I'm Still Here

I’m here. Still.

Which isn’t significant for a normal October the ninth, but it’s a significant day to me.

You see, two years ago and a few hours later from now, I sat sobbing in my truck, wracked with emotional and mental pain, and decided to clear out my shop, put my truck inside, close the door with it running and take one of those forever naps.

It was so dark that day, despite the warm weather and clear skies. There was no light left that I could find, no happiness I could touch. The exhaustion and anxiety had ground me into dust and I was ready to be done.

If I’m writing this and you’re reading it, I think it’s obvious that, in the end, I didn’t. My life was spared by one stark thought—if I did what I planned to do, nobody would check on the dogs for days. (And basically if you ever think I give too much to my dogs, well---suck it, Trebek, I owe them my life.) When I realized that, I chose to go inside, have a nap, and if I still felt like dying later, I’d revisit. Instead I chose to give myself comfort, snacks, and people who supported me. I didn’t tell them, that night, what I’d almost done, but let their love wash over me and let myself be calm in their presence.

I don’t talk about it too much because…well, it’s hard all around. It’s hard to say. It’s hard to hear. I think it’s worthwhile though, in case someone out there needs to hear that there is life after, and that it’s possible, if they find themselves on a similar precipice, to step back. A small step. For any reason.

For me, because it wasn’t fair for the dogs to suffer and starve because I was hurting.

That wasn’t my only brush with such ideation, but it was the closest to acting I’ve ever gotten. And it was a wake-up call that I was pretending to be so much better than what I was admitting. After confessing to my therapist, we ramped up my therapy schedule. I tried being more honest with people and myself about what I needed. I started walking through the fire instead of standing in it and resenting the burn.

I keep October 9th in my head and try to honor what has happened since then. Where I am now compared to then. In the past two years I’ve changed everything. I sold my business and physically, if not entirely, removed myself from a work environment that was unhealthy for me. I got divorced. I explored a handful of cities and picked a new one to call home.

I bought a house. I moved across the country. I proved to myself that I could make the changes I needed to, even if it terrified me. Even if it still terrifies me.

It’s a bittersweet anniversary to say the least. That day was horrible. Today, however—I’m Okay. Okay isn’t Great, but it’s a world apart from that all-consuming darkness. I can manage Okay. I can function with Okay.

I still have panic attacks, but I know I’m not dying. I still have waves of depression and loneliness, but I can differentiate *right now* feelings versus universal truths and forever feelings. The lies from my brain, the fits of pique from my anxiety—I can survive those, and I can do it without wanting to die.

Things aren’t perfect, but they’re a world better than they were.

So I’m going to figure out how to be kind to myself today. I’m going to let myself feel all the things that come with a day like this one. I’m going to celebrate how far I’ve come, and have grace for the me of two years ago, and love that person with all my heart. I resent that I lost so many years to my fear, to my insecurities, to my anxiety, but that doesn’t mean I can’t honor the steps I’ve taken to finally put myself and my happiness first.

Young me, who knew what she wanted and still dreamed, would be proud of what I’ve done over the past two years.

And, at the end of it all, I’ll eat cake, for there is no true celebration without cake.