Some depressing-ass shit
Hey, trigger warnings. Fuck 'em.
A high school classmate pointed out in one of his ~facebook memories~ that it is 14 years ago since he started his first day of college. Which means it's roughly 14 years ago that I started my own first day of college. So, yeah, that. BUT BUT BUT. It also means that it is roughly 14 years ago since the week-ish BEFORE college, when my plan at the time was, "Fuck. I went to youth group and made all these bomb-ass friends. Now I am going to leave them to go 1200 miles away. Also, I am depressed as fuck, generally speaking. So what we're going to do is, 'say goodbye' to people, but actually take all of the pills and die all of the deaths, because fuck everything." Clearly this was not a real plan that held weight in my life, because I did not ever attempt anything of this nature. Granted for the next 6 months I did decide it was super cool to inflict some extremely minor injuries upon myself for like 0.00000000005 seconds, but yeah. As a dumb-ass teenager with dumb-ass teenage friends, I did dumb-ass teenage things. I don't know how many of you knew about this sector of my life, but now you know. I don't mean to marginalize the issue of self-injury to those who genuinely struggle with it, but at that time it was, like, ~a thing~ to do. I regret this for obvious reasons, but at the same time I am grateful it was never a legitimate issue or addiction in my life.
The point of me saying all this now just weeks before I turn 32, is that I am fucked up in the head. I struggle with anxiety daily. I struggle with depression daily. Yet thanks to the possible delusion (but possible reality) that things will get better, I no longer have either the desires or the patience to injure or destroy myself, because if there's something out there for me I'd damn sure like to stick around to experience it. Even if I have no reason right now to believe that there's something worth sticking around for, I know well enough that the risk of that assumption being wrong isn't fucking worth taking the chance of doing something fucking stupid.
I love you all and I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that you all have vastly ranging levels of love for me as well. <3
Edit: Also, fuck it, this is going to be a public post. Because sure, nobody past the 42 or however many of you I call my Livejournal friends is reading this, but what if someone is? I am not the best writer who ever wrote, I'm certainly not winning the eloquence of the year award over here, but if someone can even remotely relate to this and talk to me about it and we can chat or we can hug/e-hug/whatever sort of connection, it's all going to be okay.
A high school classmate pointed out in one of his ~facebook memories~ that it is 14 years ago since he started his first day of college. Which means it's roughly 14 years ago that I started my own first day of college. So, yeah, that. BUT BUT BUT. It also means that it is roughly 14 years ago since the week-ish BEFORE college, when my plan at the time was, "Fuck. I went to youth group and made all these bomb-ass friends. Now I am going to leave them to go 1200 miles away. Also, I am depressed as fuck, generally speaking. So what we're going to do is, 'say goodbye' to people, but actually take all of the pills and die all of the deaths, because fuck everything." Clearly this was not a real plan that held weight in my life, because I did not ever attempt anything of this nature. Granted for the next 6 months I did decide it was super cool to inflict some extremely minor injuries upon myself for like 0.00000000005 seconds, but yeah. As a dumb-ass teenager with dumb-ass teenage friends, I did dumb-ass teenage things. I don't know how many of you knew about this sector of my life, but now you know. I don't mean to marginalize the issue of self-injury to those who genuinely struggle with it, but at that time it was, like, ~a thing~ to do. I regret this for obvious reasons, but at the same time I am grateful it was never a legitimate issue or addiction in my life.
The point of me saying all this now just weeks before I turn 32, is that I am fucked up in the head. I struggle with anxiety daily. I struggle with depression daily. Yet thanks to the possible delusion (but possible reality) that things will get better, I no longer have either the desires or the patience to injure or destroy myself, because if there's something out there for me I'd damn sure like to stick around to experience it. Even if I have no reason right now to believe that there's something worth sticking around for, I know well enough that the risk of that assumption being wrong isn't fucking worth taking the chance of doing something fucking stupid.
I love you all and I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that you all have vastly ranging levels of love for me as well. <3
Edit: Also, fuck it, this is going to be a public post. Because sure, nobody past the 42 or however many of you I call my Livejournal friends is reading this, but what if someone is? I am not the best writer who ever wrote, I'm certainly not winning the eloquence of the year award over here, but if someone can even remotely relate to this and talk to me about it and we can chat or we can hug/e-hug/whatever sort of connection, it's all going to be okay.