I was in school
full time, and working part time. I
still struggled with depression. My
relationship with my mother at the time was just a hot mess. I don’t think we ever really got along. She did things. I did things.
We both hurt each other, sometimes to the point of no return. I remember the first time I got the call that
she tried to kill herself. My world
stopped. It was a Tuesday. I remember because the weekend before that
was a crazy weekend. I was stuck at a
friends for the weekend, and my mom had called that Sunday. She was really upset, and I had a couple of
drinks. To say the conversation didn’t end
well is an understatement. I seriously
remember telling my husband, and 2 friends, that I felt she was going to kill
herself. They all told me to shut up
that I was over reacting. Because she
never tried that before. And I was just
being crazy. 2 days later I woke up
early for work and looked at my phone. I
had missed calls and texts from my brother.
Once I read the one that say 911 emergency, I just knew. At this point my mother and I were on bad
terms. But I did what most would
do. I put all that shit aside, and went
to my mom. I’ll never forget how it felt
seeing her in that bed. She just looked
lost. And the suicide letters. I’ll never forget the pain I had when reading
the letter addressed to me. It’s a pain
that could never be erased. She promised
it wouldn’t happen again, that she would get better for herself and for me and
my brother. The 2nd time I got
the call I died inside all over again.
This time was worse. She was incoherent,
and a bit manic in the hospital. I
remember talking with her telling her that she needs help. She needs to do what’s right for herself and
her family. It’s always been my mom
brother and myself. They are my
family. Losing one of them would KILL
ME. I wouldn’t be able to handle
it. This past year I got a call I didn’t
want to get. My brother called me telling
me Mom tried again. She took 80 Tylenol p.m.
and honestly all I could say was I was fucking mad. I wanted to scream at her, tell her she was
fucking selfish for putting us through this.
I hated her, because I couldn’t handle what she was doing to me. All the while I wasn’t putting her into
perspective. What it must feel like to be so depressed you not only want to
die, but try to die. It’s a hard thing
to go through. Having my own emotions of
losing my mother vs. understanding her and what she is going through. It’s very hard. And emotional, and
tiring. Thank god, everything is
ok. She is alive, and trying to be happy
with what life throws her way. I think
today the thing I struggle with most is being scared. I feel like one day I’ll get a call saying
she’s actually gone, and I don’t think I can handle that. I decided not too long ago to put myself into
therapy. Not just because of everything I’ve
been through, but because I don’t want to keep it in anymore. It was killing me daily to just keep my
emotions at bay, so I didn’t look like the crazy person who couldn’t handle
life.
Today I still struggle with depression, anxiety and
emotional issues, but I know that I can get through it. Some days are bad, some are good. But I know I
can get through it and survive them. I know with the help of my therapist, husband, family and friends, I'll be OK.
It was really hard for me to write all of this, and I hope
someone out there can gain even a little bit of strength from this story, and maybe
share their own story. Thank you for
taking the time to listen to my story!
-Anonymous
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