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| Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash |
I wasn't.
I was a single mother with a very young toddler and I couldn't figure out how to be a very young twenty-something, a mom, a college drop out, and an adult who was aspiring to build a career instead of just having a job. I was waitressing and my tips weren't enough to make the rent for my studio apartment. My daughter was always at her father's parents home because I was working nearly 53 hours a week. Despite my hard work, I never had enough money. I dropped about 15lbs and everyone was complimenting me but I was starving. I would feed my daughter and pray she would be full so I could eat whatever she left over. I didn't care if it was cold Farina or chewed up and spat out chicken and veggies. I needed to eat and I was broke.
Realizing that I was working for my daughter but hardly saw her started to wear on me. It didn't help that my relationship with her father was a tumultuous one with plenty of arguments, cheating, lies, and pain. I had finally gotten out of High School, went to college, got my own place and I mishandled my freedom and got pregnant at a fairly young age. What was worse is that I was in a terrible relationship with someone I would be bound to for eighteen years and I was too broken, stupid, and prideful to leave him.
I remember the night. I counted my tips and I was still short on my rent after slaving for a week. I had one day off and I was so exhausted. I felt like the home I was working for was just a bed to sleep in. I looked at my daughters' crib and wondered why I even tried to provide for her. I was clearly a failure. Her grandparents were practically raising her while her loser mother was waiting tables.
That's when the tears came streaming down my face and the familiar pain came. I cried often and I hurt often. I ached every day and put on a mask to greet customers and pray for their generosity when they left my tables. That night, I just was too tired. I had no desire to go on and dying just seemed logical.
I took somewhere between 16 or 28, I can't remember of ibuprofen. I had no liquor but I was certain that this would do the trick. It didn't. I slept for a long time and I woke up. I was disappointed but figured that either God of the devil had plans for me on this earth because neither of them was interested in meeting me that night.
I felt ashamed and told my mother that I broke my promise and tried again. She made me promise to live for my child, and I did. I kept that promise. That was the last time I tried to kill myself. It wasn't, however, the last time I wanted to die really, really badly.
The following day I had work. I didn't go. I didn't go the day after that either. I ignored every call they gave me and I eventually just quit. I didn't make an announcement. I just stopped going and decided that without a job, I would be able to spend time with my daughter while I found something else.
A hurricane, flooded apartment, molded clothing and furniture later, I landed my first job in Corporate America making $27,500 a year. I had never been so proud of myself. That was the stepping stool that I needed to move forward in my life, and I've been climbing ever since.
However, it was only a new beginning. There was plenty more to come; visions of driving over the guard rail and careening into the highway beneath me, anxiety attacks, an abusive marriage, alcoholism, and a week long stint in the psych ward.
It amazes me how much people think they know you until you tell them who you are.
I'm going to tell.
Stay tuned for Part III.
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