Swimming in a Sea of Sorrow

Growing up I always knew my life was a little different from everybody else. My clothes were from the salvation army, my hair was in the same afro puff every single day of school, and my mom had bipolar disorder. Life wasn't always easy as a kid, but it also wasn't always hard. I had a mother who loved me dearly and grandparents that helped keep us afloat. It wasn't until I was in my third year of college that I finally realized, or let myself realize, that I was suffering from depression.

I refused to be like my mom, not wanting to admit I ever had a problem, no matter how many times I thought that one single word during my day. But when my grandpa died it hit me like wave from the sea. I was depressed!

Fast forward one and a half years and I am working my dream job at a children's hospital. I have always loved kids and dreamed of working at this hospital ever since my little sister was admitted here after birth. I was where I wanted to be, so why wasn't I happy? I had talked to a therapist about my issues at home with my family, I graduated, I moved into my first apartment. I was officially and adult with a big paycheck and a cat I could call my fur baby. But some piece of me still made me cry at night and think that one single word every day.

Changing my job was the one thing I felt I could control. I started to search the web for different things I thought I would enjoy doing, but that just made it worse. It made me crawl under my covers and pretend the world didn't exist, pretend that I didn't exist. But, that's foolish! Myself, my life, the world around me did exist. It existed so hard it seemed as if everything around me was crumbling into a million little pieces and I was left there standing atop the rubble trying to put it all back together.

I NEEDED HELP!

So, I did what I knew how, I talked to my friends, I cried, I vented, I shared my sorrows, I shared every little thing I knew to share to make me feel better. And, I did, I did feel better, for a few minutes. When the night came, and it was time to lay under the covers and go to work, to a job that was no longer my dream but my nightmare, I was back to feeling that sorrow. I was back to thinking that one single word, SUICIDE. At this point, that was my only option, I wasn't happy with my life, my job made it worse, my dream job had turned into my nightmare. For 12 hours, three days a week I lived in a nightmare. I slapped a smile on my face because I couldn't let those at work know I wasn't happy here anymore. But then bad news came, bad news came like a tsunami on my life. Two people that I love very much had been having a harder time than me, and that crushed me. For the next few months, I would walk the bottom of the sea wishing I could breathe atop the water. Wishing I could feel the breeze on the surface of the sea. For the next few months, I would constantly think about ending it all.

Finally, I came to the realization that once again, I needed to seek help, and not just help from friends, professional help. I finally needed to once again admit to myself that not being okay IS okay, it's okay to always be happy. It's okay to feel like you're dying on the inside, to feel like the water of the sea is surrounding you, making it so that you can never get to the surface to breathe. But what's not okay is being in denial and not getting help, so get help I did.

My therapist was wonderful, she listened to me, understood what I had to say, and advised me in ways I didn't know a human could. I got meds, I started to feel better. Only thing is, I still had to live that same nightmare 12 hours a day, three days a week. I had to work, I had bills to pay, I couldn't quit, I wasn't the type of person to let my boss down like that, so I stayed, which meant that I stayed depressed. I stayed in that sea, I was so close to the surface I could almost feel the breeze on my face, so close yet so far away.

I've always been the type of person that hated quitting things that involved other people. No matter how much I was doing a disservice to myself I just couldn't do it. But I finally did! I finally realized that I am what matters most in my life. I am living it, so my life should be lived how I want it to be lived, not how my coworkers, boss, friends, or family want it to be lived, but ME.

I am at a place in my life now where I am okay, I am happy. I no longer live in a nightmare when I am at work. No longer drift below the surface of the sea, wishing I could feel the breeze. I now float atop of the sea, feeling the breeze on my face, hearing the seagulls caw as they look for fish, feeling happy to be at the surface. For some it takes longer than others, it feels like you are weak or broken, but that just isn’t true. The stigma that is on mental illness is something that made me embarrassed to admit that I needed help, and that is wrong. If it weren’t for getting help I probably wouldn’t be here floating atop the sea feeling the breeze. And boy does this breeze feel good.