Ghosts

The ghost.

It’s what I discovered hiding behind one of the many doors in my mind a few years ago. I realized it was the other me, the me that would have flourished without the trauma; the me that would have been an entirely different person had I not been abused. Yet, now, I relate to being the ghost more than ever despite fumbling my way through life and not flourishing at all.

And what is a ghost, but something that must be believed in before it can be seen? Some will never believe in ghosts, and some are afraid of them. Some are intrigued by them and try to help them, but those people are far and few in between. And ghosts eventually fade into the past that they’re trapped in, to be forgotten to time as they sink into the walls of the places they haunt. Sometimes, they linger and replay their memories over and over mindlessly, and when someone new comes into their space, they grow desperate to be noticed. To be heard.

I hesitate to compare myself to a ghost so publicly because I know how it sounds and what it looks like. It sounds melodramatic, and one might even conjure an image of a Victorian person swooning with their hand over their brow because, “Oh! Woe is me!” It’s not too unfamiliar from what I’ve been perceived as by some.

I am the activist who is accused of being an attention-seeker or I’m ignored when I share my story, but when others share their stories, they’re showered with love and support and thanked for spreading awareness because they’re in recovery.

I am the author who pours their heart out and writes a little too honestly about things that are so dark they’re uncomfortable, but it’s not mainstream. It’s not what’s popular or marketable or salacious enough or sexy enough or romantic enough or—

No, it’s just another attempt to reveal what creeps into my head at night while I’m sleeping; what wakes me at three in the morning as I try to calm a racing heart and wipe the sweat from my brow; what I’m still delving into in therapy because there’s such an astronomical amount of shit that I’ve survived and somehow am still here to even talk about.

I am the imperfect and messy mentally ill creator who has one too many bad days because I’m still in the throes of a mental health crisis I’ve been riding out for four years. I cannot smile. I cannot be quirky or funny or palatable in the way social media demands of you. I am a person who sits in the dark drawing, writing, and creating even when no one cares because it’s the only way I’m keeping myself alive, and even that — my creativity — is part of the reason I think so often about dying.

“You have to create for yourself and stop wanting attention.” “If you’re creating for money, you’re doing it wrong.” “You’re just not making anything interesting enough, that’s why no one’s interacting with you or sharing or buying your stuff.”

I know. I know I will never write a book that’s considered a beautiful work of art. I’ll never win an award or be on the top lists of anything. I will never be able to draw well enough for my art to matter in a world where perfectionism and professionalism is valued over an imperfect labor of love. I will never be that mentally ill and disabled person with a story worth valuing because I am not palatable to what people prefer in their inspiration porn. I cannot fake a smile, I cannot shrug and belittle what I’m feeling so people can call me strong and resilient. I am tired of having to be strong and resilient for people to care.

I am depressed. I am melancholic. I stew in that melancholy because I had to learn how to find a friend in it to survive and cope when I had no one.

I am angry. I am a train wreck. I have fits in private where I’ll snap and punch a wall, or I’ll throw whatever is in front of me as long as no one is around to hear or see it. In isolation, I will shout, I will curse, I will spiral and ruminate on self-hatred and dig through my bathroom cupboard for the blade I pried out of the throwaway razor I last cracked open. I will leave fresh wounds on my arm that I have to wrap multiple times because I lost too much blood while desperate to get my mind to shut up.

I am psychotic. I type out my thoughts in a word salad that only I can make sense of, and I write poetry no one will give a shit about, but it’s the only way the thoughts will come out when I’m deep in the throes of what I’m enduring. I feel like I’m not real, this life isn’t real, and I often worry I’m dead and this is just a strange purgatory I’m reliving every single day.

I am isolated; partly by choice. I’ve lost friends while episodic because the trauma is telling me no one actually loves me, no one wants to be around me, and that everyone is just humoring me or snooping because I’m some circus freak that’s fun to watch as they cover their mouths in shock. The voice of my mother is in the back of my head telling me, again, that it’s no wonder no one wants to be around me. It’s no wonder I don’t have many friends. And no one actually likes me, everyone’s just curious to watch the show unfold.

And I have hurt others without knowing while psychotic. I come back later to realize I’ve said something the wrong way, that my black and white thinking has again fucked me over, and I can’t tell whether someone is being unreasonably harsh or if I deserve their anger. I doubt my memories and my own thoughts, as I was taught to do by him. As I was taught to do by my mother who always says, “That didn’t happen,” when I’m absolutely certain it did.

“You only remember the bad things.” “I don’t remember that.” “I have problems with my memory.” “I did the best that I could to raise you.” “Well, I had a shitty childhood, too, and I got over it.”

I am the loser, the failure, my father said I was. I am the adult child he washed his hands of repeatedly as he told me I’d always fail in the end.

I know it’s a terrible thing to say aloud, but I’m crazy. I am not the ideal picture of strength or resilience. I am not the inspiration people require you to be before your story is allowed to matter. Few want to support someone who’s still going through the throes of a crisis; few want to listen to the story of someone who hasn’t recovered yet, but is trying to.

Attention-seeker. Let it go. What’s wrong with you? You’re not trying hard enough. They’re just having another mental health breakdown in public. Just ignore them.

Will I always be a ghost? And not the one that would have flourished, but the one that was left behind because they were violated too many times and no longer can understand reality in the same way everyone else does. The one that just wants to be loud and honest because they know what it’s like to be ignored and afraid and alone; because they know how much of a difference it would have made to find others like them who aren’t perfect yet, who haven’t recovered yet, and who are sharing their stories boldly and honestly. Is it selfish of me to want to be that for someone? For my story to be the one that finally helps them see they aren’t alone after all?

That’s all I want. I want to be heard. I want my story and my voice to matter. I want the world to care about people who aren’t an inspiration yet. I want the imperfects and the messy ones to be appreciated just as much as the ones who can put on fake smiles and appeal to the masses; the ones who have bad days and mess up and are still seeking recovery; the ones who are still figuring out what in the hell is going on; the ones who need the support the most but often get left behind.

People want to help you until it becomes too hard, or they don’t believe you to begin with. They think cries for help are just cries for empty attention instead of the desperate need for love that it is. They start to ignore you because you’re not getting better so it must be something you’re doing wrong and you’re no longer healthy for them to be around because you’re always depressed.

When will it change? When will people care about the ghosts like me? When will our stories and our art matter while we’re still alive, rather than when we’re dead and easy to cry over or form a more palatable narrative about because we’re not here to correct it? That’s the irony of the whole damned thing. In the end, it all trickles back down to being an inspiration of some kind, and if we’re dead, we can at least be an example of what not to do.

Please love us while we’re still here. Love the ones who are so mentally ill they struggle every day. Love and care about the ones who are melting down on social media. Love the ones who aren’t an inspiration yet, who need your love the most to survive. Reach out to them while they’re still here to reach out to. Listen to them. Let them know they matter before they’re ghosts.