I grew up terrified of the thought of hell, but that became overshadowed by the nightmare my own mind could brew. The thought of reaching my thirties was an alien concept. In a vague way, I expected to be dead long before life could inflict that on me. It wasn’t a death wish, although it was often a sincere hope so that the torment would cease. The closer I came to my thirties is when my mental illness took a sharp turn. I spent a large portion of life not taking care of my body until it began to rot on par with my brain. What do you do when there is no concept of how to live life, much less continuing to live?
Forties aren’t too bad, I must admit, especially when you are medicated into insensibility. The very thought that I have survived myself this long is astonishing to me. I remain considerably overweight, though I have been slowly losing some pounds here and there, and my teeth are ruined. It’s gut wrenching to look at myself in the mirror and see what a lack of knowledge regarding mental health has done. For too many years I had given up and only gone through the motions of existing. Now I am mostly emotionless, although that also means the mood swings and random crying fits are gone with those feelings.
There wasn’t really a theme here, but a need to allow my mind to express random thoughts. Sorry if this is a downer to anyone. I’ll work on something more positive for next time, yeah? Thanks for coming around, and, as always, take care of yourselves, darlings. See you next time.