Today is an interesting day for me. An anniversary of sorts. An anniversary of what wasn’t.
By the time March 11, 2013 rolled around, I’d given up making it the day I ended my life. I was getting help to beat back the darkness that swallowed me whole. Instead of losing my life, I lost my gall bladder. When my surgery was scheduled, I wondered if the date was an example of irony. Irony is tricky. Alanis Morrisette didn’t quite get it right…
Not close to any major holidays to associate with it. Almost three months after my daughter’s birthday. Almost three months before my younger son’s. A month before mine.
Mid-March is nondescript in Central New York. Winter has lost most of its fury, but spring slumbers on. The world doesn’t look asleep; it looks dead.
You’d think with my family history, and a degree in psychology, I would have recognized sooner that I had a problem. But you’d be wrong.
The lies of the darkness are easier to believe than truth.
I’m worthless. I’ll never get it right.Depression lies. Click To Tweet
I couldn’t believe things would ever get better. The ugliness of the world blocked out the beauty. I lost hope. I believed I was beyond grace.
But I still couldn’t accept that I needed help. I believed I was beyond help. Too flawed to be fixed. The darkness my brain fell into convinced me my bleak outlook was merely realistic.
I actually don’t think about March 11 much. But I was writing over at Defying Shadows this week as part of a series on recognizing we have a mental health concern. It was good to be reminded of where I’ve been. Remembering bad days honestly helps me stay safe.
Join me over at Defying Shadows to read how the lies of the darkness kept me from getting help:
It broke my heart that my mom never got the help she needed. What would it take for me to seek the help I didn’t think I needed?