For Those Who Have Abandoned All Hope

This wasn’t the post I had in mind for tonight. Originally, I was going to post my Christmas videos now that I’ve finally jumped the migraine hurdle and can see straight. I even uploaded them into YouTube and everything. But then something changed.

Tonight, I sat down to watch the movie According to Greta with Hilary Duff without reading the description. Being as she was the lead, I thought it would be fluffy and cute. What commenced there forth was a half an hour of me crying afterward. I guess somewhere in between the way I keep my head down and just try to get through daily life with my head and heart intact, I had closed myself off to what was going on in the world around me and to how many teenagers and young adults feel like there’s nothing worth living for; how many are killing themselves because there’s no hope ahead.I understand what it’s like to abandon all hope. I’ve been there. So I wanted to reach out to those of you out there who are considering taking your life by telling you my story. No, it’s not a happy one, filled with hope and inspiration, but it’s honest, and it proves that life does, can, and will go on with or without you, but it would be much better if you were around to experience it.

I grew up in a screwed up home. To say I didn’t would be a lie. My mom and dad fought all the time when I was a child; they hated each other. I still can’t figure out if there was ever love there. My dad left when I was little, and I still remember him fighting with my mom and walking out the door with two brown suitcases while I sat on the second to the last step in our little old house, and I remember knowing before my mom told me that he was gone for good, and he never even said goodbye to me either. I also remember thinking how much more peaceful it would be without him.

My childhood was full of my mom being single, struggling and going back to school for long hours, and then later working long hours. At first, she left me with my grandparents, where I was happy and free. After awhile, that wasn’t working out between the adults, and instead of thinking of the child, I got forced into a daycare center where I got pantsed, punched and beat up consistently because the people who ran it couldn’t control the kids. I was unhappy and missing the grandparents I had spent nearly every day with terribly, especially since my grandfather was my best friend.

Then my dad came back, and I had to go with him on weekends, even though I didn’t want to. I watched him beat up several of his girlfriends, and once, when I was around eleven, he threw me into a glass coffee table, breaking it, and then locked his then fiance and myself into a room in which we stayed until we could call the landlord after he left in the morning. My mother never knew anything was wrong, though she had lived with him for so long and knew what he was like. I felt afraid to tell her, and I always wondered how she couldn’t know. But I’m not her, and I’ll never have the answer to that. And, thankfully, by some grace of God, he was gone for good by the time I was thirteen. On Christmas Day, no less.

On the day of my thirteenth birthday, I became extremely ill. By winter of that year I had been pulled out of school by doctors and put back in. Twice. Then I got even more sick and was ultimately pulled out and home schooled before my fourteenth birthday. I spent days alone teaching myself while my mom worked. I was also expected to keep up the house, when sometimes I didn’t feel well enough to get around. It was lonely, and I missed out on the family and friends social aspect that other kids my age had. Then, as if things couldn’t get worse, my grandfather died when I was fourteen. He was my best friend and the one who understood me. Things just weren’t the same without him, and I needed him to get through my illness. (One I’m doing much better with, but still heavily struggling with today.)

By the time I was old enough to work, I was so shy and lost in the social world that I hardly knew what to do with myself. I looked for jobs where I only had to work with women. I found one where I worked with a boy, a boy I ended up liking, who liked me back, but he didn’t have the backbone to stand up to his father and tell him that he wasn’t going to marry some plastic Barbie doll just because she was pretty to please him. (He ended up marrying that plastic Barbie doll. No word on if he’s happy or not, but he was a nice kid, and I hope he is.) It screwed up everything I thought feelings and love and relationships were, and since I wasn’t grasping on to a whole lot seeing as how my life and my parents marriage had gone, I changed.

That happy go lucky girl who had somehow remained unscathed and perky throughout all of this was now brooding and angry. If my clothes weren’t so darn cheery, I could have passed for a goth. But I learned something from that. The goth and punk kids are the nicest, most honest kids you’d want to meet, and all they do is dress differently from us because they know who they are. That scares the preps and the “normals.” Let them be scared.

