Down here, in the darkness. And writing for myself.

Trigger warning!

How long does it take to realize I am not okay? That I am in that place again.

On Monday night I was in a dark place with a little bit of peace like never before. The kind that, hopefully, most of you don't know. It is a dangerous, peaceful moment when the heavy fight to keep going was unbearable and a part of me accepted I wanted to end the suffering.

I texted my therapist in my despair, somehow, in the midst of heavy feelings of shame, or thinking she would get angry with me, drop me as a patient because how dare I was texting her on Monday night, probably seeking nothing but attention.

She stayed with me until she knew I was safe. The truth is that by then my mind was already exhausted.

I thought, "I am not okay," somewhere in the middle of the night when my mind was slowly and loudly screaming "what the hell just happened?!"

These words, "I am not okay," have become of extreme importance in this journey.

I thought I was going through a bad depressive episode, and the rest of the week I have been trying to recover from it. But today, I don't know anymore. 

I don't know why I am here again. Maybe I never completely left. I know I am grateful for the persons who showed up for me this week, when all I wanted was to completely withdrawal from the world because life didn't make sense anymore.

I also know that right now, this moment, feels real. 

My previous therapist told me once, "Write for yourself."

I remember her words every time I want to blog. Yet my body will try to protect me first, because the fear of not being accepted or being judged still takes over. By the way, it's not a feeling, this fear; it is trauma and it feels real. 

I am saying this because, today, Sunday, maybe this dark moment brought me to this place, without forcing myself to write. And without the chronic anxiety that sends me in despair because every cell in my body believes something really bad is going to happen if I write my truths.

It is rare that I can do it, write for myself. I actually don't know if I ever managed to genuinely do it without the paranoia that comes with it. And while a part of me still writes in hopes of helping others not feel so lonely in their mental health struggles, because I know that the loneliness takes me to very dark places. 

But right now, I believe I just want to write for myself. Because I don't know what else to do. I don't know any more if I am trying to save myself or fighting for myself. I am exhausted from both.

But I want to write for me, just for me. From this place that is not good but is real. From the ground and the dark moments, and the few rays of light that sometimes manage to appear through the cracks and the heaviness of this darkness.

Here,

Paty ♥