Guest Post by Aaron Gallagher 

TW: Suicide, Self-Harm, SA

I was six years old the first time I threatened to commit suicide. I can’t imagine that I understood what it meant to cease to exist, but somehow I knew that I didn’t want to live any longer. My mom found me near the kitchen of our double wide manufactured home holding a butcher knife to my heart. My lifelong journey with mental health therapy started there, but the trauma that started it had already begun.

I grew up as a victim of abuse; sometimes it was physical and other times it was sexual, but primarily it manifested through years of emotional neglect by various family members. I gained a lot of weight via anxiety-triggered binge eating around the 4th grade which also resulted in me being bullied at school for being a husky kid. While I managed to make it through my childhood, the wounds remained open well into adulthood. I was exhausted, but I carried on.

I didn’t journal when I was a child. I didn’t journal when I was a young adult. I didn’t start to journal until I was 33 years old when a therapist encouraged me to explore the ramblings of my mind on paper. The first thing this therapist had me write in my journal was a negative self talk entry. This is what I wrote:

Negative Self Talk Journal

• That comment/joke I said was not funny or offended someone. I’m feeling judged and uncomfortable and I can’t stop thinking about what everyone thought of what I said.
• I look fat. I feel fat. I am fat.
• My musical abilities are so stale and mediocre. I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack when I attempt to sincerely play my guitar or sing in front of others.
• What I am talking about right now is pointless. I’m not interesting to anyone who is bothering to listen.
• I’m pathetic.
• I’m disgusting.
• I can’t stop eating.
• I want to drink and get drunk.
• I’m not living up to my potential. I probably never will.
• I’ve had money problems since I was old enough to have them and I still haven’t found a way to fix it. I have no discipline.
• I hate the family that raised me. I wish I had a different childhood.
• I’m a bad father.
• I’m a bad husband.
• I’m a bad friend.
• I’m a bad person.
• Why can’t I control my impulses?
• No one in this room likes me that much.
• It wouldn't matter if I was gone, in fact it might be better for some people.
• I hate myself.

The intention of this exercise was to give myself some space to see just how ugly I could be towards myself and then imagine myself saying these things to someone that I love. It broke my heart. Did I really hate myself this much? Was this my voice or was it a manifestation of every negative voice still ringing in my ears from decades of trauma and trauma reminders? The truth is somewhere in the middle; I had learned to hate myself and I’ve been spending the last decade of my adult life attempting to unlearn that hatred. I was exhausted, but I carried on.

Since writing that negative self-talk journal I’ve had both mental health victories and setbacks. I discovered mindfulness and meditation, but frequently forget how well that works for me. I lost a lot of weight (120 pounds) and gained a lot back; I learned to love my body after hating it for so long, but I still forget that love from time to time. I lost my marriage of 15+ years and found a new love; but I learned that no matter who I share an intimate relationship with, I still have to love myself before I can fully love someone else. I opted for Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS) treatment for my depression, which helped but it was not the cure all I was hoping for. I continue to struggle with a binge eating/drinking disorder when my anxiety is triggered and I live with a sometimes debilitating obsessive compulsive disorder. I’m exhausted, but I carry on.

Recently I finished reading COMPLEX PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving by Pete Walker which is a book about the effects of long-term trauma and how to thrive despite it. I was struck by a notion in that book that what I live with, and will eventually die with, is not something that can be cured. My complex PTSD is like diabetes; I have to learn how to live with it and take care of myself if I’m going to continue to live. At first this revelation made me angry at the people who infected me with this disease, but over time I’m learning to find peace in the things that I can not change. I’m exhausted, but I carry on.

I am now 41 years old. I promised myself that my 40’s would be my best decade yet. I hope that I can create a life that is far removed from the pain of my past. I’ve already experienced a few setbacks, but I’m better prepared today than I ever have been to face the challenges ahead. I am still often exhausted, but I carry on.

And you know what? I might even love myself enough to not hate myself any longer.

Despite everything, I carry on.