note to self


you think life is about living, but it’s really about not dying. you think recovery is about not being sad, about not being anxious, about hitting those milestones of not hurting yourself, of not wanting to annihilate yourself, of not being admitted. but it’s not. you think life will be better after it’s over, but these monsters will continue to haunt you. you think you will start to heal when people start to understand you, but no they won’t and can’t even begin to. it’s been over 5 years, and you still covert for that “recovery” doctors and alike are looking for. but all of these, though indicators that things are better, isn’t recovery. recovery is a much bigger picture. one in which you find yourself again. one in which you can reconcile with fully and accept the past for what it was.

you try so hard to find the old Steph back again. the one before depression held you hostage. but you can’t, and you won’t. that Steph is dead, and has been for a long time. you’ve been chasing after the wrong rainbow. you thread between the threshold of life and death, and depression mocks at you for being so utterly weak. depression mocks at you for falling prey, for staying “comfortable” where you are at.

you are tired and scared, as you’ve been for the past few years. you’ve been thinking a lot about your future. your future seems to include depression, self-harm and admissions. your future seems to include all your borderline and narcissistic traits. you worry that you can’t hold on to a job for long, as have you for the last few years. you don’t know how this will work out. this is a grim prospect that you can’t seem to reconcile with. you don’t think you’d ever be ok with something like this. you don’t want to do this. you don’t want this life. you want to fight it all away, all these monsters. but you pale in comparison to them, and you will always fall victim to it. you until now, don’t know what sense to make of it.

sometimes you think you know what you’re up against, but you don’t have the foggiest idea at times. you let people hurt you time and again, and you hurt and you bleed. yet you won’t tell them to stop. you let yourself hurt you, and sometimes you try to be kind to yourself. but you fail anyway. many people make decisions for you, thinking they know better. after all you’re so weak, so fallen. but do they? do they really know? sometimes i protest, but they tell me they know better. but they don’t. they really don’t.

what you can grasp in your hand is nothing but hope. a quiet hope that is not there at all sometimes. there is nothing else you can hold on to. not people, not medications, not therapy, not words. hope. it waxes and wanes, this hope. and this hope is not there when you need it most, there though when you least need it.

your nightmare hasn’t ended. and it may never end. sometimes you scream and shout and beg to be awakened, hoping it’s but a bad dream. but you know it’s all too real. you cannot simply walk away from this mess you alone created. the mess people blame only you for. because they are just bystanders right? wrong.

you don’t know what to do. you really don’t. and you will continue to toe the line between life and death, until one day you can walk towards one definitively and not look back. then it will be the beginning or the end.


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