I'm Not Depressed...... But What if I Fail?

Trigger warnings, self harm, suicide, depression, anxiety, and general uneasiness on this journey.

I’ve been reading a lot about how people with depression either don’t remember themselves before the depression, or they remember how they were and miss that.
How celebrities who have killed themselves were often told stories starting with "I never thought he was depressed."

I don’t think I have ever not been depressed. But I was told that I wasn't.

My earliest memories consisted of me telling my parents that I thought I was depressed. I was probably 8.

My mother looked at me and said “You don’t have depression.”

I asked how she knew.

 “Because you’re the first one up in the morning, you have energy, you don’t just want to lay in bed. With depression it’s a fight to get up in the morning, to want to do something. And you don’t have that”

I couldn’t tell my parents that every night I fantasized about ways I could die, just to get to sleep.

 Most nights I would think about death, my death. Would people miss me? What would they do if I died in my sleep?

Those were the thoughts that lulled me to sleep.

Since I was about 9 or 10, I figured I would die… Not from natural causes, but from either my own hand, or someone whom I loved and trusted.

I would be murdered or kill myself.

It’s just a thought that has sunk itself deeper in me as time goes on.

As I got older, I would go deeper into detail of how I could die. I would not ever do it myself. What if I failed?

I tried a few times, before I became a teenager. Half heartedly.

I wasn’t depressed, I was told that I wasn’t depressed.

When I was in Elementary school a classmates sister killed herself, and my comments (as well as actions) caused me to see the school counselor.  

She assured my 10-year-old self that everything discussed would remain between us. I immediately looked for cameras and knew she was lying. 

She kept asking me why I stated I wanted to kill myself?

I never had an answer. 

The School called my parents to let them know. My faith and trust was destroyed.

I had another incident where I confided in a friend in middle school, I was just existing, I didn't want to any more.

Again counselor, and again, my parents were notified of my "suicidal thoughts". I stopped talking about it.

I was bullied in elementary and middle school. But I never felt like I would kill myself over that.

In high school my anxiety became an issue. To myself and my father. My mother and doctor just saw it as a nuisance.

I had friends who harmed themselves, and while I dreamed of taking my life on a nightly basis, I never understood the reasoning behind just cutting.

Until I started.

My road to self harm, was a progression. After a shopping trip with my mother, hearing all the negative things she’s said about herself… While I was going through the same thing, switched something in my head.

I’ve always had self image issues. Always. Ever since I was called fat and “miss piggy” in third grade.

I tore my ACL and had to quit swimming when I was 15. I gained fat, I gained weight, and nothing fit.

If I felt thin enough to wear a tank top, my mother would point out how I needed to do crunches. If I wore shorts, or hip hugging jeans, my boyfriend at the time would see my stretch marks and assume I was cutting myself.

That summer, and shopping trip ruined me. My mother was saying how useless she was for gaining weight and why should she bother even going on shopping trips anymore?
Meanwhile I would have to go up three sizes in jeans (I went from being a skinny 115 muscled girl, to a chubby 140 lb girl) and my mother would assure me, that I will go back to my size 2.

I never did.

I got home, feeling so useless and over weight. I went to my room after dinner, and grabbed some scissors, they were dull. But the pain and the welts were enough.

Tears stung my eyes as I made red marks across my wrists. I followed the veins after a while, imagining my blood spilling out and finally ending.

But what if I failed?

They were welts, and I was still in my pop/punk phase, the wristbands covered them easily, even if they were a bit uncomfortable. It wasn’t out of the ordinary.

I don’t remember when I moved from dull scissors to a knife. I am sure it was after one of many fights I have had with my maternal unit.

It was a curved paring knife. I remember grabbing it because the curve was just perfect for my wrists and ankles.

It was the first time I drew blood.

Just small scratches. Only one scarred, and that was because it got infected.

I wore a metal balled chain around my wrists as a form of bracelets normally, so again. I could hide it without any issue.

I was swimming for my high school, I was smart enough to keep my injuries hidden. Most of these instances happened over the summer months. Outside of school, and swimming.

