Missing Pieces

Wholeness. Completeness.

Like someone poured soft gold in to hold together the shattered heart

The brokenness making it more beautiful than ever before

I nearly ended it all on Friday. I was so depressed. But not like my normal level of depressed. This was so depressed that interacting with the outside world was in a fog. Drowning in dark water, a thrashing sea, incapable of uttering a single sound to carry a meaning, I fought for my life.

I ran away from it all. Turned off the lights. Held the pills in my hand. And waited for someone to call. Someone to stop me. Some reminder that this life was worth living.

Someone did talk to me. To ask me why I missed taking a test that morning and tell me to take it later that day.

It wasn’t helpful.

I don’t think it was possible to care LESS at that point. I was in a fight for my life. Would I stay would I go would someone find me would I… succeed? And what would happen if I did?

I didn’t even think to ask for help. Help was too busy. Help was far away. Help didn’t care enough to set down their bagel and come stop their friend committing suicide.

In the end I came to my own rescue. I watched Mr. Keuger’s Christmas, and cried through the whole thing, understanding completely his loneliness and incompleteness. His missing pieces. The faces of the people who were “too busy” for their fellow man who needed desperately some companionship.

And when it was over I dried off my tears, put the pills in my backpack, left the dark room and went back to my dorm. I borrowed the kitchen, baked sugar cookies, and danced the whole time.

I took the rest of the day for me, and most of the weekend too, trying to recover and figure out what to do next.

I don’t think there’s a pill to fix me. And I wonder if what all these doctors say is wrong is really the problem. Is it really so bad to be depressed as long as you can live? Some of the medications…. change even your personality. Energy levels. Etc. The chemistry that holds a person together is a delicate thing. Mental illness is like having strands severed.

Missing pieces.

I am missing pieces in my heart. Not just my best friend who passed away or my family who are so far away but also missing pieces of myself.

I wonder what truly happened to that little girl, what made the memories go black. I wonder if she will be able to learn to trust again in time. I wonder how much of her childhood was spent in fear of a great evil.

I’m missing a lot of pieces of my past and that means I’m missing pieces of my own whole self.  How can the brokenness go away if I can’t restore the broken pieces?

I long for companionship but shut it out. I crave closeness but can’t keep close to anyone. I want to be loved but struggle to love anyone. I can’t trust. It’s the worst kind of cage, the one that is inside.

I’m not sure where to take the fight to next. If there IS some miracle pill to make the dance in my head balance so that my good days aren’t heaven and my bad days worse than death and hell. Some kind of normal, I suppose, is what I crave and miss.

Maybe there’s a therapist who has the appropriate skills to establish trust with me so I will ACTUALLY do the therapy work. Maybe there’s a support group that can help me find new meaning in living this new life I didn’t ask for.

Or maybe for now it’s okay to have missing pieces. Maybe for now it’s okay to not be okay. Maybe I don’t have to have it all together right now and as long as I am here, trying, that is more than enough to win this war.

Maybe it’s okay to not be okay for now.20170120_071612.jpg

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