"Don't let me give up" Unweaving my Mental Illness

TRIGGER WARNING:

THIS MATERIAL CONTAINS verbalizations that might potentially upset some readers, including, but not limited to, suicide, depression, abuse, childhood trauma, self-inflicted harm, and depictions of death.

Please be mindful of such.

There’s a story to tell and I am sharing it below to people struggling with mental illness — know that it comes from the heart, from someone who understands their struggles, we may differ in some aspects, yet there is no reason to suffer alone. Release your tributaries, drown in it, and suavely resurface as a rebirthed spirit from that great press. It all may seem saturnine for us now, sure enough, that one day we’ll look back and say it was worthwhile.

Make you a success for you.

Eleven years. You’ve stolen eleven years of my life. I have been living with you for quite some time now. Even though I won’t personally admit that I’ve struggled more with you for the last five years as you claimed your residency. Suffice it to say, you are overpowering. Should I reward you for taking everything from me? For sabotaging every means of simple joy that I deserved?

I owe some of my lowest, darkest moments of my life to you.

What else could you want from me?

You began making yourself the protagonist whilst I haven’t seen more of life yet, I was aged thirteen, thinking that I had everything figured out. I didn’t know that you we’re lying in wait to attack by surprise, hawking my every little step, foreseeing my breakdown.

You’re a shapeshifter: sometimes your gentle breath glides composedly, the next, you shatter any sign of life. On those days, I shut down, but you never went away.

“My whole life, I’ve just felt a little off, I find myself getting into these patterns of behavior or thought – especially when I’m stuck up here [in my head]; I like to say that ‘this is like a bad neighborhood, and I should not go walking alone.” - Chester Bennington (1973-2017)

When did I first notice something was off?

It was in the course of my first relationship that lasted for six years. My immediate response to every misunderstanding we went through was neurotic: I often displayed temper tantrums over anything: delayed replies or phone calls. It doesn’t make sense, I know. I was manipulative and acted out of impulsion on everything. I had this bewildering mentality in my system that I knew what was best, and as I inhabit his world, all the corrosivity thickened and coherently crawled up to my head.

Whether I was scared of being abandoned once more, my untreated inner issues pitched into my eruption; I couldn't pinpoint at the time. I knew that I cared beyond measure and that it was not my intention to hurt nobody.

Still, my behavior was unpredictable, and my episodes were destructive. I am an emphatic person: I will feel something so strongly. Though, there are instances wherein I could be emotionless. Chatty one second, withdrawn the next.

I couldn’t keep up with myself.

Not that I am over-vilifying myself, these are straight facts, and it took me long years to painfully admit as I bathe in concrete denial, that I, too, was at fault as the relationship has pivoted downwards.

I broke both of our hearts.

I could’ve done better if you weren’t here. 

I may be a qualified daughter, an emotionally available friend, a stable partner who does not suffer from atrocious mood swings that lasts for days or several weeks, or simply a normal human being motivated to get up daily: the kind who does not wake up feeling unbalanced, lifeless, and a failure.

You worsened when I was in college. I even arrived at a situation where I considered dropping out because of how alone, lonely, unhappy, and pressured I was at school despite having “friends”  and acquaintances. And that was something I struggled with privately. 

I was trying my best, and they chose to misunderstood that. If only they knew the reason behind my inactivity, "laziness" and absence, they might not have perceived me negatively and yes, poorly as I always get picked up on.

And with so much emotional baggage I carry along: from my childhood traumas, to anxiety-inducing recollections that constantly replay in my head, my purpose got astray and I lost track. I transitioned in a version that even I resented the person in the mirror.

I started physically injuring myself whenever I attained a fixed level of madness. This behavior of mine is interrelated with confusion and combusting anger. I didn’t allow myself to dissect, filter, and release my unfaltering emotions one at a time.

I am unable to help myself.

I have always thought that touching on unsettled issues that requires further justification would cause so much hate and conflict, so I kept shoving them down, numbing myself until the pain recedes.

I knew my mental health required attention when in specific moments of panic, my suicide ideation toughens, and my grasp on life abates. I started having bouts of suicidal tendencies when people often tell me that I am better off dead, whether intentionally or unintentionally. 

How could they even say that to someone hanging on?

Words scrape deeper because most of the time, they heal the longer. They have taken it too far, and these are the exact reasons why I prefer to disassociate myself. I subconsciously began to fear, hate, distrust, and push people away before they’d gain the power to hurt me.

Once the sun rises, I sink again. The voices bicker, thoughts become obsessive, and pressure is magnetic. My mind goes blank — longing to rest. I always feel obscured and threatened. It gets heavier and more deadly as seasons interchange.

Minimal details arouse inner rage: I get triggered by almost everything, anything will send me into a blackout. Simple tasks became overwhelming. Life became insufferable. People became battering monsters. I cry a lot and wither quite often. I always find myself desperately staring corpselike at the ceiling.

I worked very hard to conceal inflictions: from the stains of secret interior tears that eroded my eyes, blotches of inferno’s swellings that disturbed my composure, to the calm torrents embedded on my coat. The more I prevent it, the more it penetrates, the more I get hurt and be reminded. It is like a haunting of a century-old corpse that one can never hide nor run from unless avowed.

As might be expected, this took a lot from me: discreet scars bled once again, this hefty weight sat on my fingertips as I processed my feelings, and my heart thumped as I unfasten it to extract learnings from the truth.

I may be struggling to gather me back together and want my life back, but I won't give up until I reach recovery and thrive. I had endured the unbearable in the long run, so why give up now? 

If you felt triggered know that there are reliable resources to help you. If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal, you can reach Hopeline Philippines thru: (917) 558 4673 or dial 2919 toll-free.

Hang in there, beautiful soul. You have a story to tell.