... or, "I Need to Vent 3." But really, this isn't something that's overall bothered me. And it's certainly not uncommon with anyone my age. Everyone makes a snide comment here and there about it.
"Me being born is a sin."
"I don't get why you like me so much."
"I'm such a screw-up."
For me, there's a fine line between revealing your innermost thoughts and doing it for attention. But, really, when one is depressed, they do need help to free themselves and sometimes their means of asking aren't always clear or expected. It's stuff we hear on a daily basis. Yet we dismiss it (or others will dismiss it for us) when it might've been the hardest leap that person made to even murmur such words of sorrow. Because none of us want to let it on that we don't have it all together. And when we toss aside our pride for the sake of help by simply uttering a truthful sentence, it is easily disregarded. And while friends will have the best intentions at heart to make sure everything remains the way it is, change is necessary for a strong relationship. It's alright to admit your closest friend is dying inside. It's alright to acknowledge that you may unstable yourself. Because although most of us just want understanding than just sympathy or empathy, our closest ties are what matters. Knowing you're not alone is truly a blessing, in my opinion.
I was exactly like that person stated above. Years before, I mindlessly threw around the idea of the elimination of my existence. I never made an effort to carry out these thoughts, but they consumed them nonetheless. It was especially horrible when I would become upset or angry. And I would've given anything and everything to make sure I never hurt anyone ever again.
My past is hazy so I'm not sure everything I say may be laid down in stone. But the first time I remember trying to reach out, it ended tragically. Or, to me, it seemed that way. One of my friends was revealing her inner thoughts to me as we exchanged texts; how she always thought about dying and taking her life. Here, again, did I feel like the victim. I listen to the woes of others and making them feel better ultimately brightens my day. Yet, they never ask me in turn what truly bothers me. Has Lexi thought about suicide? Has she ever hated herself with a burning passion before? Normally, people will not ask these questions about a person they think has everything. A loving family. A plethora of items and gifts. Popularity with almost everyone they meet. So, finally tired of my failed attempts to cheer her up, I challenged her about which of us was the more disturbed. She dismissed my comment; saying I had everything and therefore no reason to have thoughts similar to hers. I blew up the phone, squeezing as much as I could into 160 characters. I don't even remember what I said. But it was enough to scare her. She replied and told me to never say such things again and how horrible those words were that I relayed to her. It was at least three years ago that that happened. I'm not even sure she remembers it.
Then there came to be a turning point in my thought pattern. No, I still continued to think about losing my life. But, after a deep discussion with my mother over the play Antigone, I realized how powerful and harmful suicide was. Would it put my mind at ease, maybe, probably not, but it would certainly devastate any and all who ever cared for me in life. So, I deliberated. I didn't think I had any right to continue existing, but now there were no thoughts about, "what would happen if I took this knife and cut myself?" or "what if I burned the house down?" Instead I had, I'd like to call it, "accidental" thoughts about suicide. Things such as, "I wouldn't care if a car came and crashed through my window" and "I deserve to be shocked dead" (as I plug in a power cord into an outlet). Okay, so not very suicidal, but nonetheless very depressing.
Sometimes I catch a glimmer of that depression now and again; a thought that makes me wish I had never been born. Mostly when I'm upset or angry, again. So I think it's alright now. I mean, I'm not cured, but social life has definitely given me a distraction. And for those friends who still relay me their innermost feelings, I willingly reassure them how things can turn around and get better. I think my stubborn personality evolved from my depression. I refuse for a friend to be depressed or sad. I refuse for them to give up, knowing they can go on. I refuse to be trapped in the darkened corner of my mind and play the victim when I know there are those out there who really need my support. Because, all in all, making others feel good is what truly makes me happy.
No comments:
Post a Comment