memories

I worry sometimes that I will forget everything.

I worry I will forget all of the things that have created me and shaped the person I am. Because sometimes I do. Sometimes I forget things. And I don’t realize I have forgotten them until its 3am and I’m crying in my bed and a memory forces its way back into my head. It could be 10 days old, or 10 years old, but still, I realize it is something I have forgotten, because only now am I remembering it. And I worry that one day these memories wont reappear. That one day, I will forget forever. And so I find myself ruminating over these memories. Assessing them again and again, trying to determine if they are memories that are vital to my existence. If they are worth putting in the extra effort to try to remember forever. But I can never decide.

There are so many bad memories, and as much as I want to forget all of them, I find myself feeling as if they are the reason I am who I  am. And I feel like I will lose parts of who I am if I lose those memories. But some of them are so little I do not know if they are important. Mustn’t they be if I am even considering them to be? Just because they are little does not mean they’re insignificant, right?  I do not know.

And are these memories worth the space? That is the most important question. I know simply because of the amount of forgetting I do that my brain does not have an infinite storage capacity. So I feel as though I have to choose which memories are worth the space. But I cannot come to any conclusion. Ever.

So here I am, another 3am night, worrying about something I’m not even sure I have any control over.

Right now, at 19 years old I am only trying to sort through 19 years of memories  and I can’t even successfully do it. I cannot even begin to imagine how hard this will be when I have  50 or more years of memories. And that terrifies me. I’m afraid of getting older because I’m afraid of forgetting. I want to remember the things that make me who I am. But everything, even the littlest of things such as what I ate for breakfast this morning, have played a part in making me who I am right now in this very moment. And on top of it all, who I am is always changing. I am constantly growing into someone different. Tomorrow evening, depending on what life throws at me during the day, I will be ever so slightly or possibly majorly different. So how am I supposed to keep up? I am overwhelmed by my own brain and it’s exhausting. I wish I could just let it all be and let whatever memories stay, stay, and whatever memories go, go. But I cant. I’m too caught up in the possible importance of things.

And all of this seemingly unnecessary thinking is taking up precious space too.

I’m Still Here…

In a few days, I will be turning 19.

19…

I’m so young…but I feel so god damn old.

I used to love my birthday. It was my favorite day of the year… A day when all my friends and family came together to celebrate me and only me. All eyes on me, at first as the perfect little baby girl, then the perfect little kid, then the perfect middle school girl with straight A’s and then the perfect freshman in high school with endless potential and a bright future. I loved all of those birthdays. I felt like my family was so very proud of me, and their approval was the only thing that mattered to me. I felt so loved.

But that was the end. Because the day I turned 15 was the last birthday I enjoyed and the last birthday I actually looked forward to. Everything changed that summer…including me.

When I was 15, I got hit hard with depression and my life as I knew it was gone. I spiraled out of control and it happened FAST. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was lost, and scared and extremely confused. I thought I could handle it on my own, so I tried my best to fix things, but I only made things worse…

I was 15 the first time I told myself I wasn’t going to make it to my next birthday. I believed with every ounce of my being that I did not deserve to live anymore and that I would make sure I killed myself before my 16th birthday. But [thankfully] I was wrong. I made it to my 16th birthday. On my 16th birthday, I wore long sleeves, smiled, played the part, blew out the candles on my cake, still smiling, and I made a wish. Exactly as you’re supposed to. Except there I was, on my 16th birthday, using my one very special wish, to wish for the strength and courage to kill myself.

Once again, at 16, I told myself I was not going to make it to 17. I came to terms with that fact and I accepted my near death. But once again, I made it. I woke up on my 17th birthday and did it all over again, exactly as the year before. But this time was different. I was a different person and I knew I had it in me to take my own life. I was NOT going to live to be 18. Death was all I wanted and I was going to do everything it took to make it happen.

Two months before my 18th birthday, I attempted suicide.

