Learning To Accept Defeat—A special weekly throw-out
Pain.
Uncertainty.
Soul crushing, life sucking sadness.
This has been my life for more years than I can remember.
I live under the mantra what does not kill me makes me
stronger. Unfortunately, sometimes my thoughts tell me death would be less
painful.
Due to these overwhelming and unwelcome thoughts, I have
finally accepted I need help.
For someone like me, accepting defeat is not an easy thing.
A strong woman who sacrificed everything, including her own happiness for her
children, raised me. My whole life I was taught to put EVERYONE else’s
happiness before my own. Working your ass off in order to get what you need was
ingrained into my system from an early age.
Notice I did not say want. Wanting, for me, seems like a
selfish act. I don’t do frivolous; I barely do indulgent. Up until recently, I
could not even take a night to myself without making sure everyone else was
taken care of first. My writing, my passion, my outlet, is also pushed to the
bottom of my priority list. Even though I know my pros are my only form of
therapy, I sacrifice even this for the sake of my loved ones.
The damage done by putting yourself last for so many years
is irreversible. I will likely never be comfortable accepting compliments.
Believing myself to be beautiful is absolutely out of the question. No matter
how many times my beautiful, devoted friends try to build me up, the second I
am left to my own devices, I immediately plunge down the rabbit hole.
I apologize to you all for having to deal with me during my
dark times. My Never Ending Story is
depression. Like the “Nothing,” it is all consuming, wiping out any trace of
the girl who once inhabited my body. I can feel it coming on. Usually I try to
warn people, try to keep my distance, but it rarely lasts long. Loneliness is
not something I deal with well. Sometimes I feel like a feather teetering at
the edge of a cliff, the slightest breeze pushing me into the abyss. Usually,
as I fall, there is no solace in the kind words of my friends. I find no
comfort in their support, nor can my brain rationalize any of my own
destructive thoughts. Notwithstanding, these lovely souls still put up with my
bouts of crazy, and I love them for it.
Destigmatizing depression is a life mission for me. I openly
talk about my condition. I don’t do it to bring attention to myself, but more
to open a forum about what people like me go through. Some think reading a
self-help book will answer all of my problems. Some think I simply need to
choose to be happy. Meditation, working
less, yoga, whatever their quick fix may be, I have tried it. What it all boils
down to, though, is choices.
Do I choose to walk a tightrope with my demons, perilously
balancing as they occasionally shake the wire, hoping I fall?
OR
Do I choose to seek the help of a professional, possibly
being medicated?
Well, friends, I have reached this crossroads. The devil is
standing here, strumming his guitar, with a smirk that tells me he has my
number. I must choose between the foggy path of medically induced indifference,
or embark down the road that leads to “the swamp of sadness” and risk losing my
trusty steed in the process.
Well, as of next week, I shall wander into the fog.
I simply can’t shoulder the elephant any longer. Like a
meteor caught in Jupiter’s gravity, I am slowly being crushed into oblivion. I
choose life without pain and sadness. I choose numb over desperation. I choose
to be medicated rather than masticated by my own thoughts and feelings.
Why, you ask, would I choose to share this with you?
Simply put, because thousands of people have to make this
same choice daily. As insignificant as I may be, if one person reads this and
knows they are not alone, it was well worth my own humiliation. As defeated as
I may feel right now, I need to accept I have fought for far too long against
my “Nothing,” and even naming a princess
will not gift me the grain of sand I need to rebuild my withered soul.
Today, I accept that in order to live with my demons, I must
deprive them of the emotional feedbag I have provided them with for years.
Hopefully, this will quiet my restless soul, and steer me back toward the
shores of Fantasia. With faith, I look upon this not as a defeat, but as
another show of strength, leading me to a beautifully peaceful existence. I
choose to see it this way. Only because to see it any other way will leave me
desperately screaming into the stormy night like Bastian. I must finish this
story, because to leave it unfinished would destroy my world. No matter how
scary, I must go on.
Please, friends, take the time to consider your words and
actions when it comes to people with depression. The truth is, no matter how
much we want to stop caring, we cannot. For those of us who care too much, we
feel every emotion conveyed by you with a vivid pallet. We do not choose to be
this way, we simply are. We have to make the choice I am making daily.
Open the bottle and ingest the miracle that helps us
function.
OR
Thank you for taking this journey with me.
I would like to thank my friend Stephanie Nett of Midnight Reverie Media for taking the time to edit this post for me. I couldn't think of posting this without the guidance of those who are better at this than I. Check out her website below.
…Also a big shout out to Michael Ende for the awesome book
references. One of the best stories I have ever read.
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