Maybe this is the last time I write. Writing has always been my way out, but perhaps it’s time to suppress my skill.
Maybe this is the last time I will speak about my mental illness and the uphill battle I face. I no longer want advice or a listening ear from anyone.
Maybe this is my final say.
I am writing this entry with tears. I sought out help three years ago for my depression. I’ve always suffered but did so in silence. Like many people, I was embarrassed by this illness. I felt needy and a burden. Great!! Another mentally ill one. I wanted no part of that category.
I hid my feelings very well, put a smile on for those around me. Deep down inside, I knew something was wrong, but it was my secret. It took a fail friendship of the opposite sex that sent me spiraling down. I knew then; I needed to seek help.
I’ve been in therapy for three years. You would think I would have found the cure to crush and defeat this lingering demon. Instead, I kept failing, but I kept going. Despite the number of times I fell, I kept going.
That, my friend, is the trick. Keep going, keep pushing forward. Keep up with your mental visits and swallow your medication. Fight through the side effects, keep popping the pills until your system surrender.
Despite what you think you know, there is no cure for this illness—just medication and therapy. I see no way out of this hell, no light at the end of the tunnel. Just keep fighting is all the doctors can say.
Do you know what it feels like to have clinical depression? Trust me when I say this, it’s no walk in the park. The anxiety is even worst, and then the borderline personality, let’s end it there.
My fight is over; I have no more row left in me. I gave it three years, and I’ve seen no changes. I pop medication every night because I need to sleep.
Some people think suicide is selfish, well it’s not. Sometimes you lose all hope, and then you’re gone. I understand them and will not judge.
Some will say cheer up! But exactly why? Do you know how hard it is to wake up in the morning and pick your next mask?
I envy those who live happy life. I was once pleased, delighted. But life fucked me over, and now I have a parasite attached.
Please enlighten me on how your day went. We struggle every day to stay afloat. We work every day to avoid triggers.
I suffered one miscarriage (twins).
Scratch that. I’ll leave them out of this.
I am standing on a train track; it’s old and rusty. Trees and grass surround me. It is dark, with no moon, no sky, just fog. I’m standing in the middle of the track with a suitcase in my hand, looking down with despair. I’m stuck, and this is my ending. I can’t keep going.
If you close your eyes and picture the scenery I just described, you will see me standing there with my head hanging low and my suitcase in one hand. It’s dark, and nothing will bring my soul back; nothing will make me move.
I will remain on that track until death comes for me. Only then will I move.
I wrote this with my tears. Maybe this is my final say.
Gillian Angella Griffiths
Born: Portland Jamaica
Finding Purpose again: Unknown