She spends her time running.

A couple of drinks here and there

With a lemonade chaser.

Swallowing back the flames

Hoping the shame burns with it.

She spends her time running.

Secret encounters that make

Her head spin.

The faces blur behind her eyelids.

Their names? She doesn't remember.

She spends her time running.

Rivulets of smoke escapes

Her lips. She ascends.

Reality fades once more

And her mind goes silent.

She spends her time running.

With her fists closed at her sides.

It still seems to follow her.

She spends her time running.

But still, the illness manages to catch up.

Holding on to the pillow at night

I wonder why I keep letting this

Shit happen.

I've memorized your footsteps and

Which door is which when it shuts

Then I count the seconds and imagine

What it's like being on the other side.

What's it like to be a part of a routine

That if someone leaves (or dies) this

Would all crumble but if I leave

You all would be just fine?

This reality hurts but it's the only one

I can think of because I don't understand

Anything but loneliness and counting every

Kiss and hug as a fluke.

You forgot again and I just went to bed

Instead of coming to you first because

I know you'll actually want me if you

Made the first move.

I'm not used to being wanted and

This shit is weird so I assume the worst

Just to have control in a situation where I

Should feel free.

It's only a "good night" and

Nothing to get upset over

Yet my internal checklist says

"I'm not as important as they are."

It's only a "good night", though.

It's only a "good night."

Five more minutes. My mind spits out. Five more minutes.

It makes no sense, really. I'd always thought my last words, er, thoughts would be more profound. That I would have some type of wise jargon or eerie message that people would remember. Or talk about. Who knows? Maybe my mediocrity will follow me in death.

I can't feel my legs. Oh, God.

Somehow, this is a lot more, how do I say this? Fucking terrifying. That's what this is. No one tells you about the pain. Oh, God. The pain. Dying hurts. The survivor stories gloss over it. They focus on the regret and the fear but not the pain. Jesus. I can't feel my legs or my arms. Oh, God.

I hear screaming. Who is that? Mom? Shit.

I will my mind to push the blood back into my body. To staunch the bleeding. Hell, my panicked brain tells me to get off the floor and pretend that everything is fine. I've been doing that for 25 years. I try and open my eyes to see her.

I can't. Oh, God. She's wailing. It's getting harder to breathe.

So this is the regret they talk about. The feeling of not being able to wipe my mother's tears away and say it's okay. So this is it.

Five more minutes, I think helplessly.

I've been depressed for a long time. I would say that I was diagnosed at 17 but it's honestly been longer than that. My earliest memory of feeling depressed probably started in elementary school. I was bullied relentlessly for being fat and tall. To top it all off, I was in the gifted program (that should be abolished in my opinion) so I had a hard time "being smart" while "being cool" to my peers.

My self-esteem was always low and I'd often daydream of being someone else. I always wanted to be the popular girl or the pretty girl that everyone liked. I hated my body and asked God multiple times to make me skinny with every salad I ate so I would be likable. Looking back, my heart breaks that such a young girl had such strong feelings of self-hatred.

I remember being on a field trip in second grade and looking in the mirror. I hated the way I looked. I saw a fat girl in a too-tight button-up sweater with hair too short and a weird nose. Somehow I convinced myself that glasses would make me look better. Now I wear glasses and I still detest the person I see in the mirror.

Now, like most people with this illness, I have good days. Some days I just can't get out of bed. And then there are those days when I wish that I weren't here anymore.

Those days are obviously the hardest. I remember when those suicidal thoughts were rampant while I was in college. I didn't go to class often and I would lay in bed hating myself for every single mistake I ever made in life. I kept berating myself for messing "everything up" and I just could not see a way out. I didn't really talk to anyone about it. I mostly drank a lot to numb the pain. Somehow, I was able to graduate and put college behind me. But, the depression that follows me never actually left.

I realize all of this now. I wish I had the mindset to talk about everything in my therapy sessions in college. I wish that I understood that depression is a legitimate illness and that my poor performance in school had little to do with my own intellect and everything to do with the chemical imbalance in my brain due to trauma, genetics, and circumstances out of my control.

