unfiltered stories

We’ll do anything to say, “Hey, you mattered and you mattered to ME. You changed my life. You made me want to live and I will never forget you.”

I am the first of four. The first daughter.

My brother is the second of four. The first son.

We both have depression. Undiagnosed.

Because therapy is taboo.

I am high functioning. He is not.

His is noticed by family and friends. Mine is not.

Neither of us are the type to ask for help. Vulnerability is weak.

I think he wonders about suicide. I wonder about death.

I don’t want to die, but last week I had a daydream about what I would tell the nurse to say if I knew I wasn’t going to survive a fatal car accident.

“Tell my mom I’m okay with this. Tell them I love them and I’m happy.”

I don’t want to die, but I can only imagine relief if it came.

I want help, but the words never seem to find their way out of my mouth.

Please, someone notice. Please.

I wish the things that were wrong with me were things medicine could fix.

It is hard to be the daughter of a bad father. To spend a lifetime looking for everything he was not in a partner. Or to have a seemingly everlasting resentment for men in general; because they somehow always remind you of him. Yet you fall for them anyway.

It is lonely to be the daughter of a good father. To spend a lifetime searching for him in other men. Only to be left with a pattern of disappointment, because they can never measure up. It is easier to be alone.