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."
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".
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 ✨