But instead of achieving my goal, I woke up in the ICU  with needles and wires all over my body. I was later transferred to an inpatient psychiatric hospital where I was locked away for 2 agonizing weeks. I lied my way through the whole hospitalization…smiling, behaving, telling everyone I was fine and feeling so much better…

But the entire time I was silently planning my next suicide attempt. Every little detail. I had it planned down to the date and time and I knew this time I was going to succeed.

I gave myself 2 months. 2 months to live on this earth and 2 months to spend with my family before I broke their hearts forever. Those 2 months were the most excruciating months in my entire life.

I made it to 18. And that was it. I was pissed. This had gone on for too long. It was time.

One week after my 18th birthday I attempted suicide again. This time I came very close to dying. But somehow, I woke up. And this time, I not only landed myself in the ICU again, but I was also locked away in the psychiatric hospital for 9 weeks, only to be transferred directly to a residential eating disorder facility for 6 more weeks.

15 weeks of treatment and I finally felt like I was getting better. I had hope. But then I came home to all of my friends who had gone to senior prom and graduated, and were getting ready to move into their college dorms. The life that I was supposed to have was everywhere I looked and I couldn’t escape. That was supposed to be me. But there I was, 18 years old, without my high school diploma, watching everyone else around me live the life I had dreamed of since I was 5.

This past year has been the worst/best/mostchallenging year of my life.

I’ll be 19 in less than a week and I’m terrified.

But I am alive.

And for the first time since 15, I finally believe that I will make it to my birthday.

4 years later…and I’m still here.

I’ve been away for a while…

So I know it’s been a VERY long time since I was last on here. Back in January, my life took a turn for the worse. My depression became very severe and I ended up attempting to kill myself. Clearly, I did not succeed, however I did land myself in the ICU and then in a psychiatric inpatient facility for two weeks. With a smile and some good acting, I worked my way through the system and got out of inpatient as fast as possible. I fucking hated that place. So now it’s February and I’m back home. My dad is working from home so that I have a babysitter 24/7. I’m supposed to be in school, enjoying my senior year, but instead I’m sitting at home doing nothing, being checked on every half hour.

Skip ahead to April. The month I had planned my second suicide attempt. This time it almost worked. Once again I landed myself in the hospital, and this time I spent 9 weeks inpatient. The average stay at the facility I was at was 7-10 days…and I was there for 9 whole fucking weeks. Having been there before, I knew the staff and felt a little bit more comfortable than the first time. I decided this time around to be honest instead of manipulating everyone just to get out of there as soon as I could. Of course, my being very very honest with them probably contributed very much to my lengthy stay there. But looking back at it now, I’m glad I told the truth. I’m glad I finally spoke up. I talked about things I had never talked about before. While I was doing all this work in treatment I felt like the world was ending. Bringing up all my feelings and thoughts terrified me. But somehow I got through it.

Straight from my 9 week stay inpatient, I was sent to a residential facility in another state. This residential facility was mainly for eating disorders, but it also focused on other issues too. At first I hated it there. You had sooooo much more freedom than at the inpatient place I was at, but I just couldn’t adjust to all the new people, and the new system. I was nervous, confused, and intimidated. I remember, I think it was day 4, I got into a huge fight with my entire treatment team, and afterwards I called my mom and I told her I was packing my bags and leaving. Right away. But somehow…I still don’t know how…I stuck it through and I ended up staying at this residential facility for 5 weeks.

Although I had to be away from home for 3 months, missing my senior prom, and high school graduation….I don’t think I would have done anything differently. Yes, now I have to complete high school while all my friends are leaving for college…but now I’m finally feeling a little better. I met some of the most amazing people during my treatment, and I made a few life long friends. The impact that this past year has had on me is something I cannot even begin to explain. I finally feel a tiny bit of hope. I’m starting to WANT to live. Although I’m nowhere near where I’d like to be, I AM a little bit closer to being happy. And for now…that’s all that matters.

What I Wrote at 4am on New Years Day.

