Mending The Broken Pieces

A friend wrote a post this morning and emailed it to me. After reading it, I didn’t feel worthy of the words she wrote. The thank you for holding her hand. I don’t even think I’d still be here without her. You see I’ve been suffering from one issue or another since my teens. A few months ago, I thought I was having a heart attack. I went to the hospital, tolerated the tests and the constant wake ups. One of my cardiac enzymes came back funky so they admitted me. To be honest, I’m not the healthiest person and I’m coming up on the big 4-0.

In the end, I was diagnosed with severe dehydration, exhaustion and my anxiety was reaching critical levels. The doctor prescribed anti-anxiety meds and told me to follow up with a doctor. During that follow up my doctor only confirmed what I already knew—Bipolar Affective Disorder and Anxiety.

I’ve always self-medicated, alcohol, drugs, and whatever else would make me forget even for a short time, but I've been somewhat sober. There's been more than a few tumbles off the wagon.

Although, it was more than that. I have/had a theory. That theory is I’ve always felt I was born broken. My mother had miscarriages before and a tubal pregnancy after I was born. In my teens, I formulated this hypothesis that my existence is a fluke—a mistake of nature. That I wasn’t supposed to survive as my siblings hadn’t.

No one knows how many times I held a razor to my wrist, thought about popping that handful of pills or how many times I stood on the edge ready to jump. These past five years no one understands how easy it would be for me to take the exit.

I’ve committed sins, ones that I’ll never atone for, but I punish myself on a daily basis for them.

There’s never been a time in my life that I haven’t felt different—the proverbial black sheep. I’ve done things I’m ashamed of and in no way will I ever forget. I told people and family that I wanted to be a writer and their answer was what a nice hobby. It wasn’t until five years ago that I actually believed I could do it and it’s because of one person I hit send on that first submission.

My sexuality, being Lesbian, in my family was a no-no—a sin—and again I kept it all hidden while I let people treat me like a trash. Honestly maybe I was trash and probably still am. I felt alone in that crowded room. On the edges, yet never quite belonging. In the last few years with the help of friends and a few published books I’ve begun to feel worthy. I never came out to my family, well, if they can find my FB author page, my website or blog I think they’ve figured it out.

Being me is a struggle, a war with my body and mind, and it’s never ending. I want more, need more, but my mental health is a larger hindrance than I can handle. Most people don’t get it. They think it’s easy. One day I’ll just wake up and be able to do without the meds. Things would be easier if I could. I miss the crazy—my manic phases—and my 20k written word days. I miss how loud my voices could be. I want to be me again.

Everyone struggles, mental illness, banishment for who we choose to love and countless other reasons. Although, mental illness is that silent and invisible one. We don’t wear signs and we hide it all behind a fake smile. We too easily forget that we're not alone. Suffer in silence for our perceived weaknesses. I don’t know if I still want to me here. My theory is firmly in place.

I am what I am, it is what it is, maybe today I’m not okay, but Hell maybe tomorrow I will be. Until then I have my stories to tell. Life isn’t easy, yet merely existing is far worse.