Survivor to survivor

I am one of those survivors that refused to let my abusers win. I made goals. I drafted plans. I was meticulous. Despite the various obstacles I had to overcome. Yet there was still something missing. Years had passed since that period of forced inferiority took place. I was losing my mind trying to figure out what else I needed to do. Why wasn't the GOOD thing happening? Life is a math equation right? So where is the product of my hard work and determination? Become educated? Check. Live responsibly? Check. Be unapologetically myself? Check. I took a hard look at my life and had to be honest with myself. I was at my happiest when I felt free. When I was a 21 year old party girl hitting up dive bars with my colleague from work. Class in the morning, work in the afternoon, party at night. It was a high that I never wanted to come down from. The weekends called to me, it carried me through each week. I felt like I had all the time in the world. Creative expression, movement, fluidity and attention. It had been years since I felt that. My life felt stagnant, like there was nothing else to look forward to. My degree didn’t produce a career. My responsible lifestyle didn’t grant me a home. Social medica didn’t gift me that feeling of love. I wanted to feel free again. One last high. So I made a plan. One, buy a gun. Two, put on my prettiest lingerie. Then put on my headphones with my three hour suicide playlist on repeat. The one that makes me breakdown for no reason. The songs that make me cry just because. The playlist would coax me into resolve. I would end my life in the back seat of my paid off car. The police would find me lifeless in the backseat, my playlist still playing. My sunken breasts barely filling my lace bra. My ribs and hip bones the largest parts of me. I made my plan. I went to the store the next morning and took a picture of a gun. Damn these strict gun laws. So I gathered my things, sliced my wrist, destroyed my apartment and set my sights for LA. The place where dreamers go. It took me 15 hours to get there. The feeling in my stomach was indistinguishable. A combination between fear, excitement and nausea. I arrived at Venice Beach at 7:02pm, the sun was just setting. A women in a tutu passed by me on roller skates. It was colder than I expected. The wind blew my hair to one side and my ears lost feeling. I stared at the waves solemnly until I realized I made a terrible mistake. I remembered the lines of tents of homeless encampments I had passed just 30 minutes prior. How many of them were dreamers? How many of them thought they just needed to get to LA for life to be good? Without feeling I started the 15 hours drive out of California. It was surreal. I drove 30 hours round trip, no sleep just short pit stops on the way for gas. I put about $1000 dollars on my credit card for the stuff. Probably the most financially irresponsible thing I’ve done in my life. I returned to my complex with no job, an additional $1000 debt on my credit card and a taste in my mouth that I can’t even describe. When I unlocked my apartment door I was relieved. The same place that felt like a cage triggered feelings of reassurance. I stood in silence as I observed the mess I had made the day prior. The light of overcast filled the room. I reviewed the damage. Broken glass, shattered tv, nothing permanent but at least a couple days work to bring it back to normal. I awoke the next day ready to clean. As I swept the floors, gathered the bags of trash and rearranged my space I realized I overcame yet another obstacle, my Self. My high expectations. My obsession with the good life. So I started over. I accepted the minimum wage job that I was overqualified for. I worked on my art, one by one filling the space the tv left. I started eating again. I started loving my Self again. And I was rewarded for it. With first time home buyers assistance. I am a homeowner. With a new job, one that makes sense. With love, a puppy. With hope. The life I always imagined.