I didn't step in front of a bus today

On staying here even when it's hard

My friends, a few things before we dive into a draft:

I’ve said before that I don't really believe in trigger warnings because so many things can be triggers for people that I don't know about. But this post contains suicidal ideation. If you are in crisis, Text HOME to 741741.

This post is based on light parts therapy work where I explore parts of me and let them write in order to work through something. Italics denote another part of me talking. Here are other posts about/from my parts. If you’re interested in exploring this kind of work, reach out!

I’ve been thinking about this SubStack space a lot lately because I’ve honestly felt a little discouraged about it. A friend asked me why I started it. “To help people.” This post returns to that original goal a bit.

If you like or appreciate my work, please give it a heart or comment, subscribe, or share with someone else you think might like it. Thank you for being here and for reading.

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I haven't been sleeping well lately. Well, maybe by traditional metrics I have - I usually sleep 8 hours and I don't have trouble falling asleep at night. But many mornings this month I wake up, usually around 5am, from the kind of dream that weighs me down the rest of the day. They have all involved exes of mine, some from more than a decade ago. The feelings are all the same, most involve some recall of the cheating that has happened in almost all of those relationships but in some otherworldly setting with lots of clever metaphors and visuals. A few days ago I dreamed I was at work with a particularly painful ex of mine while also babysitting his kid. As a friend of mine said when I recalled it to her, “that dream is just mean.”

Most of those morning I wake up, reel for a moment, and then open Libby to read myself back to sleep. One morning last week, I decided to see who was up at 5am scribbling droopy-eyed dreams while I was sleeping.

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My mother part rolls me out of bed to pee and grab a notebook to check up on our girl.

She's there. Alone at our table. I write myself down the stairs and into her space, words disappear on a page in the dark. Words I can feel but not see. There's a single light from nowhere on, casting a limited but warm glow - like the light under the microwave in my parents kitchen that they always leave on all night in case someone needs a glass of water. I wish I had brought us some water. Her head is laying across her arm on the table, her hand ties a chunk of her hair in knots. Her mask has slipped and there are tears behind it.

Hi

Or

Knock knock who's there

Or

I saw the light on

Or

I felt you down here

Or I love you

Or I've felt you down here by yourself for awhile. You've been having trouble sleeping. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner.

She looks at me, surprised and unimpressed. She debates making a bigger deal out of me not coming sooner but we're both tired.

Do you want to go back to bed?

I picture her going for my sake and then staring blankly at the ceiling from her bed, unable to close her eyes.

I sit down.

Are you okay?

Why am I so easy to leave?

I push the notebook to her and let her write. Words I promised not to show you. Because I promised I'd keep her safe.

She writes the nightmares out, the questions she has, the fears she's holding, until her eyes drift closed. Her words start to fall off the page.

I take her upstairs and tuck her in and whisper that I'll be back to check on her in the morning.

I don't dream when I fall back asleep.

I don't go back to check on her when she doesn't come to the table in the morning. I'm secretly relieved. And ashamed of that too. I tuck my notebook into the nightstand and don’t read what she wrote now that its light outside.

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Days later, on less than four hours of sun drenched sleep, she stumbles down the stairs ready to drive. straight off a cliff.

I'm taking my meds and sleeping and eating food and drinking water like a good girl and I'm still alone. I still have trouble making myself leave the couch. And I'm not doing my projects - not even THINKING about them - or not thinking about the enough. And I fill all of my brain real estate and energy on circling my loneliness, prowling, snapping my jaws at the most sensitive parts of me, dreaming up the things he says to her that I don't deserve, wondering if I do anything different in any of the other worlds or lives and wishing for a redo.

I'm taking my meds and drinking water and sometimes, like last night, crossing a curve of Columbus Circle at 6 in the morning, I still think about how good it might feel to step out in front of a speeding yellow cab and not have to live this life, figure any of this shit out, or hurt like this. Do I know I am lucky compared to many other people? Yes. Do I know I have a lot to be grateful for? Yes. I even FEEL gratitude. Immensely. But I also feel hurt and it all feels hard. And I don't know if my brain is just different or if I’m just weak and whiner than everyone else because it has always just been kind of hard. I read a post this morning on Instagram, a friend mourning another who has died by suicide and they said, “I hope the pain stopped.” And I cried because I know wanting that. And feeling like thats the only way to get there. Sometimes I even envy the release, the freedom. Sometimes even after a day spent with friends and weeks of good days and with my dog curled at my feet, I want it too.

