30

If you're not in a great place of mind, I'd recommend skipping this post. I'll have another one soon with more yarn related things and a bit of an explanation on why it's been so long since I've posted. But this was shit I needed to get out of my head.

CN: Suicidal Ideation, Discussion of Self Harm

I turned 30 a few days ago.

And with that brought a whole heaping host of complicated emotions, thoughts, and fears. Not to mention the worse episode of suicidal ideation I've had in the better part of 5 years. 

Yeah, it was really fucking bad.

If you would have asked me 15 years ago where I thought I'd be now... well, this is most certainly not the answer I would have given. 

I would have thought I'd have a college degree, a stable career, a house away from where I grew up, children of my own. Robyn would still be in the picture, but that's only because at this point we've known each other for more than half my life. 

Instead, I never finished college. I've spent the last decade just trying to survive the horrors that my past traumas and mental illnesses have thrown at me. I didn't figure out what I wanted to do as a career until this frickin year. I do have a house, which I am grateful for, but I do still live in the same tiny town I was born in. Children will never be an option for me.  

But I am here. I'm alive, somehow. I made it to 30 years old. Damaged, broken beyond repair, but alive. 

And as selfish it may sound, I wanted to celebrate that. I wanted my birthday to be full of fanfare and celebration. A day where I had an excuse to be the center of attention. A day that reassured me that I was important, valued, loved.

But, y'know, giant fucking plague kinda ruined that. 

And the last month leading up to my birthday was absolute fucking hell. 

Just dealing with emergency after emergency with the pets was bad enough. We lost Oj to cancer that we didn't know he had. Jass managed to scratch her head open so bad that she needed to be put in a cone. Boo got an ear infection and burst a blood vessel in his ear.

On top of all that was the emotional chaos of trying to get my ex-stepdad out of the house. It was far past time for him to move the fuck out, but trying to do so was a goddamned nightmare. 

Not to mention, Robyn and kiddo were both dealing with mental breakdowns of their own every other week. For different reasons, but still absolute hell to deal with. 

Oh, I'm also still trying to get my fledgling business off the ground, too. Can't forget that!

And let's not forget the fact that we're living though the goddamned apocalypse. 

Through all of this, I was expected to be the strong one. The one who had the answers, who sailed us through storm after storm. I wasn't allowed to have a moment of weakness, a moment to just scream and cry and rage about how unfair it all was. 

No, I had to shove all my feelings down and pretend everything was fine. Whenever a crisis popped up I was expected to drop everything and fix it.

Again.

And again.

And again.

What right did I have to complain when so many other people were hurting so bad?

Could I have reached out to my friends? 

Certainly. But that posed another problem.

You see, as the resident extrovert, I'm always expected to be "on." 

(I fully realize that this is pressure I put on myself, but it's how my brain operates, so please bare with me as I try to explain.) 

I have to be entertaining. Even when I'm talking about trauma and how I can barely handle being alive right now. I have to somehow make it seem like I'll be okay. Don't worry about me! I'm the strong one!

So I kept silent. 

I didn't tell anyone how I was feeling as my birthday approached. How I felt like I was a giant fucking failure still. A disappointment to my family. A burden. That I was at my breaking point and I needed someone, anyone, in my family to reassure me that I was worth something. That I needed a goddamned break from being the strong one and needed someone to let me just breakdown and cry.

No, actually. That's not entirely true.

I tried to tell them. But as soon as I mentioned "birthday" I was told, "It's just another day in your life!"

So the day of my birthday dawned with me already in the deepest hells of depression. And it just got worse and worse through the day.

It ended up with me in the car in the garage, phone in one hand, scarf in the other. I had made up my mind to call a crisis hotline because I knew I was in a dangerous place. It was either talk to someone or strangle myself in the car. 

At least then Robyn would be able to get rid of the car and get something new. 

Hell of a lot easier to clean up, too.

And it's the stupidest fucking thing, but my brain kept telling me that my birth and death date would be so neat and tidy on my headstone.

"September 24th 1990 - September 24th 2020"

I tried the hotline three separate times. I never got through. 

No one to talk to. No one I could just unburden myself on that I didn't have to worry about what the hell they thought of me the next day. 

So I screamed and cried and raged in that car, just begging everything to stop for five goddamned bloody minutes so I could BREATHE. So I could THINK. So I could actually figure out what the fuck I had to live for.

Robyn eventually came out, sat with me, and everything just poured out. Everything.

And this is the part where you expect me to say that things got better after that, right?

I finally talked to someone! Surely that was all I needed!

Nope, things were still going to get a lot worse. 

To respect the other person involved's privacy, I will keep the details out of this. All I will say was that if it wasn't for the fact that I was absolutely paralyzed with self-loathing by the end of it, I would have likely grabbed whatever sharp instrument I could find and punished myself as much as I could.

The other person and I got past it, but I still felt absolutely raw and hollow.

I still feel that way, like a tree struck by lightning and burned from the inside out.

Sure, there have been better days. Days that I have smiled and laughed and found reasons to keep going.

But I've also been waking up in panic attacks most mornings. Including one memorable time that I had a panic attack so bad that I threw up everywhere after only 4 miserable hours of sleep. And then could only sleep in 2 - 5 minute bursts before waking up panicking again. 

I wish I had a positive spin on this. I wish I could say that I know I'll be happy again. That life will be grand.

But I don't. I can't. I'm not so naive to pretend that we're not hurtling towards even bigger disasters and there feels like there's nothing stopping it.

I only have the tiniest little spark of hope that I am desperately trying to keep from going out. 

I know I have to keep going. I have too many people to take care of. Too many things I want to do. Too much yarn to dye still.

I turned 30 a few days ago.

And I survived.