Over the summers, nobody would know if I lived or died.

What if I failed?

Knowing what I know now, I realize what would create my low impulse in this.

It wasn’t until after high school, that my cutting went from scratches that could heal in a few days, to gashes that wouldn’t heal for weeks.

My current knowledge of first aid, comes from me having to tend to my own gashed wounds, in secret.. In my bedroom after roommates fell asleep.

I have a scar, on my left arm. I got it after about three weeks into my college time. I was alone. Tired of being tired, I took some xanex, benadryl, and sleeping pills. To get me to sleep.

I don’t remember what was going through my head, but I grabbed my bread scoring knife (it was essentially a double edged razor.) and I cut deep into the groove of my arm where my bicep met my shoulder muscles.

I needed stitches, but I grabbed some towels, put over the cut, and fell asleep.

In college, I drank, I abused my medications, and I genuinely hated myself.

I took diet pills, stopped eating, and tried to over exercise the weight I had gained from culinary school.

My first actual attempt at suicide happened when I was 22. I was isolated, alone, and on the outs with family and my boyfriend at the time.

He couldn’t handle me at my worst, and so it was my fault.

I took my xanex, (what little I had left of it) and a bottle of sleeping pills. I wrote a note, to be found on the computer, in case anyone checked up on me.

I wasn’t depressed, I still got up early in the morning, I worked two jobs, I had a social life. I wasn’t depressed. Just suicidal.

I remember my heart beating funny, and taking another hand full of pills after the first didn’t put me to sleep.

I awoke the next morning, after only a few hours of sleep.

I failed.

My road to recovery has been long, a decade. I’ve finally stopped cutting myself, I went from nearly being hospitalized, to scratches, to digging my nails in my skin, to biting my lip, to now I just clentch my fists.

It was control that I had when I needed physical pain. It snapped my brain to focus on something.

My demons are dark, I still get myself to sleep by thinking of my death. I’m not depressed. I still can’t stay in bed all day.

But every day is a fight.

Every day alone is a fight.

My demons come out when nobody else is around to keep them away.

I contemplated harming myself last year, over my 28^th birthday week. I thought about just ending it.

I had taken a week off from work, with the anticipation of spending it out and about. And while events happened. It left me home, alone, isolated, for 12 hours out of the day.

Nothing seems appealing to do after that.

I’ve always crashed after social situations, this I knew. But it was the absence of something to do. I knew this by then.

I cover my depressed and suicidal self by being overly busy. I always had as a kid too.

I had chores, I asked for more chores. I went out with friends, I’d take walks with my cousin, I’d chase away those demons with work and other people.

I still do.

I remember the pain I felt when my parents worried about my brother, for always partying, and being out with friends…

Ignoring the fact that over the summer I was isolated, I spent the time in my room, or doing chores, or in the basement….

I’m proud that I’ve gone over two years without self harming.

I’m happy that I haven’t attempted to kill myself. Either intentionally or unintentionally.

I am grateful for all my friends who helped me through this phase.

But my battle is never over. I still over use sleeping medications when I can’t get my thoughts to stop. I still use diet pills when I feel like I need to be a better form of myself.

People talk about how the celebrities who have killed themselves always seemed so happy.

So am I. It is a mask we all wear, and sometimes, the facade is far better than the reality.

I can’t be left alone to my own devices for more than a day or two, or else those demons will creep up, and try to pull me under.

I don’t know who I was before they came along.

I’ve always wanted to die, as long as I can remember.

I was always a happy, if not sometimes stubborn moody child. I would smile, laugh, and play games.

But when I was alone, my demons would come and play.

And they were (are)  always hungry.

Depression isn’t just a blanket list of symptoms.

It comes in all shapes and sizes.

For me, it’s that voice stating “why bother? You’re useless now, as you’ve always been.”

After every task I complete.
If I do the housework, those creatures are still there, “Why bother?”

I failed at taking my own life, and now they tell me “You fail at life, and death, what’s the point of you?”

I don’t know what the point of me is.

Maybe I don’t want to know.

I just want to be at peace, at some point in my life.