[This was inspired by and written for a particular individual, but I dedicate it to all of my slightly worn beloveds, who are perfect with their chipped edges, scratches, and stains.]
T.,
I do not know you.
I don’t know what has fueled your joys and sorrows.
I don’t know what made you curl up instead of flying free.
I don’t know why you’re feeling broken inside.
My life may be nothing like yours… but I’ve lain there in that hospital bed, feeling worse for being there because I stumbled at the moment of my intended exit, feeling like it was further proof of personal failure and ineptitude.
Years later, I cannot believe I was willing to throw away every minute I’ve had since. No, it hasn't been all pleasant. Yet, the glory of new discoveries in a world I never previously perceived has been dazzling.
What I winnowed from those years was an understanding of the seemingly impenetrable darkness of a haunted mind. Some of us are beaten, some of us are screamed at, some are distorted by apathy. It comes from strangers, casual acquaintances, or, worst of all, from friends and family. Regardless of the ignition age or source of distress, the mind can incubate and nurture stygian obsession with adroit skill.
Consumed by such bile, many display complex coded cries for help. Family believes it sees us. Family swears it knows us. Those who believe they understand us are often the last to know, and rarely comprehend the entire situation. And Family has its constrictions.
A dear childhood friend had a mother more heartless than any I’ve met. My friend’s mother never missed the chance to tell her little angel “you look fat in that”, “that looks horrible on you: go upstairs and change”. For her sixteenth birthday, this woman gave her daughter a scale. My friend swallowed pills for years. Never truly wanting death, but quietly hoping for an accident… Just to make it stop... Just to make the voice down the hall stop.
Then there is another who seemed to shine so bright. I watched her grow up, screamed my guts out at her sports games, and never saw the undeniable truth: she was fading. I was right there, fading alongside her and I never said a word. Her eating disorder reduced her from fierce feminine beauty to potential collegiate expulsion.
...
Those of us in the dark know complete recovery is impossible; we’ll always have cerebral muscle-memory of the pain, but we can turn on a light.
Or even open a window.
Five years ago, as I had another of my then-typical agoraphobic anxiety attacks, someone bitch-slapped me out of it:
“I don’t have any respect for people like you.”
In that black pre-dawn hour, I saw clearly.
I would not accept scorn from the apathetic or pity from the loving. I refused to allow suicidal self-hatred to define or mar the life I could lead. I would be damned if I gave up without a fight.
I was no longer despairing… I was furiously determined.
...
And then there are the people we love…
Living solely to protect others from the pain of your passing is not enough. Tolerating your existence to martyr yourself to their needs is not enough. You can thrive on loving them, but you cannot survive living only for their peace of mind.
In the end, happiness requires we stand tall in our own shoes – heels or flats, sneakers or boots – voices calling out for the freedom, life, and love we deserve.
Don’t whisper - shout. Jump up and down, wave your arms, thrash around.
We will see you.
Never forget: you are not alone.
There are many like us, and I have lived to meet them.
We cannot eat; we cannot eat without purging; we cannot eat for fear of nerves.
We cut our flesh to redirect the pain, to distract our minds, to punish ourselves.
We drink to be numb; we drink to forget; we drink because it is something else to do besides obsess.
We question the source of happiness and beat our heads against the wall in frustration as it all appears ever so slightly beyond our grasp.
We love our families… Why don’t they understand us…
We hate our families… Why couldn’t they see the damage they’ve done….
If you leave us now, we lose another sister, another soldier, who could have stood with us and helped lead the next generation home.
Believe me when I say, you do not want to miss this. The world may be vast and terrifying, and the internal world even more so, but you do not want to miss this.
We are here, waiting. We have each other. We’re a lot fun and laughter… We’d like to meet you.
If you open the window, perhaps you will discover you want to meet us, too.
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