It Gets Better, Be the Warrior

There was a time in my life where I was in a very dark place. I don't remember exactly how old I was, around 14 to 16. I don't remember even what specific event exactly brought me to this moment. It was a culmination of many events...bringing me to this edge. So much pain...for far too long...helplessness overwhelming. I didn't feel loved by my step-dad or my bio-dad. My step-dad tore me down all the time. Nothing I did was ever right. I had to be perfect and even when I thought I was being perfect he was still able to point out flaws. He told me I was fat, laughed at me for it, made fun of ...well he made fun of me for just about everything. There were few moments where he made me feel like he was proud of me. Even fewer moments where he expressed love or said the words. I cherish those. I remember them like they just happened.

I had a pretty hard childhood. Parts of it were good, but the hard part left scars. I go back and read the first page of my first diary and it reads:
 "Dear Diary,
I have said my dad hates me a lot. I am giving him two xmas gifts. I wish he would say, I love you." (December 23, 1991, age 9)

I haven't really thought about this moment of my life until recently. And there are very few people that know about it. It's not something I even told my parents about. I'm not even sure I have told anyone except my husband. But I've been thinking because someone who has happened to cross my path recently has forced me to look back. They have forced me to remember that edge, that darkness, and the yearning to feel any kind of pain other than the pain I felt or just to feel absolutely nothing at all. This person has reminded me of the scars I bear inside and even some on the surface. The ones I have worked endlessly to heal. But it's okay. Because I am in a better place now. I can look back and feel that little tingle of sadness and at the same time be thankful that I'm not there anymore. But I don't want to forget either. It's important that I remember how dark things can become....why? Well in the beautiful words of Carl Jung,

"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of 

other people." 

Perhaps he did not mean it the way I interpret it, but I like to believe that there is a reason for things. There is a reason I chose not to do what I was seriously thinking of doing. And a reason why I have met this person and am able to understand what they are going through....to an extent anyhow.

Here is a piece of my story____________________________________________________________________________

There I sit. In my loft bedroom. The ceiling only a foot or so above my head. It was late. Everyone in bed already. Silence surrounded me. It had been a bad night at home. I was desperately depressed. Crying....crying....trying my best not to cry too loud. I have no door on my bedroom. Dad can hear me if I cry too loud. When he hears me crying he yells at me. Tells me I'm a baby...cry baby...whiney little brat. What a fuckin baby.

So I hold it in...cry as softly as I can when I'm sobbing...my body shaking with tremors. So many tears...my face is soaked and chapped. My eyes puffy and my nose stuffy and runny at the same time. Defeated....I just can't stop the pain. I can't stop crying...when will it stop hurting?

The house so quiet.

I went to the bathroom. Peed. Stood there in the dim nightlight looking at my reflection in the mirror. Witnessing the devastation and pain on my face. I began to cry again. Ugh I hate you! Look at you! You're pathetic. Why is he so mean? Why doesn't he love me? Why can't I have a father that loves me? Why does he want to hurt me all the time? Why is my life so out of my control? How can I just not hurt anymore? I can't stand this...

I reached for the medicine cabinet. Found a bottle full of Tylenol PM and went back to my bedroom. 

I sat again in the middle of my bed. Staring at that little white bottle with a blue label. Crying....crying.... how does one person have so many tears? Sobbing...I twist and twist the top of the bottle. It opens. I pour a handful of pills into my hand. 

I sat there holding them...crying...thinking. Thinking about what I was thinking about doing just then. Thinking about ending it all. I would just go to sleep. No one would even notice I was gone until it was too late. No one would even care. I would show them...I would show them how much they hurt me! But I might die....that scares me. And if I die...what happens to my mom? What happens to my brothers? They will have no one here to protect them from him. That drunk. That asshole. They will be left behind....I can't bear the thought.

So I didn't do it...obviously. I didn't even swallow a single pill. I put them back in the bottle, then I cried myself to sleep.


________________________________________________________________________________

At the time and for a long time after that I considered myself a coward. I was on the edge and didn't have the courage to jump. I hated myself for that. But later I realized that I wasn't a coward at all. It was the cowards way out to just kill myself. It is the coward who runs away instead of standing and fighting. It is the coward who does not stand up, brush themselves off, wipe the blood from their face, and walk on tall, continuing to fight. 

I'll be honest...there were many times after that where I thought about ending it all. But over and over I could not bear the thought of leaving the people I love behind. And I refused to let him win. Perhaps being stubborn, for once, worked in my favor. I refused to let him have that much control. It drove me to be something...to be someone. When people told me I couldn't do something I simply thought, oh yeah you wanna bet!? I'll show you. You tell me I'm worthless, but I won't let you defeat me. I won't.

It took a long time to overcome the pain of those many years of my life. I have scars that I continue to try to heal. But in the end...at least now...I am sort of thankful for all the suffering. Sure it was fucked up and super hard. It hurt like hell almost every day. I hated myself for a long time. But now....now I don't. Now I am thankful because those scars are proof that I survived. That life was hell once and I made it through....like a warrior I fought and fought for my right to be someone...to be loved...to be worthy. 

So why am I blogging about this you might ask? Well, for a long while I was ashamed of this experience I had. This experience on the brink...in the deepest darkness one can experience. Thinking of ending my own life. Being in so much pain that the only thing I could think of to make it stop hurting was to just end it. I would feel no more pain. I would feel nothing. But there were reasons for me to stay. To continue on in battle and suffer the life that I had been given. I chose to believe that each stab of pain would pass...that from it all I would become stronger. And because of this...maybe....just maybe...I could help someone else standing at that same edge...feeling that same pain and darkness surrounding them like being submerged in a black sea. Something in my heart pleaded with me...and gave me the willingness to go on.

I am so thankful to have listened. If I were to have ended it then I would not have been able to take part in the joys my life has today. I would not have been able to hold my first nephew in my arms, touch his soft head, kiss his soft cheeks, and smell his new smell. I would not have met my husband who has stuck beside me through much of the leftover darkness I had to get through to be where I am right now in my heart. I would not have been able to see my wonderful brothers grow up to be amazing young men. I would not have been able to become what I am. 

I am also very thankful...because, hopefully, my story will help someone else going through a shit storm like that too. Maybe it will help them see that life doesn't stay hard forever. It does change. It's not fast, no, but it does. You just have to keep on fighting. It gets better. Be the warrior.