I’ve built cages. Whenever things get even slightly uncomfortable, I have a magic-pixie-fairy-dust way to just make myself disappear from the situation forever. Only, that means I can never be uncomfortable. And that’s no way to live, is it? Where every time I do something just a little bit risky, I start researching ways to self-destruct.
I built cages. I built walls. I haven’t allowed myself to be Unapologetic. There’s too much discomfort there.
This is not how human beings were meant to live, not really living at all but in constant fear of feeling anything. We were meant to feel and survive it. My therapist has been trying to drill this into my head since day 1.
Glennon talks about how at one point in her life, she really, truly believed that she was broken and unable to experience and survive pain like everyone else could. She became an alcoholic and drug addict, never allowing herself to come off of a high. But now she hates that she ever thought she was broken.
In a strange and twisted way, suicidal ideation is like my high. My escape. And that’s messed up.
I built walls. I examined and magnified my flaws so that no one could ever catch me off guard by thinking about them. I did everything to pacify and protect myself from others. But it was lonely. Other people are unpredictable and unpredictability causes me discomfort more than anything. When I am around a lot of people, there are so many risks to calculate, so I get too overwhelmed to stay.
Life is unpredictable. But it’s still worth it. It has to be.
I am terrified of vulnerability. I am terrified of not knowing. I am terrified that all the things I believe about myself are true. I am terrified of getting hurt.
But look how much I am already hurting.
I am terrified of living.
I really feel that I cannot make any mistakes. When I make a mistake, there’s the discomfort and here come the thoughts again. Part of that is probably due to the way I grew up, where love was not unconditional but ebbed and flowed like the storm that was my mind. I am so terrified of losing love that I end up pulling away.
If I want to heal and start really living again–and I do–I’ve got to start sitting with discomfort and pain without looking for the easy button that can transport me immediately away. I’ve got to be whole again. Every time I whisper that I need to die, I think a part of me is cut away. I start to disappear. The chaos of life has to be better than the silence of death.
As I wade deeper and deeper into the pain packed down inside me, surely life will get easier. No more calling hotlines. No more staying up until 4am crying. No more hospitals. I am tired of being scared.