A journal entry from late 2012.
And once again, I am completely alone. Once again with no warning , I am fantasizing about death. Crying tears from no apparent source, and realizing that there is no one. What a pity. A shame. I really thought for a moment that things were getting better. That perhaps a purpose had found me. That's the fucked up part of hope, it usually lets you down. I love ... too much. To such great lengths that it is impossible for anyone to love me to the same degree. I will never be loved the way I need to be... and that is why the emptiness and loneliness always come back. So I'm here. Again. And I am not fighting it. Fighting is full of pain - struggle - endless promises - hope - and letdown. I ALWAYS END UP RIGHT BACK HERE. And maybe I want to. In a fucked up way, I want to be sick. It's comfortable, in the sense that it feels like coming home. A fucked up, painful, dark, lonely, shitty home. But it's the only place that really accepts me... so I don't care. I wish I had the courage to die. All I accomplish here is hurting myself more each year. Reason to die: NOTHING WILL EVER FUCKING CHANGE It's really just a cruel joke. My life. This is the plan. Fate. I'm doomed on repeat. Try. Fail. Try. Fail. TryFail. Over and over and over. My life is a moment. A single moment suspended in time. No going forward, no moving backward. Just, static. The options I have are: 1) Do this for more years and continue the painful cycle. 2) End it. Grow balls, and end it. No one will remember my name. :( I'm sorry I failed myself. I'm so sorry.
A half-a-year after writing that (among other journal entries that got much, much worse), I met my husband. And my life, my aching soul, changed.
A blogger wrote in a comment to me:
Finding that person must have felt like finding acceptance
How poignantly true. My husband was more than a man, more than a person. My husband was the acceptance and love I had been waiting for. He rewrote the:
I will never be loved the way I need to be...
And turned it into:
I am loved, and nurtured, in ways unimaginable.
What more could I have asked for? What more could I have needed? A little girl without a steady source of unconditional love, grows up without knowing it is possible to have. My husband picked me up and carried me. He found me in the darkest pit, and put me on steady ground. Yes, he brought me salvation.
But I suppose that I need to give myself some credit too. After all, it really comes down to having the courage to save yourself. Courage. Maybe that is not the right word. I look back on my life. No dreams. No hope. No reason to keep living. And yet, I did keep living. I kept moving. It was heavy. It was hard. It was blinding, crippling. But was it ‘courage’ that kept me alive? I guess I don’t really have an answer. I don’t know why or how I saved myself. Perhaps, for me, I just needed someone to love me enough to allow me to begin rebuilding. When you are alone, as I was for a very long, there is no cushion. I had no air. Addictions, mental illness, eviction notices, sexual traumas … living among those things doesn’t give one much time nor energy to say, “Okay, now I am going to focus on saving myself.”
I sit here today with hope. No. I sit here today allowing myself to hope. I am not “better.” I am not “healed.” I still feel my friend, Mr. Fuckhead (aka “The Darkness”) with me. I still get scared. But I am not afraid to hope anymore. Maybe that’s the secret. Maybe we aren’t meant to cure all of our ails …. maybe the “finish line” is just simply, hope. Because when we begin to believe that things can get better, even when they don’t, we begin believing that we are worth better things.