Above all, I wish I had the grace to give myself some compassion back then. I am my own biggest bully and I'm learning that being gentle with growth works a hell of a lot better than chastising myself into changing. It is difficult and hindsight is always 20/20, but I'm glad that now I am heading toward a better horizon.

However, depression is a hell of a beast.

I sit hunched over my computer

fingers hovering above keys

waiting for something to come to mind.

blink. blink.

the damned cursor

mocks me

with its emptiness.

It's 3am and I'm awake. Tinny rain noises from my partner's phone barely penetrate the low rumble of the dingy air conditioner in the wall. My metamour sleeps soundly beside them and I briefly relish in the free leg space and the coolness of the sheets against my skin. Then, it comes again. That nagging feeling. It slowly creeps its way from my stomach to my esophagus. My stomach lurches forward in disgust and before I know it, familiar yet unwelcome words come to mind:

You're not enough.

Then the downward spiral starts. My heart starts racing as memories upon memories begin to replay rejection after rejection as if it proves the mediocrity of my existence. My ears start burning at all the mistakes I've made and I promise myself that I won't make it to-

I take a deep breath and ignore the turmoil in my belly. My ankles pop noisily as I pad out of the smoke smelling room onto the dirty concrete balcony. Crisp air fills my lungs and makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. October has welcomed me into her frigid arms and I sigh helplessly. My heart still races and I began to pace. I start counting down from 100 until the obscenities and threats in my head are resigned whispers and grunts. The locks softly click and I let myself back in.

"You okay?" My partner murmurs through the thin blankets.

"I'm fine," I whisper. It's a mantra I hope to be true one day. They hum and settle back in while I stand in the middle of the room shivering a bit. The whispering has quieted now and I am exhausted. Tears would form if I had them.

I curl up in the bed again while relishing in the leg space and the coolness of the sheets against my skin.

High heels and short skirts.

Cat ears with the bells and lace.

Time for "Ho"-lloween.

Words cannot express how weird this all feels. I've always associated this number with "having your shit together." I think of freshly leased cars and the personal assortment of keys jangling from a lanyard. 30 means home-cooked meals that have more vegetables in them than starches and meat. It means socking away the funds for a DIY wedding you are planning in the next two years. It doesn't mean...whatever the hell I'm currently doing.

Well, I realize that my perception of 30 has been changing rapidly as time goes on. 30 is less like the shiny and polished version of me that I cooked up for myself in my early 20s and more about reclaiming the time that I lost pleasing others. It's a strange phenomenon to realize that I am truly free from others' expectations of me.

It's scary, even.

There is this whole "fear of failure" thing that I'm sure most people are familiar with. I've been so paralyzed by fear these past couple of years that I ultimately stopped living. I was too afraid to step outside of my comfort zone because of my past failures and just how badly they hurt. Now, I have time to process and reframe the way I think. I don't have to worry that everything will always fall apart. That's a scary thing to process when worry has been a constant (yet toxic) companion for 30 years.

30. That's still weird to think about.

What have I learned in 30 years? What haven't I learned in 30 years? Am I overthinking this whole age-equals-milestone thing? Most 30-somethings would most likely say that I am. The reality is adulthood is just...aging. All the material, social, and psychological things that go with it completely depend on the individual and their life story. I still catch myself lamenting that I'm not fitting into society's standards of what being 30 is. That's okay.

I've learned that the important part is to dismantle what I've been taught about being an adult and to give myself the grace to just be 30 in the way that makes sense and fits me at this moment. Being 30 right now is freeing. It's a clean canvas.

And I'm ready to pick up the brushes and start painting again.

I don't want to go. I really don't.

I feel suffocated in my own inability to relax. I don't want to go to some office and try and convince strangers that their company is worth working for when in reality I just need to pay my bills. It's a pandemic and I've been out of work for nearly a year. A lot of people are in my shoes, so what seperates me from them?

Anxiety?

Fear of failing?

Fear of being bullied by management?

Actual incompetency?

What am I even doing? I'm not even qualified for this position. I'm trying to use my theatre degree and pretend that I'm a real adult with experience and skills but all I can see are my shortcomings. I've botched two interviews already. I don't think I can handle this anymore.

My last job has made me more nervous. I panic more. I'm afraid I'm doing something wrong and will get yelled at. I'm afraid of not being good enough.

That's always the fear.