The final fight I'll win.

Being honest here, I'm slipping.

I have therapy at 2.  I'm surviving classes.  I'm still breathing.  I still haven't cut or purged.  But I can feel myself slipping.  I'm starting to break again, just when I was starting to do so well.

Sometimes I just want to hold myself and cry.  Sometimes, I wonder why I should get up.  Sometimes, I begin to wonder, what would I do if I had a breakdown?  Would I try and jump off the bridge and into the Mississippi river?  Would I try and find a gun?  Would I kill myself?

Because, being honest, there will always be a part of me that thinks that dying is romantic.  There's a part of me that will always think that suicide is the answer.  But, that's only a slight part of me.  The majority of me thinks that suicide is NOT the answer.  There is a part of me that knows that depression is a battle.  That knows that I've got chronic/recurrent depression and that I will probably be going back on medication to combat this.

Because I don't just want to lay down and die.  I want to keep fighting.   And over the last 3 years, I've been doing really well.  I know it's a war, and I want to win the final battle.

But when I begin to slip, the part of me that wants to lay down and die, it gets bigger.  The part of me that thinks that there is nothing left in me, that it all drained out, that I'm dead inside, or hollow, that I keep holding on but I'm really already dead, it starts to consume me.  And I get more depressed.  I can't get out of bed.  I get impulsive.  My thoughts race.  This world would be better off without me, I feel it, so heavy.  Then, woops, I took a bunch of pills.  I didn't really want to die, it was just the lows.

My therapist and I have been talking about the lines.  There is a line that I walk.  I float right at the line between recovery and depression.  I stay right at the point where my thoughts about myself can still be low, but not enough to where I'm being destructive.   Then, I fall, and it's fast.  I'm back in the deep deep lows.  I act on something, rest for a while, get back on medications, and then I get back to the line in the middle road.

Sometimes I want to tell my parents, it's not a matter of how I kill myself one day, it's a matter of when.

Because I am almost 21 years old.  The first time I tried to end my life, I was 11.  By the time I graduated high school at 18, I had tried over 20 times.  Some of them were half-assed attempts.  Most of them were not.  Only one was a cry out for help.  Only one time did I not want to be successful.

This is the reality.  I have never once thought, hmm, how can I get attention?   In fact, I wish I didn't have this problem.  I wish that my battles weren't so tough.   But I know I want to keep trying and keep going.  Even if I get low.  Even if right now I'm at a critical point where I can feel myself falling lower.

It's a battle.  I have to keep fighting and hope like hell that I win.