HERE I LIE, BROKEN HEARTED

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

All of the names and identifying characteristics of the people who appear in my writing have been changed to protect the good, the bad, and the ugly. If you think you see yourself or someone you know between the lines, please be assured that you are almost certainly wrong, and consider doing some shadow work.

These are my stories and this is how I remember them. Mostly.

In them, you will find the truth, the whole truth, and nothing remotely close to the truth.

Enjoy.

TRIGGER WARNING:

The following includes depictions of self-harm, anxiety, depression, suicide, eating disorders, mental illness, substance abuse, and addiction. If such topics pose a risk to your mental health or recovery, please save this book for a later time and keep healing.

I hope to see you then.

My writing is stuffed, like a personal item on an à la carte airline, of satire, sarcasm, and self-deprecation. It is not intended to make light of very serious and real topics, but because I cope with humor and I’m the one writing - not you. I choose to laugh now because I cried then.

I am not a mental health expert or in any position to speak on its intricacies. Do not read my experience or commentary as remote knowledge of how to get to the promised land - I’m still trying to find it myself. I do however know, which way leads straight to hell and hope my stories help you turn around.

I went, so you don’t have to. “Purpose is an essential element of you. It is the reason you are on the planet at this particular time in history. Your very existence is wrapped up in the things you are here to fulfill. Whatever you choose for a career path, remember, the struggles along the way are only meant to shape you for your purpose.”

Chadwick Bozeman, Howard University

The decision to share the following was not taken lightly. I haven’t a vague idea of how to write this - never really considering I’d ever have to.

I was (and remain) concerned for so many reasons. Including, but not limited to:

1. The social opinions and judgment on what’s considered the most stigmatized disorder (not a competition you want to win).

2. Failure from multiple rock-bottom losses of a once successful & happy life; in a culture of some who enjoy a proper downfall.

3. I worry it will be seen as attention-seeking, desperate, and/or an attempt at making excuses for bad behavior.

4. I don’t want others to weaponize this to invalidate situations that have merit.

5. It confirms my exes dodged a bullet.

I don't tell this for my own self-service. Working through the stories I’m about to tell you will take a lifetime of hard work. To be honest, it's hard to tell, harder to explain, and I still feel a lot of shame about it. It’s not flattering in the least and should you choose to read on, you will likely end up disliking me. I do most every time I turn truth into a character count.

You might even wonder how I sleep at night, so to avoid that in the Q&A the answer would be 6 king-size pillows, a fan, my Goldendoodle, pharmaceuticals, and enough self-induced disappointment to make anyone want to close their eyes. My hope, however, is that, like myself, you stick around long enough for me to change that impression. The apologies I spent years making are a book long; literally.

What I have found to be certain, is that you will be the villain in chapters of your life story; and in others. You will reveal to those that want to read that you’ve betrayed the very essence of who you are, and who you are to them.

Strangers will feel the pain of similar stories, where they were the innocent bystanders, and despise the author who dared to put these words to paper. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Rewrite. And keep writing.

Your only obligation is to find a way to love yourself by the end of the book and to use your voice to show others they’re safe to love you again, too.

I'm not here to tell my story to you so you can feel sorry for me. I’m good - I’m doing my work. But open your heart up to other people, because I'm telling you, Hell looks favorable to this earth for many and, people. need. help. If telling my story means others don’t have to live in the same shadows of shame, I’ll lay all my cards bare.

Would I be upset if it becomes a book deal and eventual HBO series? No. But I’ve always said I have too many secrets to be famous and that list is only growing. The people of my past could get schhmmmoney telling stories to tabloids, and I’m too petty to let that happen.

Plus, there’s too much in this book I could get sued for.

So I guess I’ll show you mine before they can show you pictures and screenshots of theirs.

BECAUSE LET ME BE CLEAR, I MADE MY BED.

It's never been of any consolation to me, but if this were a court trial, I would like to submit as evidence that I didn’t know what I was doing until after it was made. Unlike the time I woke up from an alcohol-induced blackout and didn't remember that I had power-sanded the kitchen floor - the day before my best friends rehearsal dinner I was hosting - I couldn't just slap stain over this one. In truth, I didn't slap any stain on the floor before the dinner either; and went with a "rustic" theme.

Regardless, like an Ambien induced sleepwalker who wakes up to a brand new Fiat in his garage — I know it was me. My “sleepwalking,” just happened to be a full Menty-B, Identity-C, or to put it bluntly - losing my GDM (goddamn mind). The difference being that when I woke up I didn’t have a Fiat. In fact, there wasn’t much of anything left; and anything that remained was on life support.

I made my bed. I pissed in it, ripped the covers off, and wore it in with depression so heavy the memory foam would now spill a glass of wine — if there were any left. I tried to flip it over, hoping that by hiding the wear I could salvage its integrity. Hoping I could once again recognize the comfort that held me without question night after night, and offered rest instead of nightmares. A fitting punishment after everything in my opinion - there’s no rest for the wicked.

Instead, I sunk deeper. The memory foam, like myself, refusing to forgive the past; accept the current; or pretend I would find comfort again that I wouldn’t just soil the same. It would be another year before I found out the monsters under my bed were nothing compared to the monsters in my head.

The best description I've made for 2019 is as follows:

"It's like you come home from a perfectly sunny, wonderful day, and you're excited to get to the home you've created with the love of your life. As you pull-up, a bomb explodes - NCIS style - and everyone and everything you've ever loved and worked for is on fire inside. It's super confusing because everything was just fine moments ago and to your knowledge nobody hates you enough to try to kill you.

You frantically try to find people to help the blaze consuming everything you are. If someone, anyone, could help in time you might be able to save it. You find a professional to help fight the fire, but when they come - fully equipped to help - they look around and don't see anything like I'd described.

It doesn't look like there's an emergency anywhere.

Everything looks fine.

Everyone looks fine.

You seek out others. Tell them everything is almost gone and all you need is help before it's too late. If you can just figure out the motive and effective solution, you can put it out before it's too late. They too look and shrug, only seeing the perfectly curated facade you've spent years designing, before mentioning the new paint you put on the front looks perfect."

You try to find anything to stop the flames, but all you have are tiny measuring cups that are half-full of water. Whenever one flame would smoulder, the fire engulfs your job, happiness, appetite, finances, and friendships to feed it's flames. Everything you touch turns to ash and you're not able to ignore anymore how much worse you're making it.

Then, you look down, and see you're holding the detonator that ignited it all. And in your palm you see you've saved the best for last; the dead-man's switch intended for you.

While your world fades to black, your mind whispers, "Silly girl, you didn't actually think you'd get away unharmed, did you?!"

"These ashes belong only to you."

- A