Desperate Remedies

Nobody knows how close I’ve come to ending it all. Each day that I exist feels like I’m dying a slow and painful death. I beg to be released but she won’t loosen her grip. I pull the ropes in attempt to free myself, but this action only cinches them tighter. With relentless exhaustion that no amount of sleep can alleviate, my body goes slack. I collapse in a heap, incapacitated. I feel sick, though I’m not, at least not physically. Everything aches. I’m exhausted. Broken. Inherently and catastrophically broken.

I try to remind myself that I can do hard things. I’ve weathered storms that most people can’t even imagine. I’ve been knocked down, yet somehow managed to resurface, relatively unscathed. I’m supposed to be a survivor, I’m supposed to be strong but I can no longer find the strength to silence her.

“Other people have experienced far worse and still manage to make something of themselves, but you’re a failure with no purpose,” she affronts. I recount the many things I’ve attempted and each time fallen short of achieving. A college dropout, an imposter, no skills, and no talents. I’ve spent years balancing on the knife’s edge, teetering between hope and disappointment. “Let me go,” I plead. “At least grant me a reprieve. You used to give me breaks,” I cry, remembering the days before I was too crippled to leave the house. I was able to spend time with friends or go to work. Even getting out for the occasional grocery store excursion was preferable to being locked up in this hell, this prison where I’m constantly held hostage inside my mind. The bitter pills I swallow used to give me the willpower to fight her off. Periodically, the medication enabled me to feel a sense of calm. I once resented the fact that taking drugs was the only means of providing me with some semblance of normalcy. Now, I desperately long for them to work with the same efficacy they once did.

“And you thought life was difficult then,” she laughs darkly. I have to admit that she’s right. Back then, I thought I was struggling, but now I’m in a cyclone of self loathing, panic and fear. Overwhelmed by nearly everything, I feel like I'm drowning. I’d give anything to regain the modicum of peace she once allowed me. In the nativity of my youth, despite countless setbacks, there lingered within me, a stubborn flicker of hope whispering that someday things would improve.

Decades have passed. Years of her feeding on my suffering, nourished by my tears. She grows stronger and more malevolent every day. Her presence is suffocating, her voice a venomous hiss in the depths of my mind where she invades. During this hostile takeover, my best memories are replaced with painful ones. She artfully weaves lies into these recollections, distorting them. Every trauma and upheaval becomes increasingly more twisted and intertwined until I can no longer untangle the knots to free myself. Feelings of inadequacy, worthlessness, and the futility of my existence are woven into the ropes that bind me, ultimately strengthening their hold. She teams up with the ghosts who haunt my memories. I’m uncertain where her vitriol ends and theirs begins. Their words worm their way into the cracks of my psyche, burrowing deep into the marrow of my bones and the core of my being. Not only have I lost interest in everything, but I can barely remember what once made me happy. I often forget to do basic tasks, such as paying the bills or taking a shower. I forget to take my kids to appointments or find myself too exhausted to sit through a dance class or soccer practice. “Be a fucking parent,” an echo from the past says, smugly passing judgment. “You won’t be depressed if you eat healthier and exercise more,” I hear from a chorus of voices, the countless people who thought they were helping me by saying this. I used to eat healthy. I worked out several times a week. Now I shudder from just thinking about exercise. I frequently binge, although sometimes I can’t bring myself to swallow a morsel. Some days, I’m utterly immobile. There are nights when sleep eludes me and days when I can’t stay awake. However, none of this is enough for this vindictive parasite that is my depression. She has exhaustively broken my spirit, but merely fracturing is not her end game. Her Modus Operandi is to destroy. Therefore, her persistence is unrelenting. A torrential downpour of disparagement rains down on me.

"You’re a stupid whore,” she quotes the words of my assailant all those years ago. “Nobody will believe you,” I try to block out the words and images, but they persevere in their invasion. “You are worthless and lazy, a burden to your family.” Her words are daggers cutting through my already fragile sense of self-worth. "You were a horrible daughter, and you’re a second-rate mother,” she whispers, her voice thick with malice. “Your husband only gambles because you bore him,” she says. “He’s sick of hearing you complain, and it’s only a matter of time before he leaves you. No one cares about you. Soon, your children will no longer even need you.” 

Once she has me isolated and believing that I’m undisputedly alone, her voice softens to a mere whisper. “You can end it all,” she offers, proposing to release me from this torment with the promise of oblivion. 

I’d tried everything. A plethora of medications, fifteen years of therapy, exercise, clean eating, positive affirmations, journaling, painting — you name it. Nothing has worked, and I’m just so damn tired. Out of sheer desperation, I consider that giving up may be the only solution. 

After a long drive intended to clear my mind, my thoughts swirl endlessly without cessation. I pull into the garage and shut the door but leave the car running and the windows open. The voices have finally gone silent. Leaning against the headrest, I close my eyes, and relief washes over me. I recall the first time I’d ever felt suicidal. It was on my thirteenth birthday, the day my dad had taken his final breath. I was distraught, though it wasn’t his death itself that had me contemplating my own. I felt this way because he died thinking I didn’t love him. Several months before his passing, I had told him I never wanted to see or speak to him again. It was a lie, but it wasn’t my own. My mother pressured me, insisting that if I didn’t tell him this, he would move me across the country and never let me see the rest of my family or friends again. My attempts at refusal were in vain. My mom was never one to concede, and as a child, I ultimately bent to her will. In the weeks following my father’s death, Mom admitted she’d been aware he was sick but hadn’t wanted to “worry” me. She knew I’d have had too many questions. After all, what sense would it make for a dying man to permanently move his daughter in with him? My mom’s actual reason for doing this was because he was homosexual. In her eyes, he was an abomination. She blames him for breaking me, but the irony there is that her hatred and harsh judgment were what really started breaking me down. I’d long given up trying to explain that to her. She chooses to hear only what she wants.

I thought about my children, who are the most amazing little people. I love them so profoundly and would give my life for them, but to give up my life would shatter them. Losing my father had broken me, but he didn’t die by his own hand. If he had, it would have annihilated me. If I were to do this thing, my kids would question my love for them for the rest of their lives, and that would be the best-case scenario. I couldn’t bring myself to think about the worst that could happen. With that thought, I knew I couldn't do it. I turned the car off and walked back into the house. I agonized at the realization that there may never be an end to this insufferable illness that tormented me, but leaving my children could never be an option. For as much as I hated myself, I loved them more. I waited for them to return from school, longing to embrace them and tell them how loved they were. Removing an old family portrait from the bookcase, I look at their sweet faces, and the floodgates opened.