There was a time when I had given up hope; a time when I had the exact plans set on how to end my life.
There was even a time or two when I tried my hardest to carry out those plans.
Times I tried,
and times I failed.
I held out hope for nothing. Life had broken me, life had ruined me. I remember the last breaths; the long inhales that I believed would be my final ones … and I remember the darkness, the black, surrounding my eyes. I closed them and I felt calm, I felt peace, and I let go.
But I awoke.
I awoke after each of those failed attempts.
There was a reason … but what was it?
Little by little, since the day of my last attempt, I began feeling hopeful. Not about life, not about my future, not that things would ever get any better, but hope that maybe one day I could be considered a writer.
I held out hope that I could pour my soul into my writing, and that people would respond. That all of the crazy thoughts inside of my head, and all of the painful experiences, would somehow serve a purpose.
I had hope.
And I held onto it.
You see, as a little girl, writing was all I had. It blanketed me and covered me in safety. I could express myself in a way that was impossible through any other medium.
Writing was my thing. It was my only thing.
Allow me to let you in on a secret that only my fiance knew about up until now:
Last year, in July, I wrote myself a note. In that note, I gave myself one year. One year to attempt writing in a public way, and one year to see if I could succeed. One year to discover if the one thing left that I still had hope for, would work out. It was my final dream. And if in that year I could not do it, I would use my experience of those failed attempts and end my life once and for all.
I built writing up so very tall; for when you are in the pit of desperation, an ant can become a giant.
That is not an easy thing to admit, and I do not express it without shame. That is why it has taken me up until now to tell you.
I do not let it out for sympathy or pity, no. I let it out because it is the only way to properly express my gratitude.
You, reader, must understand that magnitude; You, reader, must understand what you mean to me.
I write my truth.
I write my ugliness.
I write what is not easy to share.
I write what is not easy to admit.
And I let it out into the universe.
And you read it,
and you recognize it,
and you care.
I thank you, each one of you, for that. For allowing me to finally be myself, and for supporting and encouraging me on my journey.