For years and years I have been told: “it gets better,” “you’ll be ok,” “you just have to fight through it, keep trying, wait it out,” “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” The platitudes accumulate and build up like gunk and gather dust and drag me down with hollow promises and misunderstanding. But I have waited, and I have fought, and it has not gotten better. It has only gotten worse.
Promises like that carry some weight, have some meaning, when you are twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. But I am not eighteen anymore, and it has not gotten better.
I don’t know much these days, but these are some things I know:
I am thirty years old.
I have been on some form of depression medication since I was thirteen.
I have waited and fought and struggled and resisted all my life.
But it hasn’t gotten better.
I am not okay.
And I want to die.
How much longer am I supposed to wait?