I guess it's kind of noticeable from my recent blog posts, but...I have been hardcore struggling the past couple of weeks.

I think the moment it started was after reading about a prominent pastor who was an advocate for mental health (as he himself struggled with depression), ended up committing suicide.

And then reading comments made by people on one particular post that linked to the article talking about aforementioned pastor, people have now decided that committing suicide is not a sin.

I have heard most of my life that it is a sin.  Likened unto murder, which the bible clearly states is a sin (apparently suicide is murdering yourself...or something).

But here's the thing:
If suicide ISN'T a sin, then why aren't Christians offing themselves left and right?  I mean, who wants to fucking suffer in this world if you have a way of early escape from all the pain and hardship to be with Jesus?

If only someone who was a Christian who committed suicide could come back to life and confirm for me that it is, indeed, not a sin, then I would jump right in that boat.


I also read a post somewhere online written by someone else who struggles with depression.  They called their brain "broken."  Truthfully, I've never thought of my brain that way...until a few days after I read the post.  To me, it was more "it is what it is."  As in, my brain is like this.  This is the state of my being.  It has always been this way, and it will always be this way.  There is no way to change it or fix it and I just have to live with it.  The end.

But then, it hit me.
My brain is broken.
And I can't fix it.

And the complete and utter...despair...that I felt when that realisation hit me...

Never have I desired so strongly to end my life than in that moment.
And every moment since that realisation.

Which brings me to now.

And just like every day before then, I have that urge of wanting to die.  To end it all.
But now, instead of that urge being something I could more or less ignore, it now plagues my every thought.
I think about it day in and day out.
What if it isn't a sin?
Could I get away with it?

Truthfully, if I was sure of my salvation (which I have never been, so that's cool), and knew for sure that suicide wasn't a sin (or at least, a sin I would be condemned to hell for), than I would probably end it all.  Just like that.

Because who really wants to live with a broken brain?
Who wants to wake up every morning, wanting to die, wanting to lay in bed because life is too hard, feeling like you're living in a brain fog 24/7, never feeling clarity, never fully being happy, and others in your life blame themselves for your lack of happiness, when in reality, it's absolutely nothing they have control over or can fix.

Anyway.

Life sucks.
Depression is a bitch.
And I want to die.

Depression is a bitch.

I say this repeatedly.
I will continue to say it until the day I die.

It robs you of joy, of happiness, of showing the people in your life whom you love that they are enough, despite the fact that you remain depressed.

I don't understand it.
And honestly...I don't know if I ever will.

Huh.
Maybe that's part of what is driving me crazy.
My mind is analytical, I think critically, my brain is set to solve and improve and grow.  Generally speaking, I don't accept things for what they are.  I am forever looking for ways to make things more efficient, to save time, to work smarter not harder; whether that's in the workplace, for those around me who I love and know are capable of so much, or even my own personal areas of growth.  I don't give up, once I improve at one level, I don't see it as enough, I know it can get better, be better, do better, and I look and look and look for ways to make it so.

So maybe I wrack my brain trying to understand depression.  Where it came from.  What makes it tick.  Why some days it's worse than others...

Right now I feel in a slump.  I can't sleep.  I'm tired, but even being tired doesn't allow me to fall asleep easily, much less stay asleep.  I feel like I'm okay one moment (usually when I'm distracted by something) and then when I'm shoved back into reality, that suffocating dread falls over me and there's nothing more I want than to die in that moment.

Like right now.

Here I am, sitting, one of my favourite shows playing in the background as I do research for scholarships to help fund my tuition as I go back to school, back in the same area as the love of my life, and yet...I want to die.

It's this overwhelming urge to just end it all.  End this constant mental torture, this never-ending battle that I fight day after day after day, never winning, rarely gaining ground, though mostly losing ground.

And you want to know how fucked up I am?
When I see news of the next well known person who committed suicide and I'm jealous of them.  Jealous that they followed through with it.  Jealous that they don't have to suffer anymore.

I just happen to be one of the special cases of a living catch 22.  I want to die, but I am absolutely terrified of death, so guess what wins at the end of the day?  Yeah.  Me, still alive.

And I can't explain this to people.  I can't tell them I have a death wish.  Because then it's slapping the people I love in the face.  Telling them I want to die is translated in their minds to think 'I'm not enough.'  Even though that is not at all the case.

These are my demons to fight.  My battles.  They existed before you entered my life, and should you ever leave it, they will continue to exist.  Your presence may help drown out their voices, but it does not silence them completely.


I feel sick to my stomach.  There is so much I cannot control.  This suffocating sadness.  My body and all its glorious malfunctions.  Why I feel dizzy day in and day out, and some days feel extremely nauseous for absolutely no reason.

I'm tired of it all.
I'm tired of fighting.  I know, I know, I've said that so many times before.  And yet I continue to fight, but never prevail. 

Honestly?
If someone could prove to me that suicide wasn't a sin, and if I was ever actually sure of my salvation, I don't know if I would fight for one more day.

Small Things

"It's the little things."

This is a phrase that gets tossed around so much (that's what she said), that, like most phrases often repeated, it looses its meaning.

But I'm not writing about that.

Here's what I am writing about:

How I struggle with depression every single day.  How my more realistic and "down to earth" mindset and approach to life, is seen by others as pessimistic.  How I've been told that I need to look on the bright side, find the silver lining, have hope, be more optimistic, etc. etc. etc.

But the thing is, is that I do look on the bright side.  I may not utter every thought I have out loud (otherwise I would constantly be talking, nonstop, all day long), but I do look on the bright side of things.  For example: almost out of cream?  Well, there's enough left for one more cup of coffee!  Not enough ingredients because I forgot to buy something at the store?  Time to make cooking fun and improvise!  The love of my life is gone for the next two weeks?  Well, at least it's only two weeks and not seven months!

