life collection

Every morning with breakfast and stiff coffee I buzz to my computer. I scour unimportant tweets on Twitter and Facebook posts from people I haven't talked to in years. Email that are mostly spam but for the one or two lovely notes from friends that could be enjoyed now or later. Somehow I convince myself that this computer-ness is a crucial first-thing activity.

I also turn on the television (usually the only time I watch tv alone). I watch a rerun of Seinfeld or other comedy to dissipate the panic I felt all night from bad dreams. It works mostly.

I did something different this morning. I listened to music and looked through a magazine. I read every bit of it, something I usually don't give myself permission to do as it seems so ridiculous to read one or two page articles instead of a book or blog post. After a bit I turned the music off and just had quiet.

My mind goes boom in the quiet but I'm trying to get used to it. I boom with anxiety, rumble with depression, and even on days when I feel like magic the suicidal thoughts sneak up ever so quickly when there is nothing in my ears but my mind jabber.

This is what makes me realize (funny I still have to "realize") that my depression is a real illness. It isn't a lack of character or will, it isn't lack of ambition or over emotionalism. It is a real medical condition. I so often think it is my fault. I am plagued with guilt.

But this morning in the quiet, when I put down the magazine and just sat there. My heart flicking faster with anxiety, and my mind racing in fear of bad guys and car accidents, I realized it wasn't my fault. The depression, anxiety, tension headaches and weekend plans canceled due to pain. All the days R takes off work, the locking up of pills, and trips to the pharmacy. All the doctor appointments where I was dismissed or told I was imagining things. My lack of a college degree, career, or creative repertoire. All the things in our house, the overbuying, the full car of donates headed to the thrift store, and unpainted rooms...

All of these things weirdly and importantly resemble survival. They mark moments where I chose to stay here. That stupid thing I bought at the thrift store that I now hate, all the m&m's I ate, every single pill I've swallowed, all the extra pillows on our bed to help me sleep, the playlists of sad songs I've listened to for years, and all the scars on my wrists and legs from cutting instead of killing myself-- It all means I have been here, AM here. I'm a fighter and fighters fight.

Fighting sucks, it hurts and bruises, it leaves stains and gets ugly. But I'm here. Still anxious as hell from that quiet moment, but here. Fuck guilt, fuck useless apology, fuck the voice that tells me my life is flawed. My life is mine. It sucks and it's so-so. It's horrible and it's lovely. Sometimes I want to leave it, sometimes I can't imagine anything better than it. And all these thoughts and experiences are perfectly okay.

Love, C