I was a late seventeen, ready to turn eighteen, when I became obsessed with death and dying. I’ve made no attempt to hide the fact that I’m a psychic medium on here. I’m sure that had something to do with it, working with the dead and knowing I was helping them go to a happier place. I wondered why I had to be here when they were going to be happy. Why I had to feel so alone with my mom gone all the time and the feelings I thought were true being shot down, while they got to be with their loved ones in the same place where my grandfather was.

There are few people who know this about me, less than I can count on one hand. I wanted to die. More of me wanted to die than wanted to live. When I couldn’t take it, I would cut my wrists just to feel better. I made no secret of it. I would wrap them when they were cut and go to work like that. My mom never asked me about what happened, figuring in the accident prone events that were my life that I had merely sprained them, so I never told her. When people at work asked me, I told them a variations of excuses that no one questioned.

Things got worse for me when I was twenty, working in a job that I hated, with guys, none the less, and that being the first job where I had worked with guys. I was trying to find myself, who I was socially, who I was romantically, and who I was as a woman. I had no one to talk to about it, and I was so confused. I didn’t get the point in anything, and it didn’t see a point in me either, I suppose. Life is fair like that.

I worked with a guy who I didn’t pay any attention to either. He would say hi when he passed my department and I would say hi back. It was all very Taylor Swift – Ours, only in Best Buy. Then one night I couldn’t take things anymore, and somehow he knew, because he walked me to my car and spent two hours sitting there with me and just talking, though he hardly knew me. He was in school to be a psychologist (Though he later dropped out for reasons that aren’t mine to give.), and I don’t think that I’ve ever fallen for someone so quickly, or ever will again. Though, if you ask, I’ll tell you it takes years to truly fall in love with someone, because I don’t want to go through the chain of events that spiraled from that one night again.

I think the worst part for me looking back is that he always loved me too, but unlike me, he was able to tell me and wasn’t shy about it. I never let my guard down enough to let anyone give me what I needed, and he was no exception. He, in every way, saved my life just by being there. I just needed someone to tell me how they felt about me, and then go ahead and have the balls to show it to know that life was worth living. I wouldn’t let myself know that I needed to be able to feel someone’s arms around me, too, which is a lesson I learned too late.

If you ask him, he’ll tell you that I saved his life, too, but that’s not true. It can’t be. I never told him I loved him. I wasn’t there for him like I should have been, because I was scared. And, God bless him, he never judged me for it because he understood that. But I hurt him, and badly, too. I never did it on purpose, and it took me a long time to realize what I was doing to him or that I had hurt him at all, but now I know the truth.

When he tried to kill himself, not once but twice, he told me that it was the thought of me that made stop what he was doing and made him recover. But no one ever told me until way after the fact that he had tried, because they never wanted to hurt me; he never wanted to hurt me. Like I deserved that. I didn’t. He saved me and it hurt him like hell doing it, but he did, and he never quit. He deserved the same. Him trying to kill himself was never, ever about me, and I’m angry at him sometimes that he made it that way so that I couldn’t help him.

I’d also be willing to bet that me not being there for him the way I needed to be and me hurting him in my immaturity and fear that I had also, in my own way, heavily contributed to what made him want to kill himself. Where he saved my life, I couldn’t save his. Whether I actually did or not has yet to be discovered, but if I did, I guess that’s the only reason I was put in his life and him in mine.

You will never live up to what someone thinks you are. If someone says you were enough to save them, you will never feel like you were enough to do anything that great and start to focus on the bad in yourself. It will break up a relationship and ultimately end it. It won’t be the other person’s fault, though you can tell yourself it was a thousand times. It still isn’t.

Sometimes I sign onto a messenger I never use anymore, see: I stopped using when I ran away from him, just hoping he’ll sign on and things can be like they were back in the old days. He never does and he never will; they never will. I’ll never get to know how he’s doing now, if he’s okay, or if he’s even still alive, and that was my own doing. I take full responsibility for that and I know what I’ve done wrong and what not to do next time. But now, thanks to him, I’m alive to know that; to have a next time. So really it’s a catch twenty-two; a house of cards, life.

