(Content warning for this post: abuse, suicidal ideation, depression. Please always take care of your mental health.)

There are some topics that are hard to talk about. They are emotional, deep, sensitive, and occasionally triggering. But often, those are the conversations that need to be had. Because when we don’t talk about the things that hurt, we don’t get the chance to find others who can help, we don’t find others who are dealing with the same things.

Many people know that I’m pretty open about my struggles with depression, anxiety, and PTSD. It’s something that I’ve struggled with since I was young, something that’s shaped me as an adult. I don’t hide the fact that every day is a new struggle.

But there’s also a LOT of guilt. Because my childhood wasn’t that bad, right? My parents never hit me, so I wasn’t abused, right? There was always food on the table and I had clean clothes, so I wasn’t poor, right? There’s always someone who’s had it harder, someone who’s had more struggles than I have.

I was raised to believe that love was conditional. That to be loved meant that I had to fit myself into a specific mold, to act a certain way, to meet certain requirements. If I did something “wrong”, the punishments were… interesting, for sure. If I said a bad word, the punishment was to literally wash my mouth out with soap. If I hid something in my room, my bedroom door would be taken off the hinges.

There was a lot of yelling in my home growing up. That’s mostly what I remember. The yelling and the anger and the fear. The anxiety and the paranoia. I remember being the only child in my class who wanted my parents to divorce, because then maybe they’d be happier. Maybe the yelling would stop.

I remember asking my parents why they were still married, and the answer I got was one that… it taught me everything I knew about love. I was told that my parents were still married because of us kids.

To be told that you’re the reason for someone’s unhappiness, that you’re the reason for their misery. It’s devastating.

For a long time, I thought that if I wasn’t alive, my parents would be happier. Because if it was my fault for their unhappiness, then it was my responsibility to make it better. And that’s something no child should ever think. That’s a position no child should be put in.

I’ve been in therapy for years, and it’s still something that’s hard to overcome. And I have a feeling I’ll be working on it for the rest of my life.

Anyways, more to come.