Who am I?
I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what I am even doing. When I look at my reflection in the mirror I see a complete stranger staring back. Someone who doesn't know when to stop. When to say no. When to say enough. There is no direction, no true north. I have been self-destructing for so long I don't know how to stop.
One night I wanted nothing more than to end my own life. I honestly am not sure if it was because of the alcohol or because that is what I really wanted. But I made the attempt and fortunately I failed. I do remember not being able to breathe and then everything faded out. When I woke the next morning, I was confused about what happened the night before. After a few moments the memories came flooding back and I immediately felt a sense of guilt and disgust at my behavior. There is nothing like waking up and feeling immediate regret at your actions. Especially when you can remember them. But the absolute worst is when people tell you what you did the night before and you have no memory of any of it. Damn those blackouts.
Okay. So this one particular night was my official rock bottom. At least I hope so because how many rock bottoms can one person have? Apparently, you can have a several. I took a bunch of sleeping pills. Looking back on it I can't even remember why I felt that death was the only answer. Maybe because it was easier than having to wake up and face the truth of life. By the grace of God, I somehow woke up the next morning. Groggy and confused but alive and breathing. It took a full two days to feel somewhat normal again. I still don't know how that was possible. I swallowed a full bottle of trazadone and still managed to wake up. I guess it just wasn't my time.
I think that was my rock bottom. At least I hope it was. Because I can't imagine feeling lower than that. Although I do like to test the waters and see just how low I can go. I don't know why. I don't know why I am becoming so self-destructive. Maybe I do. Maybe I am not ready to face the reasons why I am going down this rocky road. The answers are there in my head. I know them. I just don't want to acknowledge them. A big part of me wants to stop this nonsense and get my shit together and the rest of me doesn't give a fuck and wants to continue down the rocky road that leads to the bottom.
So, where or when did this all start? What made me choose to go down this tragic road of self-destruction? I think I know what it was. I am just afraid to put it into words because then it would make it real again. The memories that I blocked out keep trying to sneak back into my conscious world when I want nothing more for them to not exist at all. Maybe one day I will be able to accept what happened and put it down on paper. To make it real again so that I can truly face it, accept it for what it is or was and feel sorry for myself and then get over it. Shit happens. Trying to crush it down to nothing and block it out of your memory doesn't work. The past has a way of coming back to haunt you. 20 years later the past found its way back to haunt me. I don't know what to do. But for now, I am going to continue to push it down and ignore it. If and when I am ever ready I will address it. But I don't know how, and I don't know when and I don't know if I even want to anymore.
But hopefully, I am going to figure it out.
Reading the first few lines of this "story" that I am writing I realize I sound like one messed up chick. But who isn't messed up anymore? I have stories to tell that will melt the skin off of your bones. And other stories that will make you feel nauseous because of the sweetness and get you right in the feelies. Such is life. We all have a story to tell. We all have a life that has been lived. We all have memories and expectations and desires and regrets and plans. Plans! Don't we all have plans? I hate plans. You make plans and they always let you down. They never live up to your expectations. We make plans every day of our lives. We plan every moment of our day. When we wake up. When we get in the shower. When we leave our homes to commute to our jobs. What are our plans for dinner? What are our plans for the weekend? Life is full of plans. Why do we have to live our lives to such rules? To plans? I guess because it makes the world go around. If there weren't plans, then it would be complete chaos. Disorder.
Personally, I like disorder. I like not having my day planned for me. For instance, today I stayed in my pajamas all day and slept. Sleeping is one of my favorite things. Sleeping to me is like being back in my mother's womb. A safe, warm, cuddly space. Comfortable. I never want to get out of bed. It's my favorite place. But that makes me sound like …
So where is this story going? What is the plot? What is the point? Who am I even telling this story to? I guess I am doing it for myself. I am telling my story to myself. I am going to recall all of the best and all of the worst of my memories that have made me the person I am today. I am 37 years old and still don't know what I want to be when I grow up.
I am grieving for my father. Today is April 16th and tomorrow will be the fourth anniversary of his death. Or, passing as my mom likes to put it because it sounds a little bit less harsh. Technically he passed sometime this night and my mom called me at 7:30 AM on the 17th. She called me while I was at work. She was in a complete state of shock and didn't know what to do. She found my father asleep in bed, and as she put it he was on her side of the bed and on her pillow with a smile on his face. He was dead. He went to sleep and never woke up. He just never woke up. He was 58 years old. He went to sleep, and he never woke up.
Sometimes I want to go to sleep and never wake up. But that would be selfish I think. Leaving behind a whole bunch of people that are the ones that make up my life. It just seems like it would be so easy. Just go to sleep and never wake up. To just let the world, continue on without me. Who am I anyway? I don't have the cure for cancer. I can't fly to the moon. I have no magical talents. I'm not a teacher. I'm not a mother. I have no one depending on me. I only have myself. My own selfish self that I sort of love. I don't pretend to be a better person. What you see is what you get. I'm not fake. I'm not shallow. I wear my heart on my shoulder. My face says it all. I have nothing to hide. I'm not afraid to tell you my deep dark secrets. I have no shame. I am human. I feel. I love. I hate. I hurt. I feel regret. I feel remorse. I feel sadness. I feel guilt. I feel it all. Because I am me!
So, what does this make me? I am one of millions in this world that have stories to tell. What makes mine so special or different or even worthy enough of being put down on paper? Well, because I have a ton of stuff to tell. In my 37 years of life on this earth I have experienced a ton of shit. I'm going to be blunt. A ton of shit!
So where does one start? I think I am going to have to sleep on this a bit before I delve into the reasons why I am the person that I am.