My parents split up when I was only three years old. Of course, being so young, I shouldn’t remember it at all. I mean, do you remember when you were three years old?
But I do remember. Not much, but a lot more than I should.
The first thing I remember about that night was yelling. I didn’t understand what the yelling was about, but my three-year-old brain knew anger when it heard it. I haven’t heard that kind of rage since then. My parents were spewing sheer fury at each other. I was terrified.
My terrified three-year-old brain had a thought, “If they’re yelling at me, they’ll stop yelling at each other. I don’t care if I get spanked with a wooden spoon; I just need the yelling to stop.”
So I screamed.
And I Screamed.
And I SCREAMED.
I screamed as loud as my lungs would let me. I kept trying to rise above the din of their shouting. I kept trying and trying and trying.
For the love of God, please fucking see me!
[I was three. I didn’t think “fucking” at the time. Just added for emphasis. My parents would never let me curse that young. I think.]
But I was invisible. Their rage and hate was too loud for them to notice me. I felt like I was getting smaller and smaller, shrinking into nothingness. My voice was irrelevant.
So what? Why am I telling you this? Because this past weekend triggered me hard. I felt like a worthless, invisible three-year-old again. What could make me flash back to this horrible moment in my life?
Someone forgot to invite me to their party.
Look, I’m not proud of it, either, but I spiraled. I saw pics on social media of people I would love to see, some even meet, in person. Interacting via social media is great and all, but nothing beats good ol’ in-person interaction. Besides, they were having a lot of fun.
I’m not sure whether I was forgotten intentionally or not. Either way, it shouldn’t have spiraled me into a deep depression that made my bones ache. It was stupid; I couldn’t stop myself from looking at everyone’s feed. Finally, I put my devices in another room and ignored them the rest of the night, but the damage was done.
I spent the rest of the weekend in a cocoon of self-care. Yes, copious amounts of cannabis was smoked. I also reached out to others; I didn’t let my depression fester while I suffered in silence. I remained mindful of what I was feeling and why I was feeling that way.
So why do I call it a “Try-Umph”?
It may look a little corny, but it works for me. I chose to try, not give up. I didn’t allow my depression to consume me; I faced it, went through it, and survived it. I wanted so badly to stay in my bed all day. I forced myself to get up, shower, and take care of myself.
God, it was hard. Hence the “umph”. Every time I fought what my depression was trying to do felt like a punch to my stomach (or kick to my balls). Umph.
Although it feels like it sometimes, I am not invisible. Maybe everyone won’t see me, but some will, and those are the ones worth focusing on.
I am not invisible.
I have a voice that will be heard.
I fucking matter.