Shortly after I started taking anti-depressants, I was having a discussion with a friend about how difficult it was to make time for all of my different projects. "I have a hundred goals I want to achieve, dozens of projects I want to work on, and way too many hobbies for my own good. There just isn't enough time in the day to do them all. Hell, I'm not sure if there's enough time in an entire life..." I trailed off, realizing how different this conversation would have been a year ago, before I started getting treatment. Because, back then, I only had one project. I only had one goal: To stay alive.
It sounds a little overdramatic, right? It's not like I was struggling to keep a roof over my head and food in my mouth. I live quite comfortably, in that respect. But, regardless of my comfortable life, in the year leading up to my diagnosis I struggled to resist suicide almost every single day. I went to bed each night thinking, Tomorrow is going to be better. Tomorrow I'm going to be glad I'm alive. But, the moment I awoke the next morning, I knew I was wrong. Again. It was going to be just another day of numbness. And that was the best case scenario. That was a good day. Because numbness was better than feeling isolated and alone. Numbness was better than being irritable and short-tempered. Numbness was better than complete despair. Yes, numbness was the best day I could ask for.
Living a life of numbness doesn't feel much like living. I was simply existing. Going through the motions. Running out the clock. And what was the point? Why wait for the final whistle to blow? Why not just end the game early? It wouldn't change the outcome. I'd already done everything I was going to do in this life. I'd made my mark, however small. Surely nothing I did from this point forward would mean anything to anyone, least of all me. So, why bother?
I think a part of me knew better. Knew there was a real life waiting for me, if I could just figure out how to access it. Well, maybe I didn't know these things, but I hoped. I've always been an optimist, and I suppose that tiny sliver of optimism that survived my depression kept me going. Tomorrow is going to be better. Tomorrow I'm going to be glad I'm alive. I didn't know why it would be better. I didn't know what would make me feel glad I was alive. I didn't know anything except that I needed to keep giving life another chance. If I could just make it through Today, Tomorrow was going to be better.
And then, one day, it was. And so was the next. And the next. And now, here I am: actually living. I'm living a life packed with projects and goals that have nothing to do with staying alive. I want to learn. I want to grow. I want to create. I want to inspire. There are so many things I want to do, and I am so grateful to that tiny sliver of optimism that kept telling me that this life - my life - was just around the corner.
You know, I still go to bed every night thinking, Tomorrow I'm going to be glad I'm alive. But it's different now, because Today I was glad I was alive.
No comments:
Post a Comment