A Part of My Story

What do you do when you’re curled up under your weighted blanket and you’re waiting for your phone to notify you that you got a message? What do you do when that doesn’t happen? What do you do when you decide to be vulnerable and tell someone that you’re struggling? What do you do when they stop answering you after you told them that? What do you do with empty promises? What do you do with a broken heart? What do you do with depression and anxiety?

I have always struggled with believing that I am not worthy of being loved. I have these memories in my head from when I was little. One being that the letter “L” was written on my forehead after being chased around and caught by someone with a marker. Was I really a “loser”? Am I still one? I remember finding “Hilary sucks” written on a piece of paper at my Grandparents garage sale, never knowing who wrote it. I remember leaving notes for my parents saying that I was sad or felt lonely when I was young. I am doing that right now. I am writing out my feelings because it is the only way I know how to deal with them.

So, I cry, and I write. That’s what I do. I pull myself up off the floor because who else is going to? No one, I have learned that the hard way over the past couple of years. I am an emotional person…I laugh so hard I cry. I cry so hard it hurts. I smile with genuine happiness on my face. I love so hard that I open myself up to being hurt. But I also love so hard that I am loved in return.

I have learned, through many years of counseling, and schooling that those feelings you push away. The dark and scary ones. They will make their way to the surface whether you want them to or not.  This feeling I have struggled with my whole life of not being worthy of being loved, it pops back up every once in a while. And then my depression feeds off of it. It’s this cycle of negative self talk and depression and anxiety, all mixed together with a side of being alone and feeling not good enough. It’s a recipe that usually leads me to a very hard couple of days working my way back out of the darkness.

I know when these moments are coming. As I have learned the triggers and feelings that accompany it. And let me tell you, it’s not an easy process to get there. I’d go to Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and come out completely exhausted because talking about the shit that scares you and your fears and your anxieties is HARD. Talking about them and then knowing what to do with them afterwards is HARD. But the fact that I am sitting here right now, writing them out. Acknowledging what I am feeling and being able to work through them is proof that I am worthy of being loved. Because right now, I am showing myself that I am worthy of being loved by sharing this with you. Do I feel like I am at my best self right now? No. Is it possible to get there? Yes. Will it be a fight? Also, yes. Am I worthy of the fight? Also, yes.

I always find it so interesting that I can be completely vulnerable here. But when I reach out to someone specifically, and they aren’t able to support me or just ignore me all together, I shut down. But here, I am free. I can write anything, and anyone can read it. Or no one reads it. But it gives me this sense of peace, knowing that I wrote it out. I published it. I shared it.

Some days are good. And some days are rough. But I still fight no matter what.

I feel like people forget that I have a mental illness diagnosis. That just because I am smiling, I am suddenly cured! It unfortunately doesn’t work that way. I have depression and generalized anxiety disorder. I live with both every day. It’s hard with the stigmas and stereotypes out there. Some people think they already know you when they find out you struggle with a mental illness. Because that character on that one TV show was “crazy”. Or their great aunt on their mom’s side of the family had bipolar disorder. Our illness may share the same name, but it impacts everyone differently. It’s not a one size fits all kind of thing.

Everyone has their own story…and this is just a part of mine.

h.

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