Being the One That Doesn’t Leave
Trying really hard to love myself in the hard moments. (A life's journey, tbh)
Depression is persuasive, with razor-sharp certainty, even though I’ve learned it’s usually bullshit, it feels so real. And you believe it. Even when you know it lies.
It tells you this is the time you won’t come back. That everything you thought you healed was a lie. That whatever made you feel whole before? Gone.
Depression comes like waking up in a jostling sea when you can’t swim. Like you’re so tired of staying afloat, and you wonder if the sea will ever calm again. Like you don’t know who you are, who’s life this is, where you’re going, what the point is. The fear and hopelessness roar like jet engines over the beautiful bird chirps of who you were a week ago.
I’ve been here before. Is there reprieve in that? Yes, and no.
Yes; I’ve clawed my way out of this place before—though I have to keep reminding myself, because that truth rarely sticks when I’m here.
I’ve done EMDR. Somatic work. Plant medicine. Support groups. Therapy.
I’ve sat on cold kitchen floors and made it back to sunlight.
And No; Still, each time, it feels like this is the time I won’t make it.
Like this grief and pain will be the one that consumes me.
This time, it’s layered with heartbreak that opened the trapdoor I’ve had since childhood, the one marked “If I am not perfect, I will be left.”
I am too much, I am broken, I am unlovable.
And when someone actually leaves, it confirms what that part of me always believed: See? I told you.
That voice in me is loud lately.
But there’s another voice I’m trying to get to speak.
Trying to hear her when she whispers (honestly, good luck to me lmao).
She says that all of that is not true.
She fights so hard, and she always has, to love me, and she has never left me, even when I really struggle to find her.
She has picked me up over and over.
If I can hear her, she says to me with conviction:
You are so lovable, I am in love with you, I am in awe of your courage and how hard you’ve fought your entire life to find love, to find safety, to never abandon yourself, even when the other voices have screamed that you deserved it.
So, I’m seeking that voice. Sometimes she comes in after 30 minutes of crying and I can barely hear her, but she reminds me of all the times I’ve not abandoned myself. And how I am choosing not to leave this time either:
I’m staying through the hard mornings, where I cry before I get out of bed.
I’m staying through the weekends that feel hauntingly long.
I’m staying even when my nervous system screams to somehow find relief.
I’m staying by taking podcast walks.
By going to pottery.
By looking for the right support, not just to process the pain, but to help me continue to love myself.
I’m staying by sitting with the younger version of me, the one who was always trying to earn safety.
The one who thought being good enough meant being needless, perfect, whatever they wanted.
The one who got really good at shapeshifting, thinking maybe this time love wouldn’t leave.
I’m letting her know that love can still leave, but I won’t. I still love her, so much. And I always have, even if I didn’t realize it, even if I spent a long time hating her and blaming her too.
I tell her we are allowed to need.
To cry.
To not be okay.
That there’s no fixing to be done here, just feeling, allowing, honoring yourself.
And most importantly, I tell her, no matter how dark it gets, I’m not going to abandon her right now, this time, ever again(?).
I won’t leave the way I’ve left myself before, or the way others have.
I’m showing her that we can build a life that holds us.
Not because we’re finally good enough, but because we always were.
I don’t feel okay right now. I’m hurting. I am truly, so scared to be here again. And I’m angry, because I fought so fucking hard to get out of these trenches and to be in them again feels like the ultimate self-betrayal. But I am trying hard not to blame myself. I fell in love, and I got my heart broken. And all the stories that I’ve told myself my entire life come running back in, and I have to work really hard to remember these stories aren’t true, and I’m trying not to blame myself for that.
Instead, I’m trying to stay with myself through it because depression tells me to leave every time. To abandon myself when I’m messy or needy or struggling. To do whatever I can to get to safety, even if I sacrifice myself in the process.
I have to be done hating myself because I’m hurting. It never works.
So, today, I am being the one that doesn’t leave.
And I’m not entirely sure what that looks like, it’s a new process, but I think it looks like exactly this.
Like being honest, like not leading from my ego and pretending I’m okay, like calling my mom and asking for check-ins from friends. Like moving my body, doing the things that used to bring me joy and now feel mostly numb, and pretty much faking it till I make it. Because I trust I will; she whispers, yes, but I am listening.
I don’t know what’s on the other side of this yet. We never do, do we? I do know that I’ve always gotten there, though. And that I am holding on to with clenched fists.
What I do know is that I am trying to hard to, this time, be on my side.
Even when I forget. Even when it hurts.
I deserve, so much, to be the one who never leaves me. Who loves me through my pain. Who is kind, tender, and says all the things she wishes she would hear right now.
Who isn’t afraid to love me, but instead feels honored to.
Author’s Note
I am writing during one of the hardest weeks I’ve had in a while, when heartbreak is colliding with old wounds, and depression has returned like a familiar, unwelcome guest. I wrote this because I needed to. To remind myself of everything I’ve survived. To hear the voice in me that still believes I deserve gentleness, even when I can barely hear it.
This piece isn’t about blame or closure. It’s about staying. With myself. For myself.
If you’re in the thick of it too, I hope this helps you stay, even just a little longer.
We don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of love. We just have to keep trying to love ourselves, and putting ourselves in rooms where that’s reflected back to us.