Contrary to popular belief, I try to find the good in things.  Admittedly, sometimes it's a struggle, but I try.


Again, getting off topic.  Sheesh.

The reason I'm writing this post, is to speak about how small things bring me joy.

Partially by nature, partially by nurture (turns out being the youngest and getting ignored your whole life will potentially make you easily pleased), it doesn't take a lot to please me.  I've told people this before, but if I'm feeling down, take me out for a walk.  I am literally like a dog.  You take me out for a walk (when sometimes I can't force myself out of the house) and it will cheer me up. 

The smallest things make me so happy and bring me so much joy.  Much more joy, than expensive things or big, grand gestures could ever hope to bring.


The crisp air of an autumn morning.
A perfectly made cup of tea.
A really good cup of coffee.
Going for a walk.
Sunrises.
Clouds.
A good smelling candle.
Feeding people food I've made.
Cooking for people.
A new recipe I tried turning out to perfection.
Friends sending me a picture they took because they know I'll love it.
A book that I can't put down.


The list goes on.

My point is, it really is the small things.  I don't find joy or happiness in the grandiose.  I find it in the small, everyday habits and moments in my life.  My morning cup of coffee.  Praying with the love of my life.  Making the love of my life laugh with the silly things I do.  (Confession: sometimes they're done on purpose, simply to get him to laugh.  Oh how I love his laugh!)  Stopping to smell a rose I happen to pass by on my way somewhere.  Smelling citrus-y fruit in the grocery store.  Going "!!!!!" on the inside when the clouds are fluffy and beautiful.

I forget this so easily.  But I remember it, too, in the moments when these things happen.  It's all about finding what brings you joy, and appreciating those moments when they happen.

Being in this in-between season of life isn't the easiest thing in the world for me.
Because instead of being distracted with work or the gym or even school (which is hopefully in the works), I have nothing to do, all day every day, and so my mind feels like it's eating itself, from how active my brain is.

That being said, having all this great spare time on my hands, I am now thinking a LOT about my life - my childhood, the way I was raised, how I see the world now because of those things - and there is so much to think about and process and realise, that I literally feel like I'm going insane sometimes.  (Not fun.  0/10, would not recommend.)

My parents raised my siblings and myself all the same.  Same techniques for all children, not realising that some manners of discipline, while working on some of us, wouldn't work on others (read: me).  Now that they're older and have hindsight in their favour, they can see that they could have done better in some ways.

And that's good.

But that doesn't unfuck me, that doesn't undo all the things I dealt with as a child that I have to heal from now because of the way I was raised.

So here's one of the things I'm struggling with:
Do I tell my parents how the way they raised me really fucked me over (though not in such vulgar terms for their ears), or do I just never speak up?

It would be easy to say that I should just let it go.  That since they're no longer in the child-rearing phase of their lives, that telling them "hey, this wasn't so good, and here's why" wouldn't produce any good results.  If anything, it could make them feel like failures.  And while I don't have the best relationship with my parents, the last thing I want to do is hurt them by telling them they messed me up royally.

But then in the shower this morning, because of a dream I had (which woke me up because the sobbing I was doing in my dream translated to real life), I was thinking about my parents dying (as they are getting older in age), and how I stayed distant from them because I didn't have a solid relationship with them, and how when/if they die, I would live with that regret the rest of my life.  The regret of not putting things out in the open, in a diplomatic, kind way, and letting them know that the things they did, I now suffer from in my adult life.

Ways that make me feel like a broken being.  Like I'm less than whole.  Like I will never be enough, will never deserve things, like my voice doesn't matter, and a myriad of other problems that now affect the relationship I have with the love of my life.


I don't want to live a life of regrets.
And I know that if I don't speak up, and something happens to make it too late to speak up, that I will live with that regret for the rest of my life.
And knowing myself, and knowing how that kind of regret can feel, I'm positive I wouldn't be able to overcome that.


Does the relationship between parents and children ever change?  Is it always "you were the small being I raised, and I'm here to protect you, even if that means not telling you everything, and that I know better, and I don't need to listen to things you say?"  Or can that dynamic change into something where all parties look at each other as adults, equal, whose opinions matter and ideas can be discussed without deeming someone to be wrong or "sinful" or even evil?

I feel like I read something online in the past year or so where parents will forever see their children as their children, and for that initial instinct in wanting to care for them and protect them, that even as their children become adults and start their own families, the parents will still treat them as their children, whatever that may look like, depending on the family.
...or maybe I made that up in my head.  Who knows.

I almost feel like it's wrong for parents and their children to be equals, for them to treat each other as friends.  I'm aware that part of my mindset for thinking this is because of my own home environment in my childhood.  I remember in my early adult years, hearing from people how they were friends with their mom or dad or both and it was such a foreign concept for me to wrap my head around.  (It still is, to be honest.) 
So what's the right way that kind of relationship should look like?  Obviously very strict parameters when the children are young; the parents are in charge, and the children need to listen and obey and respect their parents.  But as they begin to grow older, learn more, have ideas of their own, the relationship should begin to shift and change, right?  So what does that look like?  And even if your child is an adult (meaning 18, by legal terms) and still living at home, how does the parental relationship look then?  (Definitely not the way mine looked when I was living at home and over 18, I'll tell you that.)


My brain is tired and most of the time these days I want to repeatedly stab it with an ice pick to shut it up, but I currently don't own any ice picks. 

Anyway. 
More to think about, I guess.