Through social media, from time to time, I talk about my anxiety and depression. I don’t do this for attention. I do this to be sincere and authentic
One would assume waking up in the morning is an easy every day task. For the average person, you wake up. Hit your alarm. Check your phone. Scroll through Instagram. Brush your teeth. Take a shower. Maybe eat breakfast (depending on how adult you are lol). Then be on your day. For me, it’s a struggle. I fight the desire to live every single day. I wake up and I regret being alive. It takes everything out of me to leave my bed. Breathing is something I simply wish I couldn’t do. Life is exhausting. I hate life. I don’t value mine. And while others are out dealing with everyday normalcies, I’m battling all that and more.
I have never been more miserable than I’ve ever been at this moment. Not for any particular reason but I am a person who’s been dealing with the desire to commit suicide since I was 12 years old. I’ve never wanted to be alive. I’ve always wished to have never been born. I used to pray I wouldn’t wake up the next morning and then curse the heavens for breathing the next dawn. People look at me and think I’m so happy and I’m doing great things. They always ask me, “how are you” and I always respond, “I’m alive”. I don’t say that because it’s funny or cute. You just don’t understand how much me saying I’m alive should be celebrated because every single day, I wish not to be. Just the other day, I had a moment where I teetered on the edge and had another suicidal ideation. I cried myself to sleep in the dark while this one song played on repeat. A beautiful song, one of my favorites. The song I said I would commit suicide to if I ever mustered up the courage. The next day, I woke up asking friends if they knew anyone who had sleeping pills. I really don’t desire to be here on earth.
People think I’m the life of the party. I have officially branded myself as one of two things. I’m either the pop-off queen or the turn-up queen. I go to functions and events. I turn the fuck up. I get the crowds going and sometimes, am the life the party. When I’m not doing that, I’m probably going off on something or someone usually as a result of drinking too much. When I drink, it’s because I’m usually trying to escape something. There’s nothing wrong with drinking. The problem is, I’m a broken individual and when I think all my issues are buried away, they rise to surface level when alcohol has been consumed. And that’s always a huge issue because I’m very, very sad and hurt. Usually, if I’m going off about something that rose to surface level, it’s not because I’m angry. It’s usually because I’m hurt and I feel the need to defend myself. Nonetheless, they’re all reactions to me either not dealing with whatever my issues are just being plain broken for nearly 30 years. When I’m doing neither of those things, I’m usually chilling and quiet. That is always a rare thing for people to see. I remember being at a function last week, and a friend walked up to me and asked if something was wrong because I was sitting down, not saying a word. Not dancing, not drinking, just relaxing. I responded, “I’m living, I’m here, I’m chilling”. It was the strangest site for them to see because as I mentioned before, I’m either popping off or dancing – usually a little too hard. But sometimes, I can chill. I am capable of that too as surprising as that sounds.
Waking up every single day is an exhausting task. Finding the courage to get out of bed is a struggle. Doing the things I need to do to simply to survive is the hardest. Simple tasks like reading a DM, responding to an email or a text, answering a phone call, all tire me. It’s the biggest struggle I have to deal with. I have the worst social anxiety. What do people want from me? I never know. It’s never as bad as it seems when I finally find out, but I always beat around the bush and take an extra day at minimum to get back to folks because that’s how my anxiety is set up.
