This blog is not FDA approved
I could paint you a rosy picture here, full of colors and abstract details, thinly skating over the truth … for the sake of writing a good story (and trying desperately not to disappoint Le Clown). I could tell you that there is this magical pill that I found that erased all of my ails. I could be one of the cool kids and claim to be an ex-addict or ex-bipolar. I could feed you a big pile of shit if I wanted to, because after all, you don’t know me.
But I’m not going to do that. Let me tell you something, there is no pretty picture when it comes to this stuff, and there is no ex. Once an addict, always an addict. Once bipolar, always bipolar. Once a cutter, always a cutter. Sure, there are these things that the commercials like to call cures. Sure, you can overcome addiction and mental illness … but the key part in healing, in my humble opinion, is accepting that they will always be a part of you.
Let me offer you up a bit of my background, so that maybe I can better explain what I mean by that bold sentence above. It’s not pretty, it’s not fun to read, and it sure as hell is not fun to write. I’ve been pretty open and honest on my own blog, but there are things that I have not exposed. Am I scared? Sure, who wouldn’t be? But the amazingly courageous people that post here on Black Box Warnings inspire me to go for the gold, so here we go.
I first got depressed at age 5. My father, an addict and misogynist, wanted nothing to do with me & it broke my heart. My mom got remarried quickly to a man that I despised at the time, and my little brain imploded within itself. I went to therapy, talked about my feelings for a few months, and was sent on my way. Cured, right?
I did cocaine for the first time around 8, at my father’s house (he went through stages of “trying to be a dad” to get out of paying child support). A man molested me during this stay, and my older sister tried to help me by introducing me to this magical drug that made the pain go away. But my stay only lasted a week, and then I was back with my mother and step-father without any sort of outlet. I began to die inside. I turned completely inward and created a fantasy world in my head. I began to lash out, seeking any attention that I could get. I was disciplined by the adults that had no idea what the fuck I was going through, and didn’t make any attempt to find out. Get in line, they would say, Be like everybody else.
At 16, I began cutting & found drugs again. I ran away home, got arrested, and began knocking on Hell’s gates. Bullied profusely in school and hating myself with every cell of my being, I wanted to smoke and cut away every part of me until I was not left. Therapy again, this time for 8 months, and then sent on my way.
Early 20′s? I died. My heart was still beating, but I was a zombie. I was molested again, pretty brutally, by a so-called friend. My past, that I had been suppressing, came up behind me and pulled me into Hell. I would drink myself into oblivion and then drive 120 on the freeway hoping to die. I would fuck my way through men, knowing that all I was was a body for them to use. I used. I hoarded bottles of pills and popped them continuously. I huffed on air duster cans and shook violently as they destroyed brain cells. Meth a few times, crack. I stole money. I stole at stores. I dug deep into my thighs with blades. And I attempted suicide for the first time. Then a second time. I chose men that manipulated and abused me, because I craved any attention that they could offer me. And because I was hiding the secret that I was also, maybe even more-so, attracted to women.
I tried therapy. I tried medications. I went through the whole damn pharmacy, searching for this magical cure they kept talking about. One, two, three, one on top of the other. Side effects? Who cared right? More and more and more and more.
Until finally, one day, I decided that it would have to be me who fixed this shit … not a therapist, not a pill, not drugs, not cutting, not sex, but me.
That was a year ago. I have pulled out the darkest parts of myself and my past, and went through each one as though studying it for a class. The pain and anguish of reliving some events was almost too much, and sometimes it was, but I kept going. I did not ease the pain with anything, I just allowed myself to feel it all. I began writing, blogging, under the notion that if I tried being honest, I may be set free.
I type this today as a healing human being. I am still in the throws and still crawling upward. I still feel darkness tingling at my feet, and I still get desires to use what I can to escape. The I will never be good enough thoughts creep constantly through my head, and I sometimes find myself staring off into the distance, wanting to leave reality as quickly as I can.
… the key part in healing, in my humble opinion, is accepting that they will always be a part of you.
But I smile now. I live with my truth. I accept that I will always be intertwined with the parts of me that I would rather forget. And this has been more potent and powerful than any drug (prescribed or otherwise) that I have ever taken. Facing myself in the mirror, naked and bare, has been a terrifying task that has given me incredible power. I will always be an addict, one hit away from losing all of my progress. I will always be depressive/bipolar, one moment of flirting with those thoughts and I will lose the leverage I have worked so hard for. I will always be a cutter, one moment of weakness away from grabbing that blade. I will always be at risk of using sex as a drug.
But I will also always be me. Learning to embrace that, no matter how hard it is & how many slip-ups I will inevitably have, has set me free.