Thursday, November 18, 2010
I shouldn't have lived past this day. I wanted to be immortalised at thirty, with all the dreams untold and half-met. But for three people in my life, my parents and J, I resisted the urge to walk to the field across my home and drown myself in an overdose of pills that would kill me.
Instead, here I am. Alive.
I am grateful but sad to be alive. Living is painful torture. Living to me is going through each day debating the decision to live or die, overcoming constant lethargy and exhaustion, blighted with some sort of psychosomatic pain, allergy or ache, fighting the onslaught of feeling like I'm having a heart attack or a wave of extreme, fundamental sadness.
Every day, I fight this.
Still, I stayed alive. My cocktail of medication pleads sanity and rationale into me. I am still here, largely because of the thousands of dollars J and my parents have spent on my treatment. I am alive because God saved me. I am alive.
I write this with tears streaming down my face into my pillow. It is so painful to be alive but my life is no longer my own. I can only med-up and wait for the chemicals in my brain to re-balance. Meanwhile, sleep is the closest to not living I can find some respite in.