Ever since that year, 2011, I was forever cracked, broken.
I could not get out of this never ending worry for my health. I went on a no carb little meat diet almost 10 years. Then I fell into this on-going battle with binge eating after the 10 days silent retreat. I still struggle to feel safe to eat breakfast, because I am not confident that I can withstand the intense urges to devour buns after buns, ice cream after ice cream.
I have been on medication for a few years now. In the beginning, I told them to manage my rage and depression. It worked. I was numbed but was far more stable. The rising rage was gone. The depression wasn’t as persistent and intense. But then everything was replaced with binge eating. We switched medication, and the urges to eat didn’t go away but became more manageable. The price of this particular combo of medication was disastrous sleep. I had vivid and very eventful dreams. They felt like they would last the entire sleep. I was constantly tired, especially in the afternoon, when I would be rendered completely non-functional and would fall asleep on benches and in the back of buses. But it was worth it, because I didn’t have to lose to those binge-eating urges and didn’t have constantly feel like a loser.
Then we decided to ween off some of the medication, and the depression is creeping back. Then about a month ago, a classmate committed suicide. He just got a promotion, but everything felt unchanged. His wife was devastated even though she knew he was struggling.
I tried so many different things- CBT, meditation, exercises, video games, writing, quitting my job, playing the violin. Still, it reminds the same- it’s cracked, broken.
I want to accept that this crack in my soul cannot be removed. I want to see this reality for what it is and accept it. I want to be able to embrace the feelings from feeling broken just as I have embraced all other feelings that came and went.
But it is hard. The most annoying is I would inevitably arrive at the part of these voyages in my mind where I would give myself the permission to think that it is ok to be defeated by these feelings. Even stronger souls, from Bourdain to Spade to my friend to my uncle, lost to it. Who am I to think that I am stronger than them?
It is sad to know that perhaps I will be forever dependent on medication. It is frustrating to know that every time when I tried to ween off of it the withdrawal would take over. It sucks to feel I am forever cracked, since that year 2011.
Lastly, before Iris Chang, the author of “The Raping of Nanjing” killed herself, she wrote,
I promise to get up and get out of the house every morning. I will stop by to visit my parents then go for a long walk. I will follow the doctor’s orders for medications. I promise not to hurt myself. I promise not to visit Web sites that talk about suicide.
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