Ok, I’ve written and deleted this blog twice now… But I feel like I’ve got to stop being a chickenshit and start being honest, painfully honest. With myself, and therefore with you guys. Cuz I can tell myself all sorts of shit. But if I say nothing about it to anyone else… Well, it’s just being chickenshit. 🙂
I think most people who know me see me as a fairly happy person. Maybe they know there’s something going on under the surface, but I put on a good show, so why bother prying up the floorboards. I’m Viki, and I’m a good time, hells yeah.
But I’m also totally full of shit. I’ve been dealing with some serious depression since I was 12, when my dad died. I’ve talked about him before, ‘member? Yeah, you ‘member. Tall, lanky guy, blonde and blue eyed with a crazy caterpillar mustache. Doesn’t look a thing like me, but was so like me.
Yeah, I lost him and my world just, ceased to exist. My mom pulled the plug, btw. Did I mention that before? Did I mention how much I hated her for years after that? I was fucking twelve. She turned off the machines that were keeping alive the only real friend I’d ever had. She had my brother, my dad was mine. And she let him go. She stopped fighting for him.
You’ve read the story. I found drugs, alcohol, sex (surprisingly most of it wasn’t meaningless, just pointless). But the deeper part of the story is that I wanted to die. I wanted to kill myself, so fucking badly. Every day since he died.
No, initially, I’d wished it was my mother, or even my brother who’d died. But when I came to realize that wishes weren’t going to get me anywhere, I figured the best route was to die myself. At least then, maybe, I could see my dad again. And that thought, perhaps silly as it is, has stayed with me for 20 years.
I know there have been days I haven’t thought about suicide. There must have been. But it’s been an overwhelming and constant presence for all of my adult life. I’ve carried this depression, this hurt, with me for so long that I really can’t imagine life without it. No, I’m not gonna go off myself on a whim. Obviously, 20 years of life say that it’s not that simple. I couldn’t do that to my family. My family has kept me alive, though they have no clue.
I hurt, every damn day. The loneliness I’ve inflicted on myself is a direct result of my depression (and ensuing anxiety, which maybe I’ll get to in another blog). I’ve cut myself off from friends, because I didn’t want to be the depressed chick in their midst. And I was getting so tired of forcing myself to be the happy me they knew and expected. So, I cut them out. And kept hurting. Alone.
There’s this gnawing pain in my chest, every day. I can’t tell anymore if it’s from depression, loneliness, anxiety. But it’s always there. That pain that makes you want to curl up in a ball, hug your chest, and try to force your innards back into their proper place, because there shouldn’t be a hole there. Maybe, if you press tight enough, if you pound your chest hard enough, it’ll stop. But it doesn’t.
I am so, so so so very grateful for my friends here, who give me a respite from it all. Who ease my battered heart by just simply caring. By making me laugh, or letting me love them. Just, giving me a lifeline out of the stinking swamp I’ve been living in, and letting me just be happy. I wish ya’ll knew how grateful I am.
I don’t let on, or at least I try not to, how much it hurts and just plain sucks to be me, day after day. And you guys make it easy. You make it easy to laugh, and commiserate, and feel normal. But, in all honesty, no lies or facades… I’m dealing with some shit, every day. This blog says some, but not all. I guess, I’m trying to not be two different people anymore. This is an attempt to reconcile, me.
I’m sorry if this all seems over-dramatic. Please keep in mind I’m a writer, and everything just, comes out as it will. And yes Jon, I’ve had a few beers. Again, please don’t think too less of me.
I’m embarrassed, again. Maybe I won’t delete this in a couple hours. But, maybe I will.