I’m 27 now.
27.
I never expected to make it here. To be this old. I’m 27.
I’m 27!
I’m 27?
I didn’t see a life past 15. I wasn’t meant to survive. I wasn’t meant to make it. But now I’m here. I’m 27? A life full of trauma, depression & anxiety. A life full of cloudy days, and thunderstorms. One full of anger and resentment and “WHY ME”?
I was 10 when I started to feel a blanket of sadness. I knew I was depressed but I didn’t have a word for it at the time. Life got heavy, I developed an eating disorder and became addicted to self harming. Life got too heavy and I tried to end it all at 15, then 17, then 18, then 21 and again like a cycle. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve felt suicidal and started writing suicide notes. I burnt them all.
My depression is chronic. It’s all I’ve ever known. It’s comfortable and warm. It feels like home. It makes me sad and lonely but I’m safe in this chaos. There’s still comfort in this darkness. I’ve grown into it. It fits like a well made suit.
it’s been so many years since I’ve neglected myself. I feel that I don’t know anything different. I’m stuck in a body I don’t recognise. I’m stuck in a toxic headspace. I’m. Literally. Stuck. In. Every. Possible. Way.
I tried to kill myself again in June. I relapsed back to my addiction. I cut and bled. Felt the hit, and the rush before the guilt bit at me. I had been clean for over a year, but this went down the drain. I opened my notes app on my phone, started the writing the first sentence to my friend. And then I stopped. I don’t think she could have survived the guilt.
It’s now December. I guess I made it? But I’ve just grown resentful. Resentful toward everyone that hurt me. Resentful toward everyone who made me beg death to embrace me.
I’m still here. I’m learning. I’m healing. Im taking it one moment at a time. I don’t know if life gets better or easier or if I’ll ever feel happy. I don’t know if I’ll break away from the shackles of depression. If I’ll be able to experience life.
I owe it to my younger self to try.
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