The Mother of Empty Promises
A Confession of Depression
These are all the things I want to say out loud, but can’t.
And now I’m paralyzed by the thought of actually typing them. Because then, I’ll have to read them.
Or maybe I won’t.
I want to kill myself. Every. Single. Day. And I can’t. And that makes me angry. The ideation and anger brew an explosive combination.
I am a terrible mother. I should never have been a mother. I should have — never been born. I was such a mistake, a huge problem from the beginning. I hate myself so deeply because of who I am. Just… Such a huge mistake.
I can’t believe I’m sitting here, I can’t believe what my life is today. I can’t understand how I was so blind. I look back and see clearly that I only ever wanted to have a baby of my own so that maybe that someone would feel obligated to love me. And now I realize that I’ve painted myself into a corner and will never be able to escape it. Unless I hurt these people I’ve created… and we’ve all had too much hurt in our lives and I don’t want to be the originator of abuses any longer. I can’t — I can’t allow this into our reality.
I am an ungrateful asshole who treats people like dirt. I never take accountability for my actions and know when I’m doing it, can’t stop myself, and then, I hate myself for it after the fact. I am a garbage person who takes up too much space. I consume too many resources and contribute nothing.
I have no compassion or empathy. I take and take and take and take and expect everyone to jump at the drop of a hat. I criticize the people I love and put them down, because — I don’t understand why I do this. Or why it’s my first instinct, instead of to be accepting. I hate that I wasn’t accepted, that I don’t understand how to have tolerance or patience for people other than me. I maybe think that I’m somehow better than everyone else, and yet, I know that I’m not. And why would that even matter because I hate myself anyway?
I do things that I hate that I do. And I don’t do things I know I should. I don’t take care of my family well enough. I can’t. I’m incapable. I am incapacitated by the daunting thought of meal preparation around the clock, the cleaning, the laundry, the doctors, the therapy. I can’t even go to the grocery store on my own anymore. I can’t plan, I can’t remember where I put my wallet or keys or car. I can’t project manage because my central nervous system is atrophied and dying, I can’t even schedule the Doctor appointments because I’ll either forget about it or forget there was something already planned on that day and that time, and then I’ll be too ashamed to call and reschedule because it’ll be even more daunting that day. More importantly, or simply, I consistently make promises that I don’t or can’t keep — I am the ultimate let down.
I am the Mother of Empty Promises.
I feel paralyzed. I feel like I can’t move. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t even want to think about it, I just want it all to stop. I just want to sleep until everything is over. I don’t want to sleep, I need to be honest, I actually want to die. I don’t want this existing thing. I don’t like it I hate it. I hate myself and I shouldn’t be here. There is no joy inside of me or even the compounds required to create it. My brain is broken. My DNA is broken. My heart is a cold, dark, and empty hole.
I don’t know what love is.
The only love I’ve ever known has been conditional. It’s been used as currency and control, and has been widely accepted through American culture–because if/when you don’t fit in, we don’t love you. “If you’re not a dried up painted portrait of exactly what we think you should be, you don’t get the love.”
People like me are different. Our ability to exchange healthy emotional energy snuffed out in our homes, on the streets, and quietly inside of ourselves. Self-worth draining like blood from the neck of the proverbial sacrificial goat that is modern-day humanity. This thing I know as love — I don’t want any part of it. And if the love I long for is dead, then so am I… I want to be erased, like the whiteboards from my once-upon-a-time life as a “normal person”.
But I’m home now. Confined with the embers of my anger smouldering incessantly, fueled by this neverending supply of self-loathing. The well is dry, and I’m left to cry it full again. The sadness that fills this bucket only calms the flames for a little while. White-hot and insatiable heat below the surface, swallowing my sadness and confessions and still, I’m unrelieved. Soul unsettled and too hot to handle, don’t touch me; I’m not ready to be examined, I am not ready to cease burning, I have too much left inside to find.
I can’t turn this off, I can’t look away, I can’t just shut it down; like I’ve done so many times before. And still, I’ll want to delete myself. I’ll want to erase every word that I’ve written here. I’ll want to decide, not to be.
Seeing now that by doing anything, everything is counterproductive.
Moving a single muscle, firing any electrical current through these defective neurons, will jolt me back into realizing my reality and the sheer impossibility of escape.
Post-reading reminder:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
— Khalil Gibran
Authors Note:
Some time ago, I was suffering in the depths of depression and battling an onslaught of inner demons and dissonance. How could it be that I’ve lived for over thirty years, and I still have no idea about who I am? How could it be that I’ve somehow managed to rear children for over thirteen years and be, still, this broken? How can I continue?I knew a turning point was coming, I felt it in my bones, on some empathic frequency, and there were words inside of me that needed freedom. Things inside of me needed saying, even if I was afraid to hear it. You know?
It’s a difficult thing when your voice has been silenced for so long; you can honestly forget how to use it.
The first true words I spoke to myself as I “rejuvenated” my mental health journey through medication, hospitalization, and treatments are above, and it’s hard to share them without feeling shame. They’re honest and real, and at the time weren’t filled with hope. I wish you to know now that I am full of hope. That even though re-reading these words since that day, I am filled with hope for that woman, and her inner child, because her peace is coming; she will see the light inside and choose to save herself because she is worth it.
You are worth it too, in case you need reminding.
If you’re struggling, please get help today. We need you in this world, we want you in this world, all of you is welcome here.
Click Here for a Lifeline (not an affiliate link)