My grandma is gone now too. She was the other part of the team that kept me going when I was little. When she left this earth, I started to wonder again if I could go on, and I found myself wanting to call up this friend and talk to him and no one but him, but I knew I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t fair to him. And that’s when I found my backbone and my strength and began to help other where I could.

This coming year will mark two years since my grandma’s death, and three since I last seen him. Finding myself without my grandma to talk to has been one of the hardest things to do in life, but I still talk to her when I’m lonely and I know she hears me, which brings me great comfort, more than I will ever get in the situation with my friend, though I miss her terribly, and him too.

I’m not lucky in love. I was once had I let myself be, but I didn’t. And maybe this is my fate. But I am lucky in life, because I was given a second chance and took it. I also took responsibility for all the things I’ve done wrong in the past, and you know what, there’s nothing wrong with the things I’ve done. Everyone makes mistakes, no matter how big or little, but taking responsibility and learning from them is what life is really about. Everything is a lesson, and if you choose to learn it, things will get better. If you don’t, history and misery will repeat themselves.

I could have let the things that happened in my past ruin my life. I could have let my father victimize me and think I wasn’t worth anything because he made the choice to walk out on us. I could have let Christmas be ruined because of him. I could have thought that one boy was the end of it all, and if he didn’t love me, no one would. But you know what I’ve learned? As long as you love yourself, none of that matters. That’s what my friend gave me, and what I wish I could thank him now for, but can’t. He showed me that I was a pretty okay person with all my flaws, and my flaws were what made me perfect. That’s true for everyone else too.

Whether I’ll give myself another chance at love has yet to be determined. I don’t want to hurt anyone the way I hurt him again, but I don’t approach it as being so afraid for my own heart, just for what I could do to others.

People look at me and, no matter what I do or say, see this girl that is cute and funny and perky, with a great outlook on life and a bubbly personality. I still see this girl who is sarcastic and high strung and a huge handful and undertaking, and a girl who is, sometimes, plain out mean. I wonder who they’re looking at when they claim they’re talking about me. But on another hand, I’m glad they see me that way. I still have my dark days and my hard times where I’m depressed and moody, but the fact is, I’m still here. I will probably always see myself that way, and that will never change, and I will probably never care what anyone else thinks about me because I don’t have to. I don’t need that approval anymore. But if they see me as a good person, then I’m glad.

I try to do my best to be charitable and to help people. It’s what keeps my heart going and reminds me it’s still there and it’s still beating. I still cover myself up and build walls with moats and forts around them to keep people out, even when it seems like I’m not, but in the privacy of my own home where I can cry, I’m honest with myself. Always be honest with yourself.

Sometimes the best thing you can do when you feel like life isn’t worth living is help someone else. Get out and talk to someone you would never talk to and do something you would never do. Stare in the face of a child that was abandoned by their parents and tell me that your life is so bad. Take food to someone homeless and tell me how lonely you are. Yeah, still lonely, huh? And that’s how life feels, but you can get through it.

You just have to remember that the person you are is someone worth loving. You may not know it, but someone out there will always love you, but they may never tell you, which is why you should never hesitate to tell someone you love them, even if it’s platonic love. I love each and every one of you. You are all worth the life you have. God would agree. Sometimes it takes one person telling you they love you to make you realize you’re someone worth loving. So I’m here telling you that I love you, and you ARE worth loving. And those people who did you wrong and made you feel like you weren’t? Always wish them the best. You’re just going to waste energy stewing over all the bad things you want done with to them, and they’re not worth that.

If you are considering suicide, please talk to someone, even if it’s a stranger on the street. You might find that the least conventional person is the one who cares the most and will save your life. You can even talk to me. Leave a comment. Email me. Hit me up on Twitter. I’m not too hard to find.

Does life get better? Yes it does.

Does it get easier? No, but everything that happens just makes those good moments so much better. And it’s worth it.

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