I came to the realization over the past couple days that I’ve been dead for over a decade. I have no quality of life. And I haven’t had a decent quality of life for a very, very long time.
Life is more than living on a multitude of pills and just getting by. I’m not even getting by. I’ve given up. I only take what I need to take and swallow what I need to swallow if they are next to my bed. I make no other effort because I’m gone and have been. This isn’t a sign of my own weakness. It just is what it is.
Since junior high school I’ve had these bouts of depression mixed with anxiety. I’d come out of it for a little bit. Short periods of time. Maybe a year. Then become a shut-in. Weeks would go by. Months. Sometimes years- only leaving for a holiday or a movie with a friend. It was from my autoimmune diseases. Chronic pain. And being abused at home. Nothing was pretty. Outside wasn’t pretty and inside wasn’t pretty. Everything was ugly and hurtful.
Things were positive more positive the summer before college. By then I moved out of my childhood home. Had been for awhile. I hated the school I was going to because I’m not a hipster and I don’t listen to college rock and I’m not a leftist, but people were proud of me. I finished high school in 4 years despite my illnesses. I got excellent SAT scores and SATII scores and AP crap and Regents shit- thus, a fancy ass honors diploma. And a full ride to a top school. Because others were proud of me, I was happy. I think I was happy. I suppose I was a happy ghost.
Ghost. Why? Because every night I still fell apart into myself. I still used everything I could to escape reality. I still collapsed and folded me into different shapes, like a paper airplane. I’d fly away in my mind. I wasn’t really there. Just my body was in my bed. And I really, really hate my body. It’s never been on my side.
A few months in and I began only leaving to go to class. “Life” was going to class. Two-four hours a day, 3-4 days a week.
Cut to now, same shit.
And this kid called me out saying “well it could be worse” after I told him I was on chemo. And you know, it definitely can be worse. But if every year of your damn life has only gotten consistently worse, both physically from new chronic-pain causing illnesses, and emotionally due to domestic violence and being raped, and you don’t leave the house because you’re afraid of your past and you can’t walk anyway and you live on toxic pills and you haven’t checked back into your own fuckin’ mind in God only knows how long because you can’t deal with the memories that choke your throat and your heart and the pain that sits in your chest day after day paralyzes you… well, that’s not having a life.
That is not living.
I told my mom this.
I said, “Mom, I’ve been dead for over a decade. You just haven’t buried me yet.”
She didn’t get it. Then, she got defensive. Said she’s been giving me my “space”.
I replied, “I’m not blaming you. I’m just telling you. And I really can’t understand how you could be living with a dead girl in the room next to you for this long”.
We’re now talking about me moving to another state. I’d love to change because staying where I am is doing nothing for me. I’m the one who first suggested it. She said she’d follow me when she could. Or, I could go for a little bit and see how I like it. She wants me to have a higher quality of life.
Really, though, I don’t know how I can move when most days I’m not even here.
BTW, LISTEN TO THIS! Awesome.