This blog title almost took my to breath away. My muscles tensed a moment while I waited to see if it were available. And it was! The idea of this blog's name belonging available to ME, she, her, this woman, Michelle, Mrs. L.-S. at this very point in time is serendipitous because FINALLY feel like I am enough-- I have enough, I do enough. Just by being me. And I finally kind of like me. Self-love and approval have not come easy for me-- I work at it hour by hour some days. Things that you do like breathing are things I struggle like with and need to bring my whole support team in on. And that's okay. I'm sure you've been through your storms, too. Without our stories, we'd be hard pressed to find connections
I've always been a writer- a collector of words, representations, song lyrics: things that speak to my soul and fill it, in some way. I've tried so may ways to collect my words on anything-- notebook paper, scraps, napkins, store receipts, a camera snap. I admire the beauty of so many things and now I want to embrace them. I want to make them public, or semi public--as all of these things, and MANY others connect with places, times, interactions with my environment, the people in it, and my interpretation of all of these.
I want to share my story. The story of my life, based on MY perception- all of the stories I can bring forward. As a warning some of these the stories are safe and pretty, and I will include them. I'll include stories of being {and sometimes feeling so invincible} that I thought the entire world was mine. Sometimes these kinds stories will be true, of actual triumph; of struggling and defeating the most formidable struggles.
Some of these stories {Trigger Warning} will include the kind of pain that caused me to attempt to take my life more than once. At least one will include taking so much medication I could've very easily stopped my heart-- just to feel no pain and euphoria. There was a very long, multi-year period of my life where my severe depression seemed like there wasn't a drug, therapy, or even a hospital that could help reduce the emptiness, helplessness, feelings of worthlessness-and self disgust. I *wanted* help, I truly did, but there was comfort in depression, in my comforters and pillows yet hating every lie I told when asked;
"Are you okay?" "Do you have any feelings of wanting to hurt yourself?" I'm fine [in absolute agony], thank you, how are you?. "No! [Only every other thought, but if I focus all of my efforts on looking you in the eye, forcing a smile, you, too, will sign discharge papers.] "I mean, I'm depressed but "No! I haven't ever thought of how I'd kill myself! [Sure have, but I'm thinking clearly enough to know that if I give you a simple *inkling* of how I dream of driving my car over a very busy bridge and making a very sharp right at 90 m.p.h., you'll put me in the hospital for at least three days. While there, they'll play guinea pig with drugs. They really don't give a fuck about a proper diagnosis. They'll medicate the hell out of me, kill my natural sarcasm and joking manner, just me their good girl zombie, so I'll promise I'll never have these thoughts again.]
I tried to ignore my symptoms, but was really afraid for those thoughts to return. Sure, Doc, who examined me once, at 5 am when I was fucking hateful to EVERYONE so I refused to talk to you-- I'll take the Paxil but whatever the fuck you prescribed me "to sleep and regulate my mood" but really makes me lay my head on my fiance's chest at night beg God to let me sleep before this med makes my heart beat out of my fucking chest. Bipolar II with Borderline tendencies.
Not that it mattered. There was a stream of therapists who had their own agenda. I wanted to talk about ways to deal with these thoughts and actions, not talk about my Daddy and his beer cans. Goodbye medicine, I'll figure this out,
