From Hell, With Love

I was seventeen when I first started partying. A late bloomer compared to a lot of people I knew back then. Life only started when the sun went down and I found myself choosing every bad habit. Who could I meet? What could I drink or fill my lungs with? The only goal in sight was to find that fuzzy medium which would allow my mind to stop spinning. I didn’t care what it was, as long as it took away the pain.

I lived that way for years.

And I was convinced that’s what life was. A constant struggle.

Nevermind that I was making my own life harder — it would have been difficult either way. That’s what I tell myself to lessen the blow.

I made bad choices, but I learned from them.

The Reality You Can’t Accept Until Its Happened

In the midst of all my questionable choices — like at 20; using up all my income tax to move on impulse from one state to another with my roommates— I learned that I didn’t care much for material items. I cared about my basic needs like shelter and food.

We arrived in the new city and I booked a hotel for a couple weeks. We spent the days walking endless miles, learning bus routes, trying to find a store I could transfer to for work. But a few bad decisions later — and money running out — the living situation turned from palm tree vacation vibes to ‘oh shit’.

We didn’t have a place to stay anymore after the two weeks expired.

Life was now grabbing me by the collar, saying I’ve failed and should give up. For a few days my two friends and I took shelter at a 24-hr McDonald’s; we bought a drink with the last of our money so they wouldn’t kick us out. But sitting in the booth with pillows and a duffel bag of clothes is a humiliation I wish I’d never experienced. It felt like everyone had their eyes on us, waiting for an excuse to call the cops and eject us from the only thing keeping us off the streets at night.

We couldn’t stay there forever though. So the road was our home again. When there were no more cigarettes left to burn and hunger took over, one roommate slipped inside a Big Lots and came back with a box of Pop Tarts. It had been a day since we’d last eaten. Stealing was wrong — except in this case. Right?

All I know for certain is that the brown sugar pop tarts tasted like heaven while I thought about our next shelter.

Asking For Help Is Not Easy

Most people assume help is an easy thing to come by. There’s family, friends, tax-payer funded programs to help the homeless and less fortunate— how could anyone not use those resources?

People forget it’s more complicated than that.

Despite the fact that I was unable to explain my struggles to the few people close to me, I did seek help from other resources. After a serious car accident prior to moving to the city — which left my car in pieces at an impound lot and one friend in the hospital for a month— I visited Social Services. I was lost. I went to see if there was any help available through the state, to temporarily help me while I get back on my feet.

I’d just started a new job. I didn’t have money for a new car because I used what little I had to move into a 2b/2b house. Now I was the only one in the house able to work. How would I pay rent, buy enough food for 3 people, buy a new car, work, and go to college?

I wasn’t a single mother or pregnant.

I didn’t have a physical disability or injury that prevented me from working.

I had a full-time job, so I didn’t qualify for food stamps — even though most of my money was gone after rent, utilities, and hospital bills. I only made $8.50/hr at the time.

There were no services available if you were already trying to help yourself. Only services offered to those who didn’t feel like getting a job or had more kids to feed than their finances would ever allow.

The reality I learned at nineteen, was that if you struggle — you struggle alone. There was never any help coming to the rescue.

Alone At The Table With A Cigarette

You could tell me it’s my fault. And I’d say you’re right. Because though I could have made better choices as a kid — like putting down the bottle of Jack the moment I realized it was hitting, instead of seeing how many shots I could sip in one go — why was I not exactly what I was? A kid trying to cope with things they had no control over.

Fast forward a few years and I’m 23, sitting at a picnic table next to my rented RV, smoking away my troubles instead of inhaling the drugs that killed most of my friends. At this point I knew better than to ask for help. I would figure it out on my own.

How naïve.

But to think the choice is easy, is also naïve.

I kept thinking of excuses to put off getting help. In my head, the fear created false outcomes that kept repeating it would be better if I didn’t go to the mental hospital. I’d get locked away forever. The illness kept reminding me that no one could truly fix my problems. So what was the point to try and ask for guidance?

I couldn’t bully myself out of it anymore without risking my life. Shaking and terrified — I went to my first psychiatrist appointment and at a later date was diagnosed with Bipolar II Disorder.

There was finally a word to label what I had been feeling most my life. A word that described all the irrational choices I’d made leading up to this moment.

And it fixed nothing.

Remember, Life Is Like A Game

I’m twenty-eight now, and a firm believer in the old adage: “Life isn’t fair”.

It’s like a video game without the extra lives.

There are people that cheat — spawn in what they need without much thought. They just want to be the best and most wealthy.

There are those who are lucky enough to figure out how to climb out of the hole reality dug for them at birth.

And there are those in a third category, in a similar hole. These people who work hard, hit a snag and keep falling back down no matter how long they climb.

Of course life isn’t fair. It was never meant to be fair because that’s the whole point of living — to experience everything life has to offer, even if it’s not what you were expecting.

I learned at a young age that help was not coming. I know that sounds absurd and cruel, but its morphed into something less sinister. It taught me that I only ever needed to help myself.

Another adage I’ve added to my repertoire: “A good half of the art of living is resilience.”