I wouldn’t do it because the weight I feel has never outweighed the look I can see on my parents face, the weight I can feel in their chest. I can bear this weight so I don't pass it onto them. Losing a child, even one who is grown and far away, is unimaginably painful. I would never. I am grateful I have parents who tether me here. Maybe when they're gone, the scales will tip since the bottom of my family tree is more bare. But they’re here. So so am I. Guilt and good people keep me on this planet.

Funny to receive a text at this exact moment from a friend that says, “If I could, you can be part of my family.”

I'm lonely

And embarrassed of it.

And judgemental of it. Why can't I just be a super focused and successful person and propel my projects forward with all of this time and freedom? Instead of wanting. I’m even liking my job right now, a lot, and still, the slightest ache or loss overtakes anything good.

I've been thinking about the “crazy people” on the subway and how easily I could see me being one of them.

I have an internal monologue, I talk to and as my parts (voices in my head) constantly - I just usually keep those conversations to myself. If I were less regulated - which would happen easily without continued access to things that help me regulate like food, restful sleep, a safe (and temperature controlled) environment, people who I can talk to and hug - I can see how quickly I could start muttering all of the inside things on the outside - certainly small conversations with myself, but also tirades about all of the injustice that’s always bubbling or the rudeness. I'm one glass of water away from slamming my fists on the hood of a car that almost hits a kid in the crosswalk.

And I don't even know if any of that is mental illness or just human. Extremely dysregulated human.

Humans shouldn't get to that point. Not in a society where they don't have to, where we can take care of each other, where enough exists for everyone, where we live in what could be communities.

Especially since once a spiral starts, that's a hard thing to get out of. Because people who are extremely dysregulated, with and without mental illness, need resources to get back to regulation station and those resources are harder to get around here without already having them.

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Another part of me has clearly run away with the notebook. Sneaky girl keeping it on topic but less vulnerable. Almost seamless. But I see you. Give the notebook back please.

But she's going to cry.

Give the notebook back.

I’m not enough. I'm never the levity. There's always someone else. I'm never the one chosen. If he wanted to, he would. He is for someone else. I sound so pathetic. I hate this. I have so much other good. I hate this part of me.

I don't know what to do. I don't know the way forward that doesn't feel like this, that doesn't look like letters of these words drowning in puddles on the page.

I want to turn on the TV or scroll Facebook or Instagram or fall asleep. Just let me fall asleep.

Hold on.

Is the next step to help?

Or can we rest for a moment? Is the resting a way out when we need to go through? Or is it necessary?

I'm sorry you're feeling this way. I feel resistant to consoling you with the words even people like me say like -

Of course it's not your fault

And

Imagine the best version, that's coming

And

It could feel good. Can you think about the potential of it feeling good? Better even than the scraps you're wanting?

But I don't want to fake it or say things I'm not sure of right this second, in this feeling, so I think in this moment all I can say that feels true is

I hear you. I feel you. I'm paying attention. I'm glad you're here. How you feel is okay. I’m not waiting for you to change or “get better”. It's okay to feel what you're feeling. I don’t hate you. I love you while you're feeling it. Not still, not in spite of, just during, and before, and after. You are not alone. This feeling isn't forever. Even if you don't know that right now, I know that. You can trust me. I'm here and I'm not going to stop being here. That's good enough for this moment. Stay here with me.

Do you want a blanket - we can turn on the AC so it's not too hot to get cozy. Maybe some tea? A book? I texted some friends just in case. Here’s a silly toy from your childhood that I bought you.

Good job showing up to write it down. Good job staying. I love you.

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If you are struggling or in crisis, Text HOME to 741741. You're also always welcome to reach out to me. I'm thrilled to be currently training to be a crisis text line volunteer.

I am not currently in crisis and this post is not a call for help or an ask for advice. I share it with the intention that it reaches someone who needs it or spreads awareness. As always. It felt important to share what I wrote while in a moment of crisis with only light editing. Thank you for being here. ❤️