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I told my therapist I have daily flashes of memories of specific moments I was suicidal, of where I was and how it felt. Thousands of these moments constantly. And I wonder how I would’ve handled those moments had I been diagnosed correctly and medicated earlier. Then she asks,
“Do you ever mourn all that time you lost?” And I just started bawling, I told her I think about it all the time but I can’t talk about it without crying. I have decades and thousands of memories of things I could’ve done differently. I realize how wrong I was in so any cases.
And it robbed my joy during milestones. I couldn’t enjoy being on TV and working with my heroes. But what hurts more is I couldn’t even enjoy hanging out with people I love who love me back. And I hated myself for it. And I had no idea it wasn’t my fault. And I just wonder,
“How much nicer would I have been to myself if I had known that my brain was sick and that it wasn’t a judgment on me, but an illness that needed to be addressed?” And then the “what ifs” happen. And I just think of all the people I hurt and all of the opportunities I blew.
I’m overjoyed that I’m not depressed anymore, but I’m still dealing with that feeling of loss, of wondering what my life would’ve been like had I been able to deal with the illness inside my brain earlier.
It’s sad. I guess it’s supposed to be.
It’s sad. I guess it’s supposed to be.
