There’s the matter of my disease, which I write about, but a topic I’ve stayed away from, is the story of my life.
I, no doubt, have had enormous privilege in my life, and because of the nature of work I do, working on behalf of incredibly disenfranchised populations — I am acutely aware of it.
But along with facing multiple oppressions myself, things have just gone wrong in my life. A lot. Especially as compared to my “peer group,” the people who I grew up, went to school with, entered the professional world with.
My mom once told me I must have been bad in my previous life, and this life is my punishment for it.
I try not to compare, I try not to resent, I try not to envy.
But I do.
It looks easy for everyone else. It seems like everything falls into place, without them even trying that hard. It seems like that myth of meritocracy, where your hard work and talent pays off, it seems like it applies to them.
And when they hurt and they suffer, they get the second part of the story, that part where they become stronger and are then blessed with something positive appearing out of nowhere and they derive meaning from their hardship, they learn lessons and they feel propelled forward.
And they’ve been healed and cared for by a romantic love, by people who stood by them and reminded them of their worth, who helped ease the burden and responsibilities of adulting, of making sure there’s food in the house to eat.
That’s how it looks to me. If it’s not like that, then no one is sharing their truth with me.
Fundamentally I know people are not happy, that they are all struggling in their own way. But whether it’s the prince charming of the right job opportunity, or the nice home, or an actual meaningful romantic relationship and partner, they’ve got it and I don’t. I’ve got nothing.
I drank too much cheap whiskey last night. I thought I was having fun. I was. But I got home, and I saw a bottle of benzos and I wanted to take them all. I’ve always thought overdosing on pills is a chicken shit way to commit suicide and we know it’s rarely effective. But my body has been lethargic, and with the alcohol in my system, I thought maybe it would slow down my nervous system gently and since no one would be looking for me, there would be no life-saving rush to the hospital. I made a video message, an emotional one, saying goodbye. When I finished, the stupid thing hadn’t recorded properly. I had nothing left in me for a re-take.
I have tried so hard. So hard. To be a good person. I thoughtfully developed a set of values, I diligently built experience, taking great strides to disabuse myself of my privilege, or arrogance, of ignorance. I worked hard to “succeed” by societal standards, so I would be respected enough to give back to those who had no access to power. I smile and laugh, and I bring good energy, humor and mood when I walk into a room, no matter how much I’m decomposing inside.
And still I feel punished in this life.
I do not have a faith or spirituality that carries me. But I find myself stupidly scanning, seeking a sign, a little gift from the universe, that would make my life easier, that would give me a slice of positivity I see others being bestowed so effortlessly. To me, this little gift, would break the pattern, the toxic narrative loop my life has been in, and not necessarily give me promise of a positive future, but simply a break from the chains of the past.
But I’m torturing myself right now with this mindset, because I come across something, and I get this glimpse of hope, “are you the sign?” “will this little moment, will this be the gift?” And what always accompanies hope is disappointment. When what almost seems like the gift not only lets me down, but bites me in the ass, I feel so naïve.
And disappointment leads to desperation… and desperation always leads me to thoughts of death.
There have been times, especially when I was having what seemed like manic moments, that I was impulsive and looking back, worry that I’m capable of grave harm to myself when I get like that. But when it comes to suicide, I always assumed, I would do it very deliberately and intentionally. It would be planned out. So to just take that bottle last night and try, it didn’t feel right. But I argued back and forth with myself over it, put my favorite 90s grunge songs on my phone, and let myself fall asleep in my drunken stupor.
Maybe the gifts the universe gives me I don’t see, I don’t appreciate. Maybe I’m looking for and at all the wrong things. Maybe all the friendships, the people who let me stay in their homes, the people who ask me to hang out, the people who ask for my help in a bad situation, maybe these are the gifts.
I don’t know. But I’ll stay off the whiskey for now.
Inside My Madness 