These Painful Words


I'm mourning.
I'm mourning the loss of a fight that I fought for so long, it became habit. Comforting almost. But I lost. My brain won and I'm not pissed. I'm not angry, red with rage. I'm simply broken. I prided myself on brilliance. On intellectual prowess, but that has long since disappeared. I've scraped through each term, caring less and less about my grades. Caring less and less about my health. Caring less. Until one day I realized that I wasn't living, and part of me was actively trying to die. Desperation. Distraught. Destroyed.


I took a leave of absence. I took a break from the only thing I was living for. I spend most of my time telling people that I want to be a doctor. I proudly declare that that's my call in life. MY duty to the world and myself. This is it. Medicine is me. I become so consumed with it, it consumed me. I've stopped being good at it, and I ceased to be myself.  What am I supposed to then? So a few months before one of the biggest exams of my career, I left. I've quit for six months. Get my shit together, or crash permanently.
I am petrified. I have planned my life in great detail, in written and oral form since I've been three years old. I did not plan this. I'm not good at change. How am I supposed to reconcile this apparent failure? I can hear you now. "You didn't fail." "You took a break to tune-up your engine so that you can continue." But for that to be true, I'd have to fine right now, right? I feel neither fine, nor alive. I'm breathing. My heart beating on automatic. If it required effort, it'd be over.
My parents think that this break will fix me. They've never said that, but I know it. I considered entering a residential treatment facility. My mother wanted to know about success rates. Does the cancer come back? Heartbeats are forever, and so is bipolar. My borderline personality took 20 years to form, one month of intensive treatment will not undo it. And six additional months won't fix it either. Maybe you should have watched me. But that's another story. Residual anger, at her, at myself. Backups of emotions that I should have just let go years go.
I'm still trying to figure out how to focus on myself. I'm still treating this essay as a blog post. What will people think? Is it grammatically correct? Will I be judged? I should have never started on the pretense of perfection. I listened to a podcast a few weeks ago on creativity. They said that the blog should not be for other people. It should be for you. So I'm writing this entry to save my own life. I'm writing to inspire myself. I'm writing to motivate myself. I'm writing because if I swallow these painful words one more day, I will choke to death emotionally. I'm writing because the part of me that isn't trying to die, that part, would like to live.

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2 comments

  1. Thank you for sharing Sadie. This is the first time I've read your blog but you have put into words things that I have been struggling with. I know what it is like to wake up in the morning and want to give up or to hope that I would fail so that the destructive habits that I can't seem to break would explode out of existence, which never works.
    Sometimes, I struggle with believing that God sees me and will help me in my struggle because I assume that I have to fix myself. I doubt that God would talk to me and I doubt His love. But somehow I know that He is the one holding me up.
    I know He's holding yo up too. And I just want you to know that you are not alone in your journey. So thanks for being brave enough to share this :)
    -Rachael B.

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    Replies
    1. Thank you so much Rachael for this beautiful comment. Sometimes it feels truly isolating to be struggling with these issues. I truly appreciate your words of encouragement!
      -Sadie

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