Posts Tagged ‘depression’

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.

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Below is an excerpt of a post I wrote shortly after actor and comedian, Robin Williams committed suicide:

Depression is a void. It’s an abyss. It’s a chasm. It’s a violent, invisible storm. It’s suffocation while breathing normally. It’s walking through life as a person and feeling invisible while simultaneously feeling like all eyes are on you, judging you. Depression is smiling and laughing and doing what’s expected of you while counting down until you can crawl back into bed because you were exhausted before you even crawled out of it that morning. Depression is living and, not just feeling but, KNOWING you’re dead already inside and yet still hurting so much you’re blinded by it.

Now for the hard part of writing all of this: I still struggle. I’ve been struggling the last couple of weeks. This past weekend I was at the grocery store. It was a routine trip, and I was in the office supply aisle to pick up Post-Its. Next to the Post-Its were X-Acto knives. If you’ve ever known- or been- a cutter or person who self harms, you know several implements may be used, but there’s always a preferred method and/or tool. My arm holds the scars of hundreds of cuts. It’s safe to say, in the course of the years, I inflicted well over 1,000 cuts, digs, gouges, and burns on my body. So as I stood there, looking at Post-Its, my eyes landed on the thin blades. Normally I avoid the section of a store these knives are kept, but I really did need the Post-Its. There I stood, staring at an art tool that, in my hands, is a means of self destruction, and I froze. Instantly I had a physical reaction. I felt the cold blade across my skin so real, I could taste metal. But there the package hung, a small bit of metal encased in plastic and cardboard. Completely benign yet my insides were turning savagely. Begging my hand to reach out. I didn’t stand there long. I couldn’t. I walked away, my palms sweaty and mouth dry but no blades in my cart. I didn’t feel victorious. I still don’t. Because I wanted that knife so viscerally, I felt shame and the darkness and pull became darker and stronger.

Talking about what goes on in my brain is difficult. When I say out loud what I’m feeling or thinking, it sounds silly. Trying to quantify wanting to be alone AND needing to be connected to someone who cares without sounding completely nutters drives me inward more often than not. No two people experience or cope with depression in the same way. And those who have never dealt with the darkness may never come to terms with not truly understanding what it’s all like. But if you struggle, reach out. If you know someone who is caught in a losing battle, talk to them. Talk about anything. Physically reach out and wrap your arms around someone. We don’t have to understand why or what or how a person is dealing or not dealing, just being present- really present- can save a life. If you’re unsure of what to do, how to help, or where to get help, check out the Suicide Prevention Lifeline for resources. And for heaven’s sake don’t go all holier-than-thou on a person who’s contemplating suicide or self harm. Love them, hold them, talk to them, smile at them, give them a flower or pack of gum or one of those Cokes that has their name on it. Just don’t go all judge-y or preach-y on them. Trust me, they’ve been preaching to and judging themselves harsher and longer than you ever could.

It was a vulnerable moment for me, admitting the struggle and attempting to put words the jumble of everything going on inwardly. Some days are easy. Some days are impossible. Most days I don’t want anyone to know how dark or how often it gets dark in my head- they don’t need that burden and I don’t like being that exposed.

My sister, Sarah (the one in the ponytail), has dealt with her own dark places her whole life. Some of our dark places are from the same events, some aren’t. We’ve fought being close over the years because of the commonness in why we struggle, but we’re finally in a place to see and appreciate who each of us is, and embrace each other- flaws and dark places included. Our fight isn’t identical. How we fight and why we fight are vastly different. But we fight and recognize the spirit in each other to keep going. She’s the one who bought us the matching shirts designed by actor, Jared Padalecki to help raise money for TWLOHA (To Write Love On Her Arms). If you aren’t familiar with the organization, please spend a few minutes checking out their website. I’m grateful for people like Padalecki who are using their fame to help those who, many times not just feel but, are invisible to the world.

The top photograph of Sarah and me was taken when I picked up my shirt from her. Her boyfriend, Doug, was taking our picture and we kept shifting for the best angle. “Strong arms cuz we’re fighting!” I directed. We made our strong arms and then burst into laughter. Doug captured that moment of naked glee. Sarah kept trying (unsuccessfully) to point out a flaw she saw in herself in that moment. I don’t see it; I choose not to. I see two sisters. I see two sisters who love each other. I see survivors of unspeakable horror. I see two vibrant rays of light. I see two scarred, but beautiful women. I see two fighters.

Always keep fighting.

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Over the last year my social media presence has waned. Life and all its life-ness produced some bends in the road. And in maneuvering those bends, I’ve retreated inward. I’ve lost outward touch with people I hold fiercely in my heart. But, for the first time since leaping into the wide world of social media in 2011, I deactivated one of my accounts, ignored the others, and turned my phone off for almost two weeks- ignoring calls, texts, and messages. It wasn’t an experiment in unplugging; it was a last-ditch effort to control a situation that spun wildly out of control on December 24th. I’m near-positive writing this will not go over well with some of those involved. At this point I care, but will no longer feel shame for needing to purge my own thoughts and inner dealings in an attempt to regain what I inwardly lost.

