Admitting where I’ve been this week is difficult. Explaining why is impossible. My life is full of good. I have a solid job with excellent benefits. I own a reliable, sensible car. My landlord is a gift from God. My church family is one of the greatest blessings in life to-date. I sing in the choir. I have family and friends and friends who are closer than family I love fiercely. My life is far from perfect, but there are some great things going on in it and it’s the life God has given me to embrace and live. Despite all the blessings, I struggle. Still. Again. Again. Again.
I don’t mean to upset or freak anyone out, but Friday after work I called the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. No, I’m not suicidal. No, I don’t want to give up on everything. No, I don’t want to die. Life has been emotionally rough. I had a gluten contamination early this week and it’s thrown me off. There have been several changes- big and small- in my life this summer and change is something I struggle with handling gracefully. I’ve been running non-stop for the past couple of months with nearly everyday booked. Some events have been wonderful and others completely draining, but nearly all of them have pushed me past a healthy point mentally. There has been no re-filling myself in between. And before there are suggestions of saying “No,” I struggle with using that word. I know I’m a people-pleaser. I know I over-extend myself until I break. I know I don’t reach out and ask for help before things are bad. These are flaws I need to work on.
Back to why I called the lifeline. August 14, 2015 will mark 10 years I haven’t cut or burned or clipped or bitten or scarred myself. It’s a big milestone and I’m fighting to reach it. When I begin to feel like I’m falling into The Abyss, I want to self harm. And the longer I go without dealing the more intense the desire gets.
As I’m typing this out- being vulnerable to I don’t want to think about how many people- my hands keep hovering over the keyboard, debating how and what to say next. How much do I reveal? How much do I expose myself? Will what I write scare the people I love? Will what I write alienate those I care about? Will what I write embarrass my family? This is a scary place.
This week I failed. If I’m honest, I won’t celebrate that 10 year milestone, because I caved. It’s probably going to sound completely trivial, but it’s still a failure. As I was driving home from work at some point in the week, I became intensely overwhelmed with, well with I don’t know. And I dug my nails into my arm. Dug until just before blood. I felt nothing- no pain, no relief. Nothing. I failed only to feel nothing. So I called the lifeline as a last-ditch effort to keep from completely giving in to the desire to rip my own flesh to shreds.
I love the people in my life. If one of them needs something, I will drop everything to go running to them. I do not expect the same in return. Not because they aren’t good friends or family, but because I know each of them is going through their own ups and downs and hardships and life milestones. They don’t need me at my worst demanding their attention, too. They don’t deserve the burden of dealing with the dark places in my head. I love them enough to not subject them to going through what I go through.
My friend Jedediah posted a quote of hers on Instagram:
“In a world full of fake and phony, I’m searching for the real. Real souls, real hearts, real faces, real bodies, real everything. Because you over there, with your scars and brokenness and imperfections, I think you’re kinda beautiful. -JB”
Now, I know she didn’t post that just for me, but it spoke to me. Some friends have expressed concern over the last few days about my social media absence and lack of response to messages, and I’ve been scared to tell them what’s going on. Again. Again. Again. Most of my scars are faded or covered by my HOPE tattoo, but they’re still there. They’re still connected to invisible scars in my mind that ache and sometimes come screaming to the forefront. And it’s embarrassing. And scary. And humiliating. And they prove how imperfect I am. They show where I’m still broken. And because of them I don’t feel beautiful.
But I’m still here. Still fighting. Again. Again. Again. Again.