When I was younger, I used to write. I used to write to make myself feel better. To make myself feel smarter. Writing was my lifeline, my connection to this world that I never quite felt I was a part of. Writing was, for me, a way to feel connected to myself. I never thought for a moment writing would not be a part of my life.
So here I am, 34. I am no longer that 15 year old hopeless dreamer who knew her entire life was ahead of her, and she could make it what she wanted. I am now 34. Not an ounce happier than I was at 15. Maybe this is the way of it? Maybe is this how depression works? No one was ever able to quite figure out how I function. I have been to therapists. Many therapists. Telling them the same mindless dribble they crave to appease their book learned notions of how I am supposed to be. Am I depressed? Am I grieving? Or have I simply fallen away from who I used to be?
Depression was comfortable for me. It was a cloak. It was a title. It was a meaning. It was a way of life…of my life. It was my descriptor as I had no other descriptor. It was my tagline. My title. I was a cutter…I was depressed. I was suicidal…I was depressed. I was a drug addict…I was depressed. I was depressed. I was depressed.
And here I am at 34. Not an ounce happier than I was at 15. Most of my life behind me. My accomplishments…nothing. Feeling the fatigue of a life lost and the demeaning acceptance that I was nothing, am nothing, and have created nothing.
Self-deprecating? Yes. Feeling sorry for myself? Maybe.
It never escapes me that there are people out there with worse states of existence than I. I am, of course, a nurse. I see misery every day. I see families fall apart over death. At the end of the day, I try to remind myself my life is not that bad.
Then all the negativity creeps in.
“You are in a terrible relationship.” 8 years of a curse that I cannot seem to break free. 8 years with a man that I see no future.
“You are fat. You are fat. You are fat.” Nursing has provided me with great insight…and a great waistline. The stress over other’s health for 2 years has led me to neglect mine. Bulimia has fallen by the wayside. The one piece of this life that was mine…bulimia. The one thing in life I managed to do better than all the rest…bulimia. The one thing I succeeded at…that made me pretty…that made me thin(ner)…but it is no more. Bulimia…I miss you. Every now and then you creep out of the corner of my mind and let me know you are still there.
I used to call you Mia. I gave you a name. You were my friend. They say you were my enemy, but when the rest of the world was gone, you were there. When I pushed everyone aside, you were there. Were you good for me? No. Did you bring me pleasure? Yes. You gave me control. You gave me a sense of accomplishment. And I miss you. I miss you, Mia. But I know I will never have you again. As much as I want you back, I simply do not have time for you.
I am tired. I am always tired. And I am done.