It Comes and Goes

Starting this post off on the right foot, I thought I'd use my current bad day song. Deep Waters by American Authors has been on repeat for me this past week. More than on repeat. I really enjoy the heavy yet uplighting rock ballad very much so, and it was the inspiration behind this piece of writing.

Mental health is a very scary topic that most people feel very shy about. I guess I feel like I don't need to be. Mainly because of how I let anxiety fuel my 23-year-old life. I have allowed myself to have several painful conversations with people to demonstrate that I am not shy about my own mental well-being. My mental health is something that I have decided to walk around and wear with a lot of courage, because it truly takes courage to be alive when you truly don't want to be existing anymore. I have come to the conclusion, that every breath that I take is on borrowed time.

How do I handle being suicidal while being a parent? I don't. At least not very well. Especially while you're focused on reparenting yourself and have childhood memories that consistently resurface to endure through. While being as depressed as I am, I have asked myself to find my purpose again, just outside of raising my kids. My own coping mechanisms have turned into my own worst enemy and my mind can be a pretty scary place.

I am painfully aware of the fact that I am only alive because of my children. I have picked that purpose to allow myself to live for. But what else is there for me? I struggle to see that worth on a regular basis. What else is there? I don't want to keep asking myself that question for much longer.

Becoming painfully aware of the fact that I have never had a healthy relationship to ever exist. Friend, family, coworker, the like: my anxiety, depression, and bipolar disorder have destroyed everything good in my life. One of my favourite expressions that one of my grandmothers has used with me over the years is "caught" the depression. Because it is a disease. A really bad one at that. And anyone can experience it. My depression has turned me into a pretty hateful version of what I would call myself. When I just expected people to understand how I felt, I shut myself down and explode on people instead. I have very fragile relationships because of that side of myself. I am painfully aware of that fact. I allow myself to overthink to death. And when that overthinking panic bubbles up, I just feel completely destroyed. I know I mean well in most situations. I just know that. I honour that feeling of embarrassment that I have of yelling at my cousin in the middle of our commons area during high school. I know I can't forgive myself for a lot of things, but I keep on trying anyways.

When things just happen to you, and you're just expected to try and keep going, that's endurance. Being as hurt as I am composing this post, I have learned the very hard way that picking yourself up, while you're completely shattered is called courage. My journey, my story, maybe that's a part of my purpose that I get to allow myself to choose to live for besides being alive for my kids. I am stronger than anyone will ever know and I like to hold that very dear to my heart.

I allow myself to be completely picking myself to pieces already, people don't need to tell me how my depression has ruined everything good for me. Money doesn't need to be thrown in my face to make me feel better for the lack of healthy boundaries.

Mental health is very important, or at least for me, it just is. It took me way too late in life to realize the fact of that matter. I was always very outspoken about my depression and anxiety at a young age, because these diseases have always been existing, lying around for me. Anxiety was a demon that had needed to be conquered a long time ago. COVID did not help those matters for me. Those diseases stuck around for a lot longer than they should have. I had first started seeing a psychiatrist while I was pregnant with my daughter. I was started on a new low-dose anti-depressant after a few failures from general practitioners.

The first panic attack I can ever remember myself having was right before my gym class in the 10th Grade. I didn't even hate the gym class or the lesson we were doing. I had half my stuff in a bag, waiting to stay at my grandparents' place for the weekend. Changing before gym class, I just up and panicked. My stupid purple Addidas bag was stuffed full to the brim with my belongings. I was fifteen back then. What can I say, I had anxiety. Sometimes, I was not taken seriously with my own mental health back then. Not by friends, not by family members, not even by school staff. I rested at home instead of dealing with the root issue. I sat on the couch and listened to what I was told by family members via text versus getting the help I needed. I view the little blue drug I was handed at age seventeen much differently than most people would. That anxiety drug was a blessing for me back then. I just did not realize it until now.

I don't want to be dead, but I don't want to be alive. And that statement is really hard for me to accept. Like yes, I have dealt with my own suicidal thoughts and feelings my whole life, but I have never just seen myself as a dead woman walking around before, but sometimes, I just am. I am a pale glimmer of who I used to be. That statement is hard for me to admit, even to myself as an adult. Attempting suicide at eight years old with rhubarb leaves is a hard moment for me from back in my childhood that I deal with on a regular basis. Whenever my mind feels that way, I think back to my eight-year old self and just want to hold her. For as long as I can. Because no child should ever feel that way about their own life.

I have had my past thrown at my face in the ugliest ways to exist. I know that. I try to honour that feeling that I have inside of me more than I give myself credit for. Because it hurts. But I do know that I am stronger than people give me credit for. I usually try and tuck away any pain that I experience inside myself. Because that's what parents have to do. You get up every damn day and just try to exist and show up for your children, in every way shape or form. That's what purpose is called. My children gave me a purpose again when I felt as if I had lost all sense of who I am.

Chloe Rose Violet