Misconceptions Of The Self Destructive Experience

Due to a complete lack of athleticism or self-discipline, I have always known I was never going to make it in the big leagues as any sort of athlete. My musician friends say I am “tone deaf” and have “absolutely no musical skill of any kind so please for the love of God stop". Based on these evaluations, I have accepted that perhaps a musical career is unrealistic. Arriving at the final frontier for success, any future in politics is out of the question thanks to an intractable social media foot print full of compromising photos and videos of me in various states of insobriety. 

Navigating bipolar disorder has been a mostly trial and error process of trying to live a life that resembled how I felt. In doing so, I was lucky enough to find myself at the center of attention. My mission to destroy myself was executed with enough flair, that I danced on the line of pathetic and entertaining. Now, I hardly see myself as the girl in those pictures, glazed eyes captured forever in digital memory. In those eyes I see a cry for help that went mostly unanswered. I used to resent those around me for being seemingly deaf or even intentionally ignoring it. However I have realized that I simply did not know how to communicate what I needed. To the outsider’s perspective, what I was experiencing was not a situation that necessarily needed remedy.

These days things are a little more clear, I can begin to offer an explanation with a somewhat rational perspective. Attention is an unfortunate byproduct of self-destruction. In a culture where our attention span hardly lasts the length of this sentence, it’s a jealously guarded commodity. It is easy to resent those whom you perceive to come by it through cheap tricks, such as too many tequila shots, a self-inflicted cut across the thigh, or dangerously casual sex. Any obvious cry for help. As someone who always came across attention naturally, this was never my intention; a plane going down in flames looks an awful lot like fireworks, and people love a good show. We have made insanity look good. We have romanticized depression and cigarettes, suicide and self-loathing, empty bottles of cheap vodka and apathy. I am afraid we have steered you wrong, painted a colorful picture of a very bleak landscape. We are so desperately trying to convince ourselves that our tortured souls are the necessary sacrifice for transcending the “norm”, that we might have convinced you it is actually true. We try to convince the outside world that we are martyrs and wanderers, dreamers and visionaries; when in reality it is 5am, all the coke is gone, and I'm stumbling over strangers’ sleeping bodies to recover dozens of half empty beers I can finish off in hopes to eventually blackout - not very romantic.  

This head space sounds like constant buzzing, a chaotic white noise accompanied by a droning, monotonous tone that repeats, beckoning in the key of, “kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself.” These chords crescendo into a deafening roar, and all I can do is try and scream back a little louder. 

At times, I find myself just trying to grasp any foothold in reality. Every decision is spurred by a desire to feel something new or different. Perhaps not necessarily good, but at least they distract from this void inside me I am afraid will ultimately reduce me to nothing.  I say this without desire for sympathy, I say this with the hope that at the next perceived cry for help, you can recognize it for what it is. Not a cry for attention, not a ploy at all, but someone trying to crawl out of their own skin, reckless and destructive, helplessly unaware of their own impact. When there is no escaping the shit in your head, there is little else to see or focus on other than the immediate struggle, the constant battle for survival. Facing the stark question, “What good reason do I have to not just end this?”, each answer sounding more feeble than the last. 

If any of this sounds familiar to your own experience or the experience of a close friend, hear me when I say, there is an answer. The answer is to lean into love and empathy.

Love happens when we really see the other, particularly their value despite their resume, be it good or tragic.  It exists without expectation or a desire for anything in return.  It results in us being able to see each other, if just for a moment, simply as we are. To be made to feel not as a burden or something to be observed. I stubbornly refused every word of love I received, unable to believe myself worthy of it. I pushed the boundaries of every relationship  I had to prove to myself that I was not worth their time. But eventually, I found people who stayed, who really loved me. Who picked me up from strange places at 4am and lay with me until I fell asleep when I was afraid to be alone. Who just as stubbornly refused to believe my arguments that I was not worth loving. With time, I began to believe them. 

In love the distractions fall away and that which is important becomes clear. Society has taught us to value self-destruction because it serves as a source of entertainment, but what about self-love? Someone who is able to see the good inside is actually capable of a more beautiful kind of spectacle. A healthy person can contribute more to their community.  

Life is not a burden forced upon us, we are not meant to struggle under the weight of it. I feel like the whole world is screaming and we cannot hear each other over the sound of our own voices. What if we could really see each other, really listen, to love without expectations and give into the things that make us whole.  This is empathy, seeking to truly understand another person's experience in life and it has the power to ignite new levels of connection with each other, but it has to start somewhere.  Empathy begets love, and love is changing me.  

Author Amber Blank