something I completely forgot when I turned 30 a few weeks ago — I spent much of my life, from my early teens onwards, convinced I wouldn't make it to 30. if something didn't kill me first, I mused, surely I would kill myself by then. I literally could not imagine being 30.
I couldn't imagine making it *that* many more years with the constant fiery anguish inside my head (it ebbed and flowed but was everpresent). I felt oddly calm about the thought, like I had just... accepted it. "oh, well I mean yeah, I'm probably not making it to 30, whatever."
most of my life was filled with passive suicidal ideation, which is quite the weight to carry around. I didn't know how to deal with it, and didn't think I deserved to feel better. it sat in my mind, taking up space. it slowly grew and grew over the course of many years,
and only once it came to a head and turned active a few years back, was I finally able to face it head on, and, through blood sweat and tears, work my way through it. (the journey there is a story for a different day)
and here I am at 30. still fucking wild to look back at all of that now, and realize that something I took for absolute fact all those years was merely smoke & mirrors inside my own mind.
and now life is, overall, good ✨
I think in some way, taking an idea like that and treating it as fact was some sort of bizarre, twisted self-harm. internalizing & repeating it, making myself believe it, in order to punish myself. "you're worthless", "nobody loves you", "you're going to kill yourself by 30".