Growing up, I’ve always been sad. I’ve always known I suffered from depression. I didn’t know what anxiety was and that I was experiencing it all my life until about two years ago when it came to the forefront of my life. Depression for me was me being sad all the time. Not finding the energy to complete simple tasks or leave the house. Not being able to breathe properly. I’d take a lot of deep, long breaths. I felt like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh. I wanted to die of sadness and boredom. That’s what depression was for me. I’m sad, maybe I should kill myself because I’m so sad and so bored. Now in my life, anxiety has come to the forefront. It’s the worst feeling I’ve ever discovered. Anxiety for me is a whole other ballpark. Anxiety will literally hit me like this:
I’m out, I’m having a grand time. I’ve completed my online courses I’ve been working on for months, I’ve mingled with friends, I’ve congratulated someone for doing something dope, etc. Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, like being hit with a ton of bricks, anxiety questions me. “Who the fuck do you think you are? Who told you to be out in the public eye with all these people? Who said you deserve to smile or laugh or hug someone? You’re worthless. You’re a piece of shit. You shouldn’t be out. You shouldn’t be posting on social media. You’re pathetic. Go home. Go the fuck home where you belong. Crawl in your bed into a fetal position under the covers. Hell, under the bed if you can fit. Stay there. Rot. Die. You’re pathetic and you’re a piece of shit. You should kill yourself.”
And then I do those things. And then I want to kill myself. Anxiety is that bitch. Anxiety does not fuck with me at all. Depression fucks with a little bit. Depression gives me some grace. Depression be like, “well maybe you should die. Or maybe you should just lay limp and cry until you fall asleep.” But anxiety be like, “bitch, you ARE worthless. No one likes you. They smile in your face because you do things they may or may not be able to do that may get you noticed, but no one really fucks with you or gives any fucks about you. You need to die. You deserve to die. Go die. Alone.” And I always teeter on the edge of that every day. Depression allows me to sleep. It’s peaceful. It’s fine. I’ll breathe tomorrow. Anxiety makes me uncomfortable to the point where I don’t even want to sleep. I don’t want to be awake. My insides feel frozen. I struggle to breathe. I need to die this very instant.
My life was always hard. This is not to say that others don’t have it worse, aren’t poorer than I am, aren’t more miserable than I am, etc. But I didn’t have normal experiences in my life that one should. I have a severely autistic twin brother and a sick and probably mentally disturbed, old mother. At a young age, my twin brother and I were wrongfully taken away from my mom for two months and placed in foster care. While in foster care, they separated us and I never saw him. He was probably isolated. The excuse was “he’s mentally retarded and we don’t want him harming others in public”. When in reality, they didn’t want anything to do him. Poor him, his experiences were probably just as traumatic if not worse than mine. Whenever we went out, he was left alone at the house, unattended. How do you leave a 4-year-old child by themselves in a house who is also autistic? Some DCF system. DCF stands for Department of Children and Family Services. For me, I was sexually abused every morning around two and four by a 6-year-old boy. The foster parents’ biological son. While this happened, his father often watched through the crack of the door. Disturbing. The mother bought me silk underwear. Why is a 4-year-old girl wearing silk under wear? I’ll never understand. She often had me memorize and repeat every single day, that she was my real mother and my real mother is my fake mother. She was obsessed with me. I think because she always wanted a daughter but only had two boys. The oldest son who was 8 and bullied me every day. I barely ate. They never washed me properly. I was depressed on Saturdays there. I was always sad but Saturdays were the worst for me because there was no cable so I watched car racing all day and that was the day my twin brother and I were allowed to see our parents. We were under supervised visits for an hour every Saturday. It was strange because that was the only day of the week I also saw my brother because again, I never knew where they kept this boy. My parents fed us well. They’d bring lots of food, yogurt, fufu, etc. We were so happy. Then, DCF would rip us apart from them, kicking and screaming to send us back to foster care. It was traumatic. How can they witness us crying for our parents and think we were in such harm? We were in the most harm in foster care. Who knows what they were doing to my brother? And the fucked up part is, we will never ever know. Because he’s autistic and cannot recount any of his story.
Eventually, my twin brother and I were rightfully reunited with our parents as the judge saw there was no reason for us to be taken away in the first place. We were sick, unclean, lean, and miserable in the hands of the foster care home. We shouldn’t have been taken away, to begin with. Though, we were reunited and happily back in a loving environment, this brief two months which felt like an eternity had become the reason for our lives taking a tarnished turn for the worse, mentally.
