Limbo

After just one week of college graduation, I thought I had hit rock bottom.

In a desperate attempt to finally find my own place, I tried to move into a house in Pomona only to be greeted with meth in the sink and shit smeared on the walls; the culprit of both slept in the backyard. Needless to say, I slumped back to my parent’s house after two sleepless nights.

“Congrats Grad!” balloons, my graduation cap, and heartfelt letters from my closest friends were still scattered around my childhood bedroom, mocking me. I had a suitcase in one hand and all my dead dreams in the other.

“This,” I thought to myself, “is my all-time low.”

But that was only the beginning.

I kept digging and realized that there is somewhere further down deep than “rock bottom.” It’s a place just north of hell. I call it Limbo.

Sinking into Limbo was like falling in love with a monster. I didn’t realize I was in so deep until it was too late. I barely even know how I got there. I tried clawing my way out with therapists and antidepressants but most days, misery felt like home and I was too comfortable to leave. “It’s ok”, “I’m not hungry”, and “I’m fine” became lies that I could recite so well, that I nearly fooled myself. Suddenly, every smile I faked became a tear I wished I could remember how to shed. I began to escape reality by living in my mind but then became terrified of my own thoughts so I tried numbing myself to everything. Soon, I felt nothing. Soon, I was in Limbo.

Trying to feel something when I felt nothing was a difficult project filled with trial and error. Before the aforementioned therapy and medication, I tried inflicting as much pain onto myself as I could, physically and mentally. As mental as it sounds, I thought that the sight of my own blood, the feeling of exhaustion, and the grueling pain of starvation were what I needed to feel alive again. Don’t get me wrong, death was not my goal. I just foolishly believed that toying with the fantasy of dying would make me appreciate life more. It didn’t work. All of my efforts only resulted in scars, mental breakdowns, and malnutrition. I was still numb.

I am not proud of treating myself so cruelly. I realize that by writing and publishing all this to the public, it may seem like I’m glorifying self-harm. That is the last thing I want to do. The Limbo — my depression — is an ugly, horrific place that I wish I could escape; the torture that I put myself through only led me deeper into it. There is nothing beautiful or worth glorifying about it.

At the same time, there is no way out of the darkness if I continue to wear a blindfold while mumbling to myself, “I’m totally fine.” I’m not fine. I haven’t been fine in quite a while. I’ve been hiding behind my shame, alone. It’s liberating to finally admit that to myself (and to the three people who read my writings. I genuinely appreciate you and I’m sorry this one was a sad one).

I wish I could tell you how to escape the Limbo, but I’m not out of the woods yet myself. Maybe in a year or twenty years from now, I’ll have the answer. Maybe I’ll never escape. Maybe I’ll read this and laugh at my younger self. “Strap in, bitch. It only gets worse.” Or maybe it will be the opposite. I dare to hope that someday I’ll feel better, I’ll have my shit together, and, most importantly, I’ll be happy.

But as of right now, all I strive for is rock bottom and that’s okay.