BLOG POST | P u r g i n g T h o u g h t s
cw: suicide mention, alcohol/drugs, self-harm

Been awhile since I updated my blog, wow. A little over a month in recovery and purging thoughts. Maybe it’s a little self-righteous of me to talk about healing when I’m not totally healed myself, but make no mistake, I know this is scrambled and faulty. It’s by no means meant to be taken as professional advice, but merely perspective. It’s by no means a statement that I’m suddenly cured and feeling great, because that’s still pretty far from the case.

Is it selfish to mourn the loss of your own childhood when you finally figure out its gone? Is it stupid or naive that you actually didn’t even realize it’d been taken from you? Is there such a thing as empathy for the past self -- the self you’re no longer in touch with? Even further, is it possible to begin cherishing someone you’ve been very much trained to hate?

When I look back on past experiences, it almost feels like I’m thinking of a totally different person. And sometimes, I cry for him; I cry for that kid who was so badly damaged that he threw away any chance to make improvements because he didn’t believe he’d ever do any better.

I cry for the kid who took shelter on many nights in the bathroom of his apartment because it was the only place with a lock on the door. Who never knew how to trust anyone because everyone who came into his life either abandoned him or hurt him. And I cry because of him; because I barely remember BEING that kid (shout out to massive amounts of drugs and alcohol), but all his pain manifests in ways that have entirely crippled me even now. I cry because I hate him for not being strong enough to handle it all and that’s making it really hard for me now. Which then begins a whole other cycle of self-loathing over my tendency to sit here feeling sorry for myself, but that’s an issue for my therapist, not my blog.

Another funny thing about my past self, though, speaking vaguely of self-loathing, is there was once a time I was proud to be him. I knew I was tough and volatile, and I liked it. I liked having a reputation that kept everyone at an arm’s length, but didn’t realize at time I was actively sabotaging myself. Because if every single person is at an arm’s length, then who do you turn to when something bad happens?

You turn to things like drugs or alcohol or self-harm.

You cling to the comfort and safety of death because you know it’s the ultimate back-up plan. You know it’s the surefire painkiller when nothing else will work. And maybe all you really needed in the end was someone to talk to… maybe all you needed was for someone to say “tell me why you’re crying” instead of “stop.” And you needed them to say that before you were convinced it wasn’t allowed or was inconvenient or annoying.

The biggest thing for me has been accepting that it’s not embarrassing to need help. It’s not weak or inconvenient to acknowledge pain when you’ve been hurt. For more of my life than I care to admit, I thought I was invincible. I thought I WAS strong for everything I’d been through, and my recklessness was a symbol of the fearlessness I’d earned having made it through a life that was far less than ideal. My recklessness was nothing to be proud of; it was nothing more than a mask. Because if you intimidate people with outrageous-ness, they might stay away from you. Because if people think you aren’t afraid to die, then they won’t try and mess with you, right?

I hid much of myself behind that shield, and avoided thinking about it with every numbing substance I could possibly get my hands on. And that screwed me out of a lot of opportunities (case in point, my entire time on Talent!) but it also protected me. Which then begs a lot of questions about how to turn your back on something that’s kept you safe for YEARS. How do you learn to resent the only thing you took solace in? Well, I’m still figuring that one out. Obviously.

This experience has been anything but perfect. And despite all my talk about crying (blah), I can at least say I’m much better than where I was. Days where I wake up thinking there’s no possible way I can even get out of bed are few and far between right now. I have a killer support system who keeps me in check when I need it. Most of all, I have a new-found feeling of actually deserving to recover, and the realization that the kid I hate so much deserved it too…

I keep that kid in my heart because in a weird, probably a little narcissistic way, he reminds me of empathy and humanity. He reminds me that it is possible to recover.

I’m moving forward with a much clearer head, and doing everything I can to keep it that way. I might screw up still. Next week, I could decide to completely trash this, but that’s something to realize too. Healing isn’t linear and it absolutely is not always uplifting like this either (I'd venture to say this scenario is actually rare, at least in this stage). You take the good with the bad.

That’s all I have to say for now.

For all of you that have stuck by me even while you watched me light my entire life on fire via social media (embarrassing, I know), thank you. To those who offered encouragement even when I tried and failed the first time, thank you too. And to those who maybe, possible, saw all of this and learned from it, I hope you realize one day that you deserve to recover too, no matter what you’ve done, or what people have convinced you of. You deserve to have some empathy for yourself.