I’ve been feeling like shit the last few days, I feel inadequate and my value is depleting like a car after it has been driven for too many miles. I suppose this feeling started when I recognized a girl I went to school with, she was a grade ahead of me but she knew who I was and I knew who she was. She was somewhat tall, blonde hair blue eyes, she was sweet to her friends and she was the type the jocks would want to bring home to mama. But for girls like me there was never a sense of respect or even positive visual responses. Girls like me were jokes to girls like her, girls who were like this girl had parents there for them, wealthy and well off. This girl was never the type to look at a girl like me and at least have the idea in her mind to be kind. This type of girl never thought girls like me may be missing something; I was a waste of time, a joke, I was put on this world for the entertainment of sick-reality. My life was a reality show before reality shows ever existed. I don’t say this narcissistically, I say this because I was talked about always, and my brothers would come home confronting me with a new rumor. Hearing everything enticed me to fulfill those rumors, they scared me but they eventually became self-fulfilling-prophecies.
As I was dropping off my kiddos at school I seen this girl and she saw me, I smiled at her and she just snobbishly looked away. My first thought was, “Really, we’re adults now and you’re really going to stick with your old thoughts and judgment.” I’ve seen her several times and she still responds the same way. This is the most difficult part about living in this God-forsaken desert, you run into everyone you’ve known before.
So I don’t have the monetary gain like others, I don’t have the high-education like others and I didn’t have the support and opportunities others did. Before and during my black-outs I pulled out every credit card I had and maxed them out. I went crazy and tried fulfilling this horrific feeling of death, I put us in a shitty financial situation; on top of that the treatments I received were in the double digits of the thousands. Before my Bipolar wreck havoc in my life I was beginning my Bachelor’s degree in Business with the emphases on entrepreneurship and small businesses. I couldn’t handle the stress and I dropped out.
I know the foundation of my life wasn’t the best. I know that the stress and trauma of my childhood is a piece of my Bipolar puzzle. I know that the support I needed growing up was absent.
However, I have to remember all the experiences of my life. I have to remember that I went to hell and back, I fought demons and I am a fighter. I need to remind myself to claim me as worthy spirit on this earth. It becomes easy to forget the fact that no one else went through what I did, no one has the idea of the evil things I did and the torment that lived in me. My oldest brother called me the other night to talk to me about setting goals, like the goals we set for ourselves before we forgot about our dreams. I told him I was afraid, I lack the confidence to accomplish such amazing things and I am unworthy of such successes. “I cannot see how I can let go of the feeling that I will fail and I will fall down.” He reminded me of how strong our family is. He described to me the pain and memories we’ve shared watched and absorbed, he reminded me of how difficult it was for us to even survive. All four of us siblings grew up and had to mature earlier than other kids our age. Unfortunately, we grew-up in all the wrong ways.
We were never taught how hard and dangerous the world could be…
We were never taught the beauty and opportunity the world had for us either.
My brother told me of how most of our cousins, immediate, were depending on government care rather than working, they never considering the respect of gaining something on their own. Our other cousins have kids they leave behind for days while they take off to party; or they put their kids in the midst of the party with drug dealers and God knows who else. The rest of our cousins are either in prison or dead. We made it; we survived with life and respect-maybe not from others in this big world but for each other. A respect and knowledge that no matter what we will always be there for one another; albeit in an unorthodox way but we’re always there. If one of us is in trouble we will always come together.
The first night I was allowed have visitors while I was in the psych ward, all of my siblings showed up with my parents, every one of them. They didn’t understand why I did what I did or why I was where I was, but they were there. Sometimes we can be so pissed off at each other that we won’t speak for awhile but soon after we hash it out without holding back what’s on our hearts and minds.
Although I can count on my siblings and parents, I never felt hope in telling them how depressed I really felt. I guess I didn’t really want to hear that they were praying to God for me, I didn’t want a pep talk nor did I even want their opinion. Sadly I felt the same way about Rick and his brother. It got to a point where all I wanted to do is joke about how crazy it would be to jump from the top of a high building. In my mind jumping off of a high-rise, was amazing I would feel like I was flying. I know people would say I would be falling, but to me, I would be flying down to peace, free as a bird and fearless as an immortal.
I would no longer share jokes and ideas of suicide with Rick or his brother; I became so much closer to suicide that talking about it was no longer conversation-it was obsession.
Prior to everything that began to develop I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror for a long time, even when putting on my make-up I would have to just take glances. The mirror was something I feared, where ever there was a mirror I could never stay there too long. The most horrific part about my reflection was the evil in my eyes, if I ever looked at my eyes I would get stuck there. One side of me, the real me, would be completely and horrifically overwhelmed with fear, a fear I cannot explain. The me in the mirror would push forth with such intense evil and hate; I would see a laughing evil that would tell me that I was too fucked up to live. I was never good enough to live; I was useless and held no value. I never felt pity, just hate. My eyes in the mirror were never pitiful looks of sadness, only aggressive violence. I was too fearful to see my eyes in those damn mirrors, especially when I was drunk or high; but I eventually started to like my eyes.
My eyes in the mirror began talking to me and I was actually verbally responding. My eyes became overcome by the eyes in the mirror, I was overcome by evil and I began my journey on the road of suicide.
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