There are some things in life I've just grown to accept. I can't imagine them to be any other way. Like my sister, being born with Down Syndrome. I am constantly being asked whether I wished I had a normal family, or a normal sister, or if I wonder what it would be like. No. The answer's always no. I love my sister, couldn't think of changing her for anybody else or anything else. She's taught me compassion and love and patience and acceptance, and without that I wouldn't be the person I am today. I don't wish I had a normal family, I wish people wouldn't assume that my family isn't, just because she is a huge part of it. She can be the nicest person I know and having a big sister that acts like what a 'normal' big sister would couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't be anything like the experience I've had growing up with her. I couldn't be thankful enough, and though I'm sure I'd love a big sister as I love any member of my family, I wouldn't cherish her like I cherish Danica. Danica is beautiful, and sweet, and caring, and kind, and though her capacity to understand can sometimes be frustrating there's no way anyone could stay mad at her. She is normal, she's more than, she is my normal.
I've grown to accept my dad and his moods and his aggression and his.. everything. I dread seeing him every week, because I never know when he's going to flare up, I never know what we can do to aggravate him this time. I'm not as scared of him as I was when I was younger. He wouldn't hurt us unless he was absolutely pissed. But it's a part of him. I remember when I was very young, sometime before I was 7, I got a pink Kelly dollhouse for my birthday, or for Christmas. I'd been asking for it for a long time, and when I finally got it, I loved it to bits. It had moon and star cutouts in the walls and a slide and you could swing part of it out so you could see a room. It was my favourite toy, and I made Kelly play with it everyday. Once, I didn't do something Dad asked. He'd only asked a couple of times, but when he realised I hadn't done it after he asked more than once, he made me sit on a chair in front of him, then he went to my room, put the dollhouse down, and then stomped on it. It broke easily. It was only plastic. And then there's the time when we moved out of the first refuge, and he came to see us regularly, and was calm, and I thought something had changed in him, because he was civil and polite and lovely and it felt like having the dad that everyone else had. And I was happy. Until one night, he came to our house, and he took us out for a walk, like usual, but he was slightly drunk, and in the house, once we got back, Mum said something he didn't agree with. He immediately lost his temper, and they got into an argument. Except it wasn't an argument, because arguments are two sided. Mum was just standing in a corner crying while he yelled at her. Us kids just ran to our rooms once we realised what was happening. I was... 2003 it was, so I was 8. We came out only after we had heard the front door slam and Dad drive off, and we ran to Mum and hugged her. There was nothing else we could do. And then I saw the stains and dents and bits of broken china on the walls. We had Ovaltine before bed every night, and the mugs were sitting on the counter. Dad had picked them up and thrown them at the wall.
So yeah. I'm used to Dad being aggressive, to being borderline violent, to being someone to dread, but I can deal with it now. Evidently, not well enough, my 'dealing with it' having manifested in depression or possible bipolar disorder.
It seems rather dramatic. As a sixteen year old, I've been homeless three times. I've tried to commit suicide 4, and had another go at it last August, which can't be called an attempt seeing as I just collapsed and sobbed on the platform. And tonight I feel like throwing myself off a bridge or a cliff or the platform. If I had sleeping pills accessible in the house I might have already done it. And yet for the past 5 days before today I've been really good, I've been on an ultimate high. Now I've come crashing, and I feel lower than I have for weeks.
It's times like these that make me scared. Because I don't want a constant stream of suicidal thoughts taking hold of my mind in such a way that I feel like it's acceptable. And that's what it's starting to become.
These last five days have been kind of amazing, because for the first time in a long, long, long time, I got a taste of being happy. I didn't think it really could exist any more for me. And it did. It's that which should bring light, that I know I can still be happy. It's just hard, when that's the first proper glimpse in what's nearing a year.
I'm scared of suicide being okay. It's not and I need to convince myself of that. The rational part believes that, but it's the irrational part that makes the decisions.
I just want to curl up with Joe and ignore the world for just a few more days. I want to feel safe in knowing that my next thought isn't going to lead me to suicide.
I need help.
I suppose I'm getting it. If at the meeting they decide I'm eligible, one of the first approaches they might try me on is to get me on some antidepressants, to level my mood so I'm starting from a solid base. I still want more than anything not to take antidepressants, but I want to be better. Still not yet for myself, which needs to change, but for others. Then they're going to start me on cognitive behaviour therapy...
I don't know. I don't think it'll help, but I suppose I need to look at it with a healthy mindset for it to work as well. So I'll start trying to convince myself of what I believe is a lie. Don't fight against the irrational for once.
I'm fighting against myself no matter which way I go about it.