The Lie I Call Hope

 The biggest lie I keep telling myself is not to lose hope when at the end of every day, I stare hopelessness in the eyes and repeat the one sentence I hold on to in the hope of a better day. What if the lie we tell ourselves to stay hopeful is the only thing that tethers us to our Earthly bonds? Because without the hope of better days, sunny days, or happiness beyond our imagination, what else do we have to hold on to except for hope?

When hope is nothing more than this imaginary God we pray to, what then? What is the next thing we cling to when we discover its presence is a mere illusion? To our faith? Which is only hope in disguise. We’re told not to lose hope, to have faith in the unknown, and to mindlessly go where we are led because that’s where we are meant to be. But what if we weren’t meant to be anything more than hopeless romantics, clinging desperately to our faith in a higher power, waiting around blindly for love, happiness, for calm?
What if some of us weren’t meant to know such bliss?
What if we were all capable of questioning the existence of hope, faith, and wishing on shooting stars? If nothing more, we disillusion ourselves in these vivid daydreams that play out in endless loops until we are lost in imagination to wake up the following day, thrown back into the dullness we call reality. We make the bed, brush our teeth, drink our coffee, and do it in the stillness of a house that once knew laughter.
Sometimes, though, it might just exist inside, and as you walk through the quiet halls, you see what could be in your imagination's eye and feel the weight of grief fall heavy at each slap of barefoot to cool tile. Yet we dream, we hope, we pray, we wish, and we have faith that there’s something more for us out there, somewhere. If only we believe we deserve more, more will manifest and swarm you with the warmth your abysmal life had been lacking.
But I digress.
It’s a different scene than anyone ever played out; I see the happiness, the rooms filled with love, the house with laughter and games being played. There’s music bouncing wall to wall, of furniture being scooted across the wall to make room for dance moves or movie nights. In my head, it’s this perfect little package full of love, not the heartache my body clings to.
Yet I hope for the better days, pray for the clouds to part, believe there’s something more for me out there, and wish on every shooting star for any drop of happiness I can lap up.
Hope is not only the life preserver I hold on to but also the wave that pushes me under.

Yet, I still cling to it.

Two Halves of a Whole

 Two parts of me fight it out emotionally and logically. It's a never-ending ping-pong match that no one wins because we need to understand the rules of polite society, but we were never taught. We've gone feral and stuck in survival mode for a small hellish eternity. 

What this means is that: 

There's half of me that works endlessly, tirelessly to try and fit into a normal, functioning society. I twist my life into some version of what is deemed normal or normal enough. Normal adjacent?

I can keep up the act for only so long before the tides roll in and take me with them. Pills won't work because it's not a simple diagnosis of Bipolar or Severe Depression. Childhood trauma caused the C-PTSD, and I don't believe in taking medication to cover up my emotions. I wasted years hiding my every emotion, hurt, and tear shed; why cover it with a rug now when I'm making such great strides for my mental health?

I'm healing, just not in the way others want me to. 

The old me would say that's okay, but it's not. I know I'm putting in the work; no one is me and knows me better than me. I've spent years in my head, alone, don't think for one minute I don't see how it looks from the outside.

I know. It's not good. 

Then there's the other half of me that's bitter because I'm trying to fix something, lots of things, a never-ending barrage of things, and have been working nonstop for over twenty years on something I didn't break.

But it never seems like enough, like I'm not fixing myself fast enough or putting enough time or effort into healing my broken parts and pieces. I had been asked if I could improve myself more by people I care about, and I say I'm trying. Still, the truth is that I've been trying for so long to mend myself that I don't know if anybody can genuinely fix me any more than I already am.

And I feel like I've failed these people.

Especially when you are told to look into medication when I already had, I've opened that conversation with all medical professionals, and I get told the same thing.

I'll tell you now, if you're reading this, medication for someone like me is a cop-out. Authentic healing is when you force yourself to feel your bullshit without hiding behind the feel-good effects of drugs, alcohol, and medication.

I don't want to continue numbing myself to be more digestible in society. I don't want to be numb and not feel things; I want to cry when I'm sad; I want to feel my pain because at least I know I can feel it. 

And after being numb in situations that cause me great emotional harm and pause, I don't want to be back there. 

I'm not okay, but I'm working on myself, and I'll be there one day. But I'm not going to numb myself anymore in order to be liked or be bearable.

I'm a mess, and I've never told anyone anything but the truth about who I am. I'm still learning the depths of the hurt, but I see the light. 

Because there's this tiny sliver of something inside of me that yearns for peace, to forget the past, and just go mindlessly into the present and move forward.

Not backward.

Because when we are blinded by the past, by pain, and wander through life in a depression haze, we don't see right away, when we run until we are too far gone to make the walk back. 

Sometimes it's easier to just, I guess, let everyone else think you're crazy instead of explaining yourself because… you've been told so many times that no one understands you, and you kind of give up trying to be heard.

If you don't understand what it's like to live through severe domestic violence where hitting and drinking, and yelling are involved and wondering if this is the night someone goes to the hospital, physical/mental/emotional abuse on yourself and others in the household, and substance abuse that doesn't stop at alcohol for twenty plus years of your life. Then I won't be able to accurately explain to you why certain things physically take my breath away and throw me into unspeakable amounts of mental anguish before being taken on a weeks/months-long emotional hell ride, just to be told: "I don't understand why this is so bad."

You wouldn't.

But medication isn't going to erase my memories, erase the feelings I remember vividly, feeling as if I either hid somewhere or stood up to be a target. The nightmares won't just disappear, and my brain won't rewire to be somewhat normal. 

I've been telling everyone for years; I'm not normal.

I'll never be normal.

But I'm a work in progress. 

One day I hope to be okay-er; I type that as I roll my eyes because I'm exhausted from typing this. And the use of 'one day' is the lie I keep telling myself, which is a blog for another day.

But, yeah.

One day…