I don’t think I’ve written about this yet, but I’ve been meaning to for quite a while. I’ve been putting it off because it sums up how I was feeling at the height (depth?) of my depression. A few years back, I heard something from a woman who had struggled with an incredible amount of abuse, alcoholism, depression, and probably more I don’t know about. She said a lot about where she was in her journey right then and what a hard time she was having. I don’t remember any words except for:
“I want to erase myself.”
I remember those words because she put most of my life into words. For the vast majority of my life, I didn’t want to have things get better necessarily, or to have more friends, or to have been born into a different family, or even to kill myself. I simply wanted to have never existed. To be able to erase myself completely, with no trace. I’ve always been realistic enough to know that people would miss me if I died, but erasing myself — erasing any effect I had ever had, anything I had ever done, and anyone I had ever been — seemed like the only solution. When I was thinking and saying that I wished I was dead, I think I really meant that I wished I had never even been thought of.
I haven’t felt that way in over a year and a half and I can’t completely remember the feeling, but I can remember enough to panic. I can remember just enough to be really profoundly sad. And to wonder why anyone at all should have to want to erase themselves — while believing in a God who loves me. It was too much. It’s gone and it’s still too much sometimes.