Years ago, I lived in a village where I attempted to commit suicide twice, lost a friend when she killed herself, sank deep into several mental disorders for the first time, was hospitalized for the first couple times and completely lost myself. Today, I went back to this village to see the last friend from this time I’m still holding on to. I’d gone back there before and hadn’t been able to handle it at all which had resulted in a mental breakdown, but I promised myself it would be different this time.
I promised myself I’d make it through.
And guess what?
Can’t say it wasn’t hard, though, because it was. I took a train and therefore passed by all those places I’ve tried so hard to forget but couldn’t. There is the school where I was bullied and where I wrote my name on a wall a day before trying to kill myself, the train stations where I thought about throwing myself on the tracks, the spot where I actually almost succeeded, the streets I wandered lost at night, the house where I binged, purged, self-harmed and starved for the first time while living there at the age of eleven and the houses of friends who left me alone when I needed them the most.
I saw the place where I went to die for the first time.
Can you imagine that?
Almost nothing has changed where my life once fell apart. One of my old school buildings where I used to take some classes is gone, and they’ve built several shelters for refugees near the train station, but that’s it and that’s what almost tore me apart- again.
But I swore to myself I’d hold on this time and would not give in to the pain inside of me. When I felt the first tears burning in my eyes like acid, I swallowed hard, lifted my chin, closed my eyes and held on. And I managed to spend all day in this village without falling apart. I kept telling myself I’m different today, a different person living a different life. I’m not weak anymore and I don’t hide anymore either. I’m strong and I know I can make it. Hell, I haven’t recovered, not at all, and I need to admit that I’m afraid I’ll never be able to recover completely, but today I know that there’s always a reason to keep going and nothing is ever so bad that it’s not worth staying strong.
I realized that, no matter how terrible many days have been again lately, I can still get better and there are still good days worth fighting for. I still hate myself and I could cry every time I look into the mirror, but I don’t let that stop me.
I’m different today.
I’m a mom, a young woman, recovering and relapsing, strong and independent, I know what and who I want and need and how to get it. I know what’s good for me and what’s not and what’s most important…
Unlike back then, I know when I need to hold on and when it’s smarter to let go.
Just remember, even your worst days only have 24 hours.