Today was ordinary; nothing new with work, dinner with friends, and night cap with the boyfriend.
You’ll see me buried in sheets and my head in between pillows. Sobbing, crying, tossing and turning. That is ordinary, too. I can’t remember when I started to be this sad. To live through the day and break down at night. This has been my cycle, this has been my life everyday. There are really bad days and there are some good ones.
One night, I was staring at the ceiling and tears started falling down my face. I’ve had enough of this. This feeling of uncertainty and not being enough for anything and anyone. I tried killing myself, overdosing myself with any medicine I could find. I passed out. I woke up with my head throbbing and my stomach in unbelievable pain. No one was home, so I got an Uber to the hospital. I sat on that cold bench when the nurse came to me and asked what my emergency was. I told her my stomach is in deep pain but I didn’t know how to tell her about the rest. The world spoke in unison when I suddenly threw up by the bed. She looked at me with wide eyes as she stared on the floor with different colors and some capsules. I started crying.
“Tell me how you feel,” my therapist said. That was the first time I met her. I didn’t know what to tell her or what makes me sad, so instead I asked her, “how do you feel pain?” She looked at me differently. Her brows, a little more curved than the first minutes. “I think I can feel it in my veins. Like acid passing through it.” My heart dropped and I couldn’t catch my breath. Because I knew I had to tell her everything. I wanted to tell her everything so she could understand. But my heart was too heavy and I couldn’t find the words to quantify how I felt.
The second session with my therapist happened almost three months after the first one. I had to drag myself off my bed and go to her. I was taking my time because I had to put together these stories in my head. “Tell me anything,” she said. I was staring at her. I wanted to cry. I wanted her to understand how painful what I feel is. But I knew, no one would understand.
I started telling random stories 9,000 pesos and three sessions after. On my fourth, I started talking about how I started feeling worthless and wrong all the time. No matter how good I was in something, I knew that I’ll never be good enough. That’s when I realized how bad I felt. My heart slows its beat down every time I think about it.
Progress, I thought. It would take a while before I can finally let go of what I feel or to stop feeling sorry for myself all the time. But, at least, there’s progress. And hopefully, it’ll all be okay.
