Breaking down the lie. Writings on living with depression, beating addiction and raising a son.

Breaking down the lie | Part I

It’s funny to me how it took me 30 seconds to think of a suitable title. Things like that matter to me. Little things like that automatically start a weird flow of negative thoughts. I’m slow. I’m stupid. Who the hell would take so long to come up with….oh wait, I was writing something.

I don’t know why this always happens. I just know it does and most of the time I’m not even fully aware of it. I’m trying to be aware of it because it influences my life in a way that is destructive. Writing about it might help, I figured.

The lie is my life. Breaking it down means creating space to build something new. Not because I feel like breaking shit down and building new things, but because I have to. Otherwise, it’s going to break itself down and just sit there, being broken.

I also don’t intend to do it because I want to be happy or live a better life or be a better person. Right now I don’t believe I can be happy. I don’t see the point of living a life in the first place, let alone a better one. And I’m sure the part about being a better person should be an obvious one by now.

Eventhough all the above is true, it is also true that I’m six weeks away from a 20 day rehab treatement. That’s because I’m an alcoholic. I also have an eating disorder. I am depressed and at times suicidal. Some smart people say I’m bi-polar. I don’t see the point in differentiating between feeling like shit one way, or the other.

I’m going into rehab for one reason only: I have a son.

That son came to me during a time when I pretty much accepted that life wasn’t going to last very long. I was comfortable with that. After two suicide attempts I felt I blew my chances at a speedy exit from this life. I felt I didn’t deserve another chance to back out the easy way. I was dying at a slow pace, like leaving that horrible birthday party by moving towards the door step-by-step, hoping no one will notice you.

So while I was drinking 1,5 litres of wine a night, eating 400 calories of solid food a day, working 50 hours a week and occassionally spruced things up a bit by cutting my arms, I got pregnant.

I then decided that I had to live.

What I didn’t decide was that in order to live, I needed help. I figured that once I made up my mind, I could simply train myself to be positive, cheerful and relaxed. That I could just gain weight, start eating, stop drinking and go to bed on time.

I suppose anyone with an IQ over 20 can see that failure was inevidable. Except for me. Which is also a lie considering I’m not stupid and know damn well better than that.

So this is the start of breaking down the lie. And the lies underneath the lies. To face life with a depression without destroying myself. For my son. And for us both.

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