*I wrote this a week ago, in light of an event I had. This issue seems so prevalent now because of the recent deaths of two well-known people. Depression is no joke. It takes its toll. I have been through some tough circumstances and I’ve contemplated my death multiple times. You feel isolated. You feel weak. You feel inferior. It can takes seconds to end your life. It can take seconds to reach for help. You’re never alone.*
Let us talk about something that many people would rather not talk about; mental health issues.
I have them. A few, to be exact. I am manic depressant. I have misophonia, (not a disorder, but it should be), and PTSD.
Ahh… fun times. I also have a severe case of sarcasm. Not a disorder, obviously, and I never want the cure.
A couple of days ago, I fell really hard and scraped my leg. It looks like road rash. It is very painful. At first, it just pissed me off. When I went to the bathroom to dress my wound, I started crying. The pain was so intense. Then, I started shaking. After my mom came in to check on me, I was in full-blown flashback. I couldn’t stop. It was as if my entire body was scraped. I was back when I had gravel everywhere. When I had glass in my eyes. When I was in shock from what just happened. It felt as if I were on fire.
I was back on the concrete at 12 years old, after climbing out of a truck with smoke billowing from the engine. I had rocks embedded into my skin. Glass was everywhere and was cutting deeper the more I moved.
I reached for my friends, but they were out of reach. No one was helping. I was climbing out of a truck all by myself. How I managed to do so was beyond me.
At the time, I was unaware, (I was in survival – shock mode), my femur had snapped in two. It was protruding out of my body. I was scared the truck was going to catch on fire. My only thought was to escape. When I reached a safe enough distance, I turned on my back only to see my leg wasn’t where it was supposed to be.
The time of shock was nearing an end and reality started to seep into my existence. There were blood, glass, and rocks, and now there was a bone.
I once thought I was over it. I thought it happened so long ago, that I only told the story, not realizing the trauma still lingered. I was wrong.
A couple of days ago, I found myself there. The more my brain was back on the pavement and not in my bathroom, the more I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. The episode lasted for probably five minutes, but it felt like hours.
I profusely apologized. I was sorry I couldn’t keep myself together. I was sorry for crying. I was sorry for existing.
PTSD is real. Unfortunately, I have dealt with many traumas in my life and to know what triggers my PTSD can be a task. I often don’t know. It just happens, and I have to find a way to cope.
Sometimes, it affects the ones I love and I am never sure of how to reassure them I never meant to be a bitch or I never meant to make them feel worthless. This is what PTSD does to me.
The more I understand it, the more I can help others understand me.
I bring up this topic today because there are millions of people trying to cope with life and they are at a loss. They have reached the end because no one understands, no one knows how to help, and more often than not, no one cares.
If a friend reaches out to you and shares even a fraction of their story, lend an ear. Continue this friendship. It may turn difficult. It may lead to fights, but know your friend who struggles appretiates your acts of kindness more than you know.
You may save them from suicide. You may save them from their own struggles.
Too many times, I have known suicidal thoughts. I have strategically thought of how, when, and where.
I stopped because a friend reached out.
Be that friend. Know your friends. Best of all, know yourself.
A friend once said the best feeling was having a support group helping this person realize the phone wasn’t a hundred pounds. You could pick it up and let someone know you needed them.
It’s much easier to type than to do, but its true. A phone can feel like a hundred pounds when you’re struggling, but it isn’t.
Its okay to be different. No one is normal. Everyone has their issues. Some just have more issues than others.
I enjoy my warehouse of magazines. Trust me when I say that someone else does too.