December 18, 2020
On this day, six years ago, I was going to kill myself.
I had it all planned out. There are enough pills in this household to do the job effectively. I picked this day to coincide with the birthday of the guy who I felt ruined me at that time (not my ex, but the guy who screwed me over in New York) yet both far enough from and close enough to Christmas to make a statement.
I was severely depressed. I could see nothing better in the future.
The main reason I did not do it was because I feared I would fail. I feared being in a vegetative state. The idea to be here for my son came in a distant second to this fear.
I wanted to die.
But somehow I made it through the other side. No one tried to talk me out of it. No one knew. And I thought no one would care. Except my son.
But the fear of failure kept me alive.
Nine months later I met my MM.
This year I started really writing again with his encouragement. I dabbled a bit prior to this with his help. This year I started really focusing on it again.
My writing has helped a lot. It is an outlet for me where I receive positive feedback on something that is my OWN doing. No one else can lay claim to my works (even if I sign over rights to someone else, I know those are my words being read and appreciated.) Inhave even made a little money from it.
It’s been ten years since I felt my life start to crumble. Ten years of heartache and struggle and desperation.
This is the first time I’ve felt real hope. Despite my chronic leukemia diagnosis, despite my ex’s health problems, despite lack of communication from my MM, despite lockdown and Covid, I feel encouraged.
It’s not enough, but it’s a start. I feel I am finally starting to heal.
I hope with all my heart to see my MM again. I miss him horribly. I will ALWAYS want him in my life. I will always wonder and worry about him.
But I can live. I prefer him in my life. But I can live (I don’t want to say “live without him” because he will always be there in my heart and mind).
I am healing.