So today I’m going to go on the heavy. Yes, for me. To relieve the tension bottled up but also because I had Robin William pop up on my Twitter feed when I was telling myself I would not shatter.
One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to deal with is depression. I couldn’t say exactly when it did start. Honestly, I can only remember I realized something was bad when I couldn’t get out of bed my sophomore year of high school.
Most of winter break I spent on my side, in the darkness of my room, while the holidays went on downstairs. I wanted to get up but I just didn’t have a good enough reason to.
Fast forward a bit. I’m not ready to explain what rock bottom looked like for me but it happened this past winter again. Ever since then, I tried to pick myself up. And for a little bit I thought I could just will myself into a better spot.
But it’s back to that feeling. I had no idea why I was trying to get up.
It’s the definition of depression, I guess. Just being under.
Recently, I’d drive home and react to my thoughts. Which were mostly begging to die. Then recoiling at the damage I’d leave behind.
It might be three people but those three people are my favorite people.
I kept telling myself that if I need a goal, if I want a meaning, work on the damn novel. Finish it. Get published.
But that was a lance in things too. Because I don’t feel like I can do that.
It’s hard to get published. Now add on top of that that level of curling up and wishing everyone–even you–away.
I keep thinking this is it. I’ve hit rock bottom and I’m still grinding against it. Moving forward but still too close to the ground.
It’s weird to think that anything could be my last words. I have faith. I was raised Catholic, but I’m not finding any comfort in that.
So this whole thing is surreal. The fact that I feel this way about my life makes me feel like there will be nothing afterwards for me. And I shouldn’t be relieved by that.
I have stories I want to tell. I have memories I want to make and revisit.
I want to see my best friend have her children and live happily ever after. I want to take care of my dad instead of having him take care of me. I want to see my new house and I want to see it rain from the coziness of it.
I want it but I can’t make myself get out of the hole I’m in.
A few nights ago, I dreamt that I was in a coma. I could hear people talking over me, talking about how I seemed to improve but I had already been told–maybe by my bones–that I would die as soon as the sun rose.
And I cried. I was furious that was the only reason I cried. I was angry because I was going to die.
And a part of me asked why. I’m not the type to lie to myself. I knew I wanted to go already.
Things hadn’t change. Things just got worse.
And all I could think of was that I did not publish this novel. I knew everyone else would pick up from the end of my life–because I’ve done it after my favorite people–but there was something that belonged to only me. It is the one thing no one else will ever be able to do.
I am the only person who can finish Vannette Lore’s story. And Catalina Alvaro’s. And Rosolyn Amadi’s. Steven Sterling’s.
I am the only one. And it’s the only thing that I’ve ever wanted. Ever since I was little. It’s the one thing that no matter how hard I try to change and forget and abandon has never changed.
I knew to some people it’s impossible to think that something like publishing a book is keeping someone alive. (And like fuck it is.)
But right now that’s the only thing I have. I’m not saying that if I get published I’ll suddenly want to live for myself. Actually, I’m pretty sure that once I do, I will hit another rock bottom. (Because what will I really want after?)
But this is what I want. I want to see my name on a book spine with my book title. I want people to find it by chance in the school library or at the public one, hidden among all the discolored novels waiting for a second glance.
I want people to hate it. To be total irrational assholes about it just so I can laugh and say it’s fantasy. It’s not for you.
I want people to like it so I connect with someone. Even for a little while.
I said I didn’t want any of this before, but I figure go big or go home. And if you’re thinking or feeling or anything like what I’ve written here, where things are just like a choking game hoping you’ll pass out (and being disappointed) I want to say something that others find unacceptable.
It’s okay to hate your life and who you are and where you’re at. It’s okay if you can find absolutely nothing consistent or something to live for. People cannot make you feel bad for that too.
The only person who has the authority to change who you are and what you live for is you. And if that’s a fight you don’t want to have anymore then I will personally miss you. And everyone in your situation, I assure you, will miss you.
But no one can stop you.