stories & stings

I’ve been going on about why I made this blog, and while I’m not sure I completely got my point for doing this across, I’m just going to get into it and hopefully things fall into place.

Thanks for going through this with me, and I’m sorry I’m the worst.

I think I want to start off first by talking about my depression, because I think it’s a huge reason why I feel compelled to write about my human experience.

I know a lot of people struggle with depression, and my story isn’t much different, but I know I like hearing other people’s stories because it makes me feel less alone.

So, I was depressed for about a year before I even knew I was, which is completely insane because I live with myself day-in and day-out, everyday, and you’d think I’d be able to freaking realize that I wasn’t myself anymore. But, I couldn’t and I didn’t, and it took me an entire year to come to that realization.

I remember the night I realized how bad I’d gotten. I woke up lying on the floor in my own vomit from drinking myself into who knows what dimension, and I was covered in my own blood with a kitchen knife in my hand.

Let me stop for just a second. Don’t pity me – I’m stronger now because of it and I’m not at all ashamed of the path that’s lead me here. I know it sounds weird, but I wouldn’t change a thing.

I tried to remember what had happened, but the last thing I could remember was sitting at my kitchen table in my apartment with a beer in my hand. Everything else was gone. I’d never been much into drinking before the couple months leading me up to this night, and I think waking up and not remembering if I had even been drinking with anyone was a big wake up call for me.

I slowly stood up and looked at what I had done to myself – my own skin. I had more than a dozen deep gashes ripped through my upper thigh, and carpet was stuck in the blood that had dried after I passed out. I was shaking and cold and pale, and I stumbled into the shower and I just cried for hours. I sobbed, like, ugly cried. It was not cute. I didn’t want to admit to myself or to anyone what a bad place I was in, but the unbearable sting from the shower in my cuts was a brutal reminder, and it made me decide I needed help.

“I had more than a dozen deep gashes ripped through my upper thigh, and carpet was stuck in the blood that had dried after I passed out.”

That night was about six months ago. I went home from school that weekend and told my mom that I thought I was depressed. (I did not, however, tell her any of that story. Especially the alcohol part. She’d kill me.) (She’d also be heartbroken over my self harm.) (Essentially I figured it best to leave out those fun little details.) My mom immediately hated herself for not seeing it, which only made me feel worse. But, that next week we started calling psychiatrists so I could start to get help.

That was one of the worst nights of my life, but I’ll explain later why it was also one of the best.

stories & stings

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