When words don’t define you…even though they might.

I hate committing to words. I always have.

I don’t have depression, I’m just fucked up.

Or, I don’t have trauma, everyone goes through this shit.

“I wasn’t sexually assaulted. And I definitely wasn’t raped. Recently, or for years on end in past “relationships”.

I’m not suicidal, I just want to die sometimes.

(I don’t fuck around with anxiety though. I’ll claim that all day long. No shame there. There’s no “I’m anxious, but I don’t have anxiety” going on here. Yeah, I fucking do. There’s a problematic amount of anxiety here. But I get it, and I claim it, and it makes sense.)

I deny myself any right to an excuse, or justification, or whatever else you want to call it. I don’t deserve defining words, because…I don’t even fucking know why. I’m just a mess. There’s no excuse, or reason “why” behind it. I’m just…awful. End of story.

Maybe it’s just a lifetime trapped in the prison of my parents telling me that “I’m fine”. That I’m making it up. That I should just choose to be happy. “It’s a choice, you know.” (Just choose to ignore her, don’t instigate, it’s your fault if she does all of this to you because you should have just ignored her.)

Fuck all of that.

Another most recent personal favorite of mine is… “I’m not an ‘addict’. Im not ‘addicted’. I just drink too much. But I don’t do drugs, and I’m literally fine. So…I’m fine. I probably don’t even have withdrawals anymore. I’m not going to test the theory, but I’m sure I don’t.

All of those words. For literally ANYONE else…they are completely valid and justified. It makes sense and it’s not their fault at all.

Trauma, ptsd, rape (cringe…literally my least fucking favorite word. Don’t think I’ve ever even said that word out loud. Have to be a certain level of drunk to even type it), depression, suicidal…all of those fucking defining words, and more. They are completely applicable to anyone else who might feel that way, or have gone through that.

But not me.

I’m my own mess, my own disaster.

I’ve recently been told (again, by my parents) that I should “enjoy” my life.

They’re not wrong. My life could, and likely will be worse. A potential life where my children are…dead…(thank you, lethal genetic disorder…) well, that’s a life far worse than this one. And technically, I should “enjoy” this now.

But, aside from looking at a potential horrific future…

Honestly, what is there about my life to enjoy?

I’m not going to lie. The way I’ve felt lately, the depths of the despair and the hopelessness I’ve felt…well, I don’t like labels. Obviously. But it’s the closest I’ve come to being like, “yeah, I’m probably depressed”.

Secret spots of lack of skin (a euphemism for self injury…..?) would plead this case. It would plead the case for all of it.

I’m not feeling very okay.

At worst…I’d say I’m not okay.

At best, I’d say I’m a mess that needs cleaning up….but I have no idea how to even start the cleanup. What tools, what chemicals, what professionals…..

Is my life worth saving?

Ah. Questions without answers. A favorite format of mine. Every life is worth saving…to an extent.

I just wonder where I fall.

I feel as though I do more harm than good. That I cause more pain to those around me than anything else.

I desperately try to keep it to myself. To hide it, to fake it….to show up for others, even if that means hurting myself in the process.

I’m not the priority. My needs don’t come first. They never have, and they certainly don’t now.

So I’ll drown out the pain with drinking, but I’m not “an addict”.

I’ll mute the emotional pain by hiding under physical pain, but I don’t self injure. That’s stupid. I don’t do that.

I’d literally rather die than have my husband or anyone else touch me…even a little bit……..but I’ve never been (raped). ugh. I seriously despise this word.

I’ll think about dying, I’ll consider it and all that makes it true, makes it possible…makes it a possibility……but I’m not suicidal.

I’m broken, but I’m fine. I can be stronger, I can be better.

I don’t deserve the cushion of labels or excuses. My life is fine.

Pain is subjective. And I’m fine. I always am.

People need other people, and I strive to be that person for others. I’m okay with it. My role is to help….is to save, to nurture.

I’ve clearly fucked up, or else my own kids wouldn’t be dying. One bad day away from the worst fate.

So I’ll try harder. Work harder.

I’m here for you. For everyone. My pain is obsolete.

Please, let me be there for you instead. I promise, I’m better at that anyway.