When I came out of foster care, I can literally remember feeling crazy at the age of 5. I remember talking to myself a lot and feeling like the devil was in my head telling me not to love Jesus. It was crazy. I remember asking my dad for one of those bibles the race car drivers would advertise on tv about it changing their lives or whatever. A hoax. My dad never bought for me. He claimed it was bullshit and truthfully looking back in retrospect, he was right. But I was 5-years-old. The fact that I knew something was wrong with me to this degree and I wanted to do something about it and no one listened, speaks volumes. I was immediately placed into children’s therapy when I entered kindergarten. I used to say harmful things about how I hated my brother and wanted to kill him. I don’t remember these thoughts or statements but my mother told me when I came out of DCF, I was never right since. That I used to say things right after ever since DCF. That shit is wild.
I’ve probably been sexually assaulted about 5-6 times. Maybe more. I’m still discovering what sexual assault really is. Every day as I learn something new, I realize I’ve been a victim one too many times than I’ve ever realized. It’s amazing how easy it is to manipulate someone when they’re so naive.
Sex is something I’m not crazy about. It’s enjoyable but the idea of it freaks me out. A healthy person who’s introduced to sex properly shouldn’t have these feelings about it. I, however, never had been. My mother scared me into never having sex and then when I finally did at around 23 or 24, I wasn’t ready. I was coerced. I was forced into it. The life I live. It is what it is.
Communicating with people is hard for me. Through therapy, I am now realizing that how I communicate and show affection and appreciation has always been fucked up. I show people the love I have for them the same way mother shows me. I yell and say mean things. I realize I do this because I’m uncomfortable being nice. Saying I love you to someone without attaching “dumbass” at the end of it makes me cringe. Hugging someone that isn’t my mother or brother, is uncomfortable as hell. They can be my very best friend. When they reach in for a hug, I am disturbed. I cringe and immediately stiffen. Being “pink” and openly loving irritates my soul. I hate the holidays. I hate when people are happy. What the hell do people have to be happy about? I never understand.
Through social media, from time to time, I talk about my anxiety and depression. I don’t do this for attention. I do this to be sincere and authentic. When people reach out to me about it, it makes me so uncomfortable. I guess I need help but I don’t want you to ask me what to do. I simply just want you to be better. Towards me, towards others, towards everyone. Just be a better human being. One reason I may not want people asking me is because I really don’t know what I want or need. Probably because I don’t even really know myself. The other is because it’s uncomfortable. Don’t take 5 minutes to give a fuck about me. Because the concern doesn’t stay with you. You don’t carry this concern with you forever. I do. So for someone to ask me what’s wrong etc, really bothers me because what is the point when you won’t carry it with you?
I talk about suicidal ideations and my mental health because I honestly do believe one day I may die by suicide. It may not be today, it might not be tomorrow, it could twenty years from now, but I truly believe this. I talk about it randomly on social media because the day that this may happen, I want people to see the signs. I don’t want to be like Robin Williams, where no one knows why and everything seemed fine. I want people to know that I wear this mask. I’m “happy” in public because I have to appear to be, otherwise, who would really fuck with me? I want people to see the signs so that when it does happen, it won’t be a surprise. That you take me seriously and maybe you can help someone else.
This isn’t a suicidal letter by the way and I am seeing a therapist. But these are the thoughts that run through my mind every single day. I truly hate myself. I am repulsed by me. These are the secrets I keep bottled up when you may see me at functions, functioning. Barely alive, but still alive. People think something has to happen to trigger these types of feelings about myself, but the reality is, that isn’t true. I can literally breathe one moment and instantly feel suicidal and be ready to die. When you ask how I’m doing, and I answer, “alive”, that in itself should be a celebration because you have no idea how hard I struggled with not ending it all that day.
These are my secrets, poured out into the universe. This is my truth. I’m going to eat some carrots now, but I hope you’ve learned something and can do something positive to better affect your own life.