I'm living a double life where I pretend I'm happy I'm alive. Spoiler: I'm not.

I feel like I’m living such a fake double life, that I don’t actually know who I am under everything. I am a good looking lady according to society’s standards with good hair, nice skin, Kim K body, and I come from a pretty decently well off middle class family. Mom and dad are madly in love and adorable and worked hard to put us kids through college where I was top of my class graduating with a communications degree and went on to be an award winning journalist/blogger, and then started working for a good university and started working towards my masters degree. Aaaaaaaaall this and I volunteered all the time, spoke out about mental health(ironic and you’ll find out why) and did every anonymous selfless acts as possible. I’m not saying this as a “oh look at me and how much of an angel I am.” I’m saying this because I cannot do enough good in this world to make me feel like my existence isn’t a waste of space.

I suffer from high functioning depression and have my whole life. I literally wake up and want to die. I don’t remember ever not wanting to just hop in front of a bus or simply swallowing pill or even getting cancer and dying a painful death like I deserve. I hate everything about myself. Everything. My looks, my brain, my personality, my body, everything. I think I am just the worst person ever. I hate myself because I think I’m the biggest burden on everyone for just existing.

But you’d never know that by meeting me. I put on such a front to literally everyone. I am outspoken about the realities of depression and how there shouldn’t be stigmas on mental health and all that Jazz. I tell my family, my friends, and my therapists that “although this is something that I’ll forever suffer with, it’s just my cross to bear and letting others know their not alone shows me I have a purpose here” and all that bullshit. The only reason I’m STILL here is because I hated how much I hurt my mom when I first attempted suicide. She made me promise that I would never do that again and she means the world to me and I could never hurt her ever again. But I hate being here. I hate pretending to be anything. I hate that cutting myself gives me a release and I hate that I’m such a fucking good liar. But most of all, I hate that I’m loved. If I wasn’t loved and didn’t have the parents and upbringing that I was selflessly given, then maybe I would be alone in this world and no one would love me and then I wouldn’t hurt anyone when I left. So here I am, loved unconditionally by a fuckton of amazing humans, stuck hating every second and every piece of me.

I’d like to be clear, I am not going to do anything destructive to myself. I’d like to make that very very clear. I am on meds, and am mentally stable.

My door

I don’t know why it’s the back of my close door that’s my spot.

But it makes sense.

I lean against it sitting on the floor, excepting defeat.

Back pressed against it, so I have a few extra seconds to prepare if someone comes to check on me.

They won’t.

But I prepare anyhow.

Sitting down because I have no energy left to keep my legs from giving out soon.

I sit there and look at most of my belongings, trying to get just one momento to catch my eye and steer me elsewhere.

It won’t.

Point is, I can see why it’s the back of my closed door.

My childhood door was pink and had pictures from magazines cut out all over it.

I don’t even like pink so I don’t know why I chose it, but I don’t know why am sitting here, tear soaked, ready to make myself pay in blood.

My grown-up door is always plain.

Maybe wood are painted white.

There is always something that sane me put there to distract crazy me from the thing I’m about to do.

This time it’s a painting from an important friend.

Someone who I most likely disappointed somehow.

I always disappoint.

And that’s the thought that goes through my head as I push the blade down on my skin.

Drawing blood.

“Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always. Always. Always.”

The door is always the spot where I cut myself because I hate myself.

Always will be.

The truth behind "It's not you, it's me."

I’ve heard mixed reviews about “13 Reasons Why.”  I’ve heard it is phenomenal and sheds a light on an issue that needs to be talked about all while somehow relating to everyone who watches. I’ve heard it glamorizes the after-effects of someone who was taken by suicide and paints a picture somewhat related to mental illnesses, but yet so far from mental illnesses.

It didn’t hit home for me until the 11th episode around 40 minutes in.

As a suicide attempt survivor and someone who continues to battle with severe depression, I couldn’t contain myself. I did not shed any emotion throughout the first 10 and a half episode until Hannah (the main character) said one thing.

“It’s not you, it’s me. You don’t want to be with someone like me.”

At this point, I had a flash back to every time I said that to someone. I flashed back to every time I said something like that to my family. I flashed back to everyone who did walk away when I said that. No questions asked, no conversing months after. I remember what ran through my head that made me say that. I remember the scenarios in my head that made them so miserable because they were trapped with me like they said they wanted to be. I also remember the relief of when they did leave. There went another life I wouldn’t ruin with my dreadful presence as a shitty ass human.

In my head, everyone who chose to make me a significant part of their life has no idea how shitty I am. They don’t understand the pain I cause or failures that dominate my life. They just see a pretty smiling face, a loud laugh, and the world’s best liar.

In that episode, Clay (the other main character) said the he will never leave and he loves her and he isn’t going anywhere. But he said that in his head after she already died by suicide. He started to blame himself then. He started saying that if he had said something at the time then maybe things would be different. He blamed himself for her choices.

This, is what hit home the most.

This, is why I keep secrets.

It took my until I was 23 to find a guy that didn’t go away when I told him to leave. (And I’m lucky to find someone like that this early in my life.)

But the reason why I don’t tell him where the cuts on my body come from is the same reason why I don’t tell my parents. They blame themselves.

My parents did when I went to the hospital after swallowing a bottle of pills, my friends did after they knew of what happened, even my brother did after he found one of my first suicide notes.

I love this man I am with and I knew it when I saw him eating a burrito that he brought to a bar when we were celebrating my friends birthday. I knew it then, burrito and all.

But what he doesn’t know is how hard this relationship has been on me. I have gone against everything that I feel. EVERYTHING. Loving him doesn’t come naturally. It is the hardest thing I have ever had to do.

He has broken down walls that I was born with and that I was waaaay to attached to. But he did it and I let him. He has made me talk when I don’t want to but I need to. He makes me stop apologizing for everything that happens because he knows I will whether it is my fault or not. He makes sure I know when I am not in the wrong because he knows I blame myself for everything. Literally, everything.

Deep down, I know he knows what the scars and scabs and cuts are from. He is too smart to believe my lies, but I love him too much to tell him the truth.

This love that I have with him is not perfect because we are not perfect.

He sees my flaws and I see his, but he chooses to love me harder and harder each day. He choses not to leave.

That is one thing I never understood, and maybe I wont understand. That he is not trapped in this relationship. He is not stuck with me (the shitty human) for the rest of his life.

He chooses to be with me.

Everyday, he chooses to stay.

He choses to push me out of the darkness as much as he can, little by little. He also is learning that I won’t be able to completely leave the darkness that is my messed up mind.

But he holds my hand as we try to get as far away from the darkness as we can.

See what just happened?

He and I turned to we and us.

That’s what happens when someone refuses to leave your broken self;

They start to become the neon glue that puts your dark, broken self together.

And they choose to do that because they love you.

All of you.