As I’m lying there, with him using me just how he pleases, I’m uncomfortable. But even though I’m not enjoying it, my mind still can’t help but wander to good places. I think that maybe he actually likes me. Maybe this will turn into something. Maybe he’s not just using me for my body. But he is. And I know that. Yet I lie there, like I’m not me, I can’t feel my body. It’s just there. I should stop it, say no, walk away…but for some reason I can’t. My pleasure does not matter. I’ve convinced myself of that. But why? I do not know. So here I am. The morning after, wallowing in my mistakes once again. Maybe I like to fuck with my own head. Maybe I do it intentionally, I don’t know. All I know is that I just fucked up. I don’t get it. I don’t get why this bothers me, I don’t get how i got to this point in my life, I just don’t fucking get it. Why, on the first day of the new year, do I feel like jumping off a building? Nothing makes sense. I have so many questions, and no answers. One day though, I’ll figure it out. I swear I will. I will know who I am and why I do the things I do. I will understand how and why I got to this point, and I will accept it. I have to remember that. I have to constantly remind myself that things get better. Because if I don’t…that’s when I lose control. I don’t want to die, but I do want to kill myself. I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s how I feel. I need to remind myself that I want to be a mother, have a family of my own. If I kill myself, that family will never exist. It’s a scary thought; to think I have the power to bring life into the world. If I killed myself, the children I would have had in the future, would lose their lives too; lives that they have not yet gotten. I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m going to kill myself. That’s what scares me. The fact that I dont
know. There isn’t one single part of me that knows for sure that I won’t kill myself. I know how impulsive I can be; when I get an idea in my head, I stick with it, usually acting on it immediately. That’s why I’m terrified. I’m terrified of getting to a place where I feel I can’t control this other half of me. I’m afraid of it winning. It tells me that this is my life. This is me. I have no one else in the world to worry about. If I want to kill myself, then I should. I shouldn’t worry about how it will affect others. That’s not my problem. If I want to get away from all of this. From all of these thoughts and feelings and just this life. If I want to be free from all of it, then I deserve to be. A nothingness so vast that nothing doesn’t even exist is what I crave. For me, that’s death, but I do not want to die.

Ghosts

I sit here and the ghosts
They whisper in my ear
Telling me I’m not okay
I’m not good enough
I’ll never be fucking good enough
The voices are all I can hear
It’s the loudest silence I’ve ever heard
Screaming
Crying
Is this all in my head?
Or am I really crazy?
The ghosts are still here
I tell them to leave me alone
Go away.
But they don’t listen.
They’re in control
Not me.
I was never in control.

Going Back

Confused.
The only word
That makes sense to me
My mind is a disaster
I don’t know which thoughts belong to me
How did I get here?
This is not where I’m supposed to be.
I took a wrong turn
Ended up on the wrong path
Now I have to find my way back
If only that was possible
If only going back was an option.

The Calm

I’m not sure if anyone else experiences this…but after I have a panic attack I tend to become extremely calm. I feel nothing. I’m simply numb. And I hate it. IT’s awful to go straight from feeling everything during a panic attack, and then going to feeling absolutely nothing. It’s like I’m not even in my body anymore. I’m just gone. Just like that. Panic attack over…calm sets in. I wish I could enjoy this. I wish I could enjoy the fact that I actually get to feel stress free for a bit. But no. I feel awful. I hate feeling so calm. Its scares me. When I’m that calm, all I want to do is cut. I feel the urge to do this because I CANT FEEL ANYTHING. And so by self-harming I’m able to feel something. I’m able to reassure myself that this is real. I am real. I am here.

Sometimes I go into these “calm episodes” randomly, even when I haven’t previously had a panic attack. But whats awful is when I go from one to the next, because those are both triggers for me. I want to cut so badly during my panic attacks, because it calms me down. It forces me to focus on the pain, and not focus on the thoughts racing through my head. Yet when I’m calm, I want to cut so that I can feel something. I want to cut so that I can THINK. My mind is empty, and I need something inside of it.

Luckily, I made it through both a panic attack and a calm episode without self-harming. But I felt I needed to write about it, because I was very triggered during these times, and I really thought I was going to cut. I don’t know if anyone else has had similar experiences to this, but if you know what I’m talking about when i say you just don’t feel like you’re there. You don’t feel real. Then you probably know what I’m talking about. Let me know any strategies you use to get through times like these.