My original purpose of writing was to help others. If someone who was struggling and wandering around the interwebs came across something I wrote, I wanted them to recognize that there was someone else out there just like them. I don’t have answers, but I want them to see that I’m still pushing forward despite the demons trying to convince me to do otherwise.
I stopped because I found myself unable to publish anything for fear of upsetting friends and family. They know most of what I’ve been through, and perhaps my daughters intuit what goes through my head, but still I’m concerned about them actually reading in black and white the reality of what has never really gone away. But the people that care about me will still have concerns whether or not I’m blatantly honest. My history doesn’t allow my loved ones a worry-free life. I know this because even though she is doing well, I will never forget seeing my daughter in the ER swaddled in bandages, or drinking charcoal. So I will write again. As always, there are no trigger warnings at the beginning of each post, it’s there on the page, and that should be enough.
I’m not a big proponent of awareness months, weeks, or days. I do understand their importance, but it always concerns me that being bludgeoned by awareness posts will have the opposite effect of what is intended. It’s tiring to be reminded of mental illness, domestic violence, cancer, or any other of the horrors of the world. Pretty soon people stop paying attention and move on to the next cat video. The events that are the most relevant to my history are often difficult for me. The first blast of suicide prevention posts this month reminded me that it’s something that seems to have taken residence in my brain. There is rarely a day that I don’t think about ending my fight. My god, I’m 60 now, and I’ve had decades in this battle with no end in sight. I’m tired, I’m frustrated, I’m scared.
However, as always, I will keep going. There will be a hummingbird flitting by my window in the morning. There will be an unexpected hug from a belligerent grandchild. There will be spiderwebs sparkling with morning dew. There will be a kiss on the back of my neck while I wash the dishes. There will be a warm, purring cat curled up in my lap. There will be that one person who says “Thank you for writing that, I feel the same way.”
There are no delusions that what I write will win awards, make me famous, or change lives. I just want you to know you’re not alone.