Thankful To Be Alive

It's the big turkey day, and while I've never done this in the past this year I want to tell everyone what I'm thankful for. Usually I never play along with this game because I feel it's such common practice that people spew something out. They don't really mean what they say, instead it's more of an expected response.

However, I have no doubt there are those that mean what they say around the dinner table. People whom are actually thankful on this holiday, even if they are going to go knock down a grandma later for a cheap TV. (I know, bad joke.)

Without farther delay here is what I'm thankful for. . .

I'm thankful to be alive.

No, not in the sense that I love life. Honestly, sometimes I really hate life. In fact most of the time I hate life, my memories don't make it easy at all. What I mean is I'm actually thankful to be breathing air right now instead of being worm food.

There were times in my past—dark times. . . Moments when I believed things couldn't possibly fall any farther down, and then they did. It was those periods I thought about ending my suffering. Yes, I have planned my own death. I have been suicidal.

No, no-one knew. My husband knows now because I told him, and I believe it shocked and horrified him. I'm sure if any of my family or friends from that time are following this blog, they will also be shocked. See, I wasn't what everyone thinks a suicidal person should be. I didn't acted depressed, in fact I didn't believe in depression at the time.

My mother would dismiss depression and other mental illness as teenagers wanting attention. As losers who were not strong enough to deal with life, and I refused to be that. Little did I know I was depressed, and even if you have it in your mind that depression is not a real thing. It can still take you over. I was so far in it's grasp no one, not even me, saw it. Behind my bright smile, my jokes, and the playful banter among friends I was suffering. My soul was crumbling piece by piece. Any subtle movement—any light tremor of negative emotion sent another bit tumbling down into dust.

No one knew that on my drives to and from college in Harrisburg I often wanted to drive off the bridge, and disappear into the Susquehanna river. It's waters always looked inviting, tranquil and peaceful. Those chilly winter waters, and glimmering early spring waves promised such peace. The end to all the pain I felt but never understood. I wanted that peace. It was never about death for me, I didn't want to die. In fact dying scares me. It was about being so overwhelmed—so plagued by emotions. . . anguish, rage, shame, guilt. . . that you simply want it to stop.

You feel mental—a basket-case—completely crazy and you want it to end. You want a break. A moment where nothing feels like it's consuming you. You want out. That's what I wanted.

I never did drive my car into the river, as tempting as it was. Especially when they were doing construction on the bridge and portions were missing. Driving pass I could look down and see the welcoming waters, but I never gave in. I did nearly let myself drift off a different bridge but I jerked back at the last second. In order to overcome my suicidal thoughts I talked myself into continuing life by making my emotional suffering justified. Noble, even. I told myself that I was suffering so those around me—those I loved—wouldn't have to. I took their abuse with pride at that point in my life, but it didn't last.

Again the suicidal thoughts came when my brother and sister betrayed me (I don't feel like talking about it now, but just know they said nasty things about me to their policeman father that nearly ended my life).

When that happened it took away my reason for living through the suffering. The people I was protecting had stabbed me in the back. There was nothing left for me, so I planned my death yet again. I researched pills I could take. Poisons I had access to so I could end my life. I didn't want to live, my family had turned against me. The people I loved. . . the people I sacrificed for. . . suffered for. . . defended, shielded. . . They wanted to destroy me. They took away my messed up rational for living, so I wanted to end the suffering. After all, what was the point to it now?

My husband pulled me back from the edge. He didn't know it at the time, but if it wasn't for him I wouldn't be here. I saw the hurt in his eyes at the prospect of losing me, and I wouldn't be able to handle hurting him like that. I went on for him, and I won't lie. There have been times in therapy where the emotional pain becomes too much. My husband has found me in the bathroom late at night with my arm scratched to hell (yes, I used to harm myself. It's been a year since I last did anything). Or walked into the bedroom and found me with a knife ready to plunge it into my throat.

Each time I find a little bit more courage to continue on. . . A little more will to keep fighting. Doesn't mean I'll never face this demon again, I'm sure I will but I'm better prepared for it.

So this Thanksgiving, while the holidays sadden me, I'm thankful to be living.

I'm thankful for my scars to show I was stronger than my pain.

#Thankful #ToBeAlive

~Jax~