I think I can now relate to how a druggy feel when craving a new fix. I need to hear your voice. To see you. To understand that we were once real, and that reality now is, that we are not. I feel like I’m trapped in a nightmare and I can’t wake up. My brain is reasoning this must be a nightmare, because even I can’t be stupid enough to give up on us. On you. On myself. We weren’t picture perfect, but the perfect picture. Why did I let us go? And why didn’t you fight me? I thought we were more.
I’m mourning. We were supposed to get married next week. That was the deal we made, the plan we’d been working towards from 6 months into our relationship until it all collapsed around us. Our fifth year anniversary as a couple was supposed to be spend making it legal. We were supposed to be trying for a baby. Instead I’m spending the week packing my stuff, relocating and unpacking a new chapter of my life. And eventhough it was my idea to break up, eventhough I’ve had 8 months worth of time to get used to the idea of leaving I’m mourning. I’m crying and I can’t seem to find the point in all of this.
I’ve never shied away from my feelings, and I thouroughly believe that if you are going to be doing something you need to put your all in it. I don’t halfass important things. So when I love I love with all my heart, and I loved him. I do still. And I know I’m not madly, deeply and irrevocably in love with him anymore, but he is my best friend, and he has been my whole support system for the past 5 years. So I still mourn. I mourn the love we lost, the love that turned into a friendship I appreciate with all my heart, I mourn the kids we would have had, the future we talked about and conjured for ourselves through countless of talks over the years. I mourn for the unconditional support I’ve lost with him and our relationship.
I also fear. I fear the unknown. I’m afraid of the uncertainty my future suddenly holds. I’m afraid of being alone. I’m afraid of ending up alone, because if I couldn’t make it work with him, my best friend, then I don’t see it happening with anyone else. I’m afraid that I never get to experience being a mom. That I never get to be a bride. I’m absolutely irrevocably terrified that I’ll never experience being happy.
A couple of weeks ago I went to the doctor for a check up on how I’m handling the medicine, whether the dosis was correct and similar.. And it went well, I mean for the most part my medicine is dulling the hard feelings, which in turn makes it easier to discuss some of the things I have had a hard time sharing with other people. I shared the attempted assault with the doctor. It was the first time I admitted it out loud to someone I don’t know. I wasn’t prepared for nightmares to resurface during the night though. It’s been years since I was plagued by it. I’ve never really discussed it with friends or family, not because I’m ashamed as most people might think (not because I should be, but because assault victims often are) but because I’d rather not think about it. If I don’t think about it, it’s like it didn’t happen. And well.. If I’m being completely honest a part of me have probably always felt like it was partially my fault. The fact that it was recorded and shared for amusement, didn’t really help to entice me to speak about it either.
I guess I should have seen it coming right? Obviously if you’re going to speak to someone about something you’ve tried to burry in your mind for the past 10 years, it’s going to come back and haunt you. And with the medication I guess it makes sense, it wouldn’t show up until my subconscious was at it’s strongest. It’s difficult, because I honestly don’t remember everything. I was drunk of my ass that night, so drunk I couldn’t move.. I remember mumbling for him to move, I remember the pressure of his body on mine, and I remember being frighten but in the end resigning, and letting blackness engulf me. The next thing that I remember is waking up the next morning.The last thing I remember seeing before the blackness engulfed me was my best friend walking past the room looking in and leaving. And that is the hardest part. Knowing she saw, and she did nothing. We haven’t discussed it afterwards, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, I think I know, that if I really want to heal, I’ll either have to leave that friendship behind or forgive her, and I’m not sure I can actually do any of those things.
First step of recovering is said to be sharing and accepting what happened. First step done I guess. Someone tried to rape me, recorded it and shared it with his friends. My best friend saw what happened and ignored it and I have never forgiven her.
Emptiness. Nothingness. Darkness.
There’s a hole in my chest. It’s always there, even when I’m in my good periods, it’s never far away. I can feel it, when every laugh is followed with an aching in my chest, that makes it feel hollow. I can feel how it grows larger and larger, consuming emotion after emotion, starting with the happy ones, turning smiles and laughs into tears and sobs – until there is no happy emotions inside, no love, no caring, no liking. But the hole keeps growing, keeps feeding, it eats away the sadness, the pain, the despair, leaving in its wake a nothingness, that is worse than anything you could ever imagine. You know, how people in pain wish for oblivion, for nothingness? They have never tried it. Walking around with no emotions, with no opinions – like a zombie – is the worst. For me, it’s like my body is functioning on autopilot, but poorly I might add. I forget to eat. I neglect obligations, because I can’t be bothered. I remove myself from everything, because what is the point? I sleep. 18 hours a day. Every day for weeks. Sometimes even months. Always feeling the hole eating, feasting. Always remembering a trace of how it should be, but never being able to retrieve it completely. Knowing life should be about more, that emotions exists, remembering what they are supposed to feel like, without being able to feel them. Having to force yourself to smile, laugh, cry at the right moments, because otherwise people will know, they will know, but they won’t understand. They give you their sympathy, but they can’t relate. They don’t understand what nothing really feel like – and you can’t explain it.
A lot of people have an opinion on depression. What I’ve noticed, is, that if people haven’t had personal experience with depression, they tend to believe it’s sort of “like having a bad day” and that most people with depression are just not good at handling bad days. Some people have even told me, that depression is a figment of my imagination, and that it isn’t really real. Well, it feels real to me. When my heart beats faster just with the thought of facing reality for another day, when I wake up screaming and thrashing in bed because of nightmares, when I feel so overcome by emptiness that I feel like I can’t be inside my own body – it feels real, when everyday I wake up hating myself, having to convince myself that I shouldn’t give up. That today shouldn’t be the day I finally find a sliver of piece in death.
I’ve had the distinct pleasure of dealing with depression on and on (yes it’s never really been off, just sort of dormant in periods) since I was 12-ish, so I’d say my knowledge of the feelings involved with depression is better than the average. These feelings and emotions are really difficult to verbalize, and just because this is how I feel when I’m depressed this does not mean, that everyone who is depressed feels this way. It is very, very, very individual. Nevertheless, I’ll try to explain how I feel in the following blog posts – maybe it will help you gain some understanding into why a person with depression can’t just snap out of it.