I haven’t hid my battles with depression, cutting, and suicide. Overall, I’m the best I’ve ever been, but I still struggle sometimes- especially in high, negative stress situations. I thrive in positive stress, it’s exhausting, but those times are when life is at it’s most exhilarating. Anyway, December 24, 2014 was definitely negative stress situation and it sent me reeling and into seclusion.

Against my better judgement (short story, but not relevant) I agreed to go to my parents’ house after work to see the family. From the moment I walked in the door I was bombarded by people handing me things, asking questions, demanding something, telling me to eat, go, sit, shoes off, hug gramma. My 23 year old brother told me he wanted me to drink with him. Let me stop here, my family KNOWS I do not drink. I haven’t for over 7 years. I used to have a drug and alcohol problem and worked hard to maintain my sobriety over the years. Again, my family knows this. So when my brother insisted I drink with him, I declined and made my way to the kitchen to grab some food and finish assembling the dessert I brought.

While alternating between the stove and center island, my brother tried to hand me a glass of some kind of alcohol. I again told him no. He insisted. I stood my ground. He stepped closer. I stepped back. He tried to shove the glass into my hand. I kept saying no and he kept insisting I drink. Both our voices raised. He tried to put the glass to my mouth. I backed up as far as I could. We began yelling. He started cussing. My parents rushed in trying to break things up. My brother stormed outside, cussing up a storm and calling me several names- all of which I do not say. At some point I was told I shouldn’t have provoked my brother. I was told several times by him to “just let it go” after he came back inside. One of the gems- what we call “C U Next Tuesday” (I’ll let you suss out what that stands for)- my brother hurled at me several times, texted it, and used it in tagging me on a threatening photo on Facebook (I have screenshots of everything).

If only that were the worst of it. In the fray some family left (I don’t blame them, I wanted to leave, too). My parents’ were leaving to go to church when my dad noticed my car covered in mud. It was dark and that was the only “damage” anyone could see. I left a short time later. As I drove home, I noticed something wrong with my windshield- it was scratched all over. My brother had excessively keyed half my windshield. Anger and hurt consumed me. I was shaking and past the point of crying. I wanted to cut. I wanted to drink. I wanted to take pills. I wanted to do all of it just to not feel or think. To not remember my brother thought so little of me. To not think about how violated I felt. I prayed and screamed the entire drive home. At home I crawled into bed and turned everything off. The next day I had to run an errand. That’s when I saw my car in the light. The passenger side door was keyed up with a deep scratch running down to the tail light. As I looked over the damage I saw what was carved into my door: Satan. I felt violated all over again. My faith and relationship with God is the most important thing in life. My brother knows this. We’ve had some great spiritual conversations in the past. That he would use this to deface my car… I have no sufficient words. Later, at church, a friend pointed out (and please forgive me for writing this) “FUCK” was also scratched into my door. I park at the far end of the church parking lot to keep people from seeing the damage.

My brother has not apologized. Other than messaging me one day on Facebook to tell me not to press charges, he’ll talk to me when he’s ready, and he’ll pay for the damages (a placation to keep me from pressing charges) he hasn’t spoken to me. It was an uphill battle to get my family to see this situation through my eyes. I was told he was drunk and I should have known he was even though the entire house had been with him for hours and no one else knew he had been drinking that much. I was told I should have taken the glass, then maybe he wouldn’t have vandalized my car and said all those things. I was told to remember I was once that age and did things I shouldn’t have. I was told to remember I was the Christian and he wasn’t. I was told I was older and should forgive him. I was told maybe I should just take this as a lesson learned.

I spent two weeks grasping at every shred of control within myself in order to keep going. I spent that time praying and begging God for the strength not to go back to old comforts. I questioned what I did and said. I tried to not feel guilty for smiling when something made me happy. I tried to reach out to friends, but my hands wouldn’t comply to text or call. Every inch of me was focused on appearing normal when I had to leave the house. I’m still exhausted. I don’t want to leave my bed; I have to because I have to work and pay bills. I don’t want to go out and see people and pretend, but I have to keep living. It’s hard to describe why this ordeal affects me this way. I know every day I walk out my front door to see my car in all its vulgar un-glory and cringe. I drive and see through a scratched up windshield. And I am reminded every day my brother deemed me not drinking as a crime punishable by profanity and vandalism and he’s unremorseful.

Things have been rough lately. And by “lately” I mean the past month. The “what” exactly isn’t important. No one thing triggered the spiral but before I could catch myself, there I was, spinning. Spinning out of control. Spinning into a place I hate going. A place dark. A place void. A place I don’t go often. Not anymore, at least. Honestly, if I thought about it, I couldn’t tell you where that place is; I just know it exists and when things get bad in my head I find myself there wondering how and when I arrived. And I’m scared.

See, I’ve been clean and sober officially since July 2007. A fact I’m proud of. I stopped cutting on August 14, 2005. A fact I am fiercely proud of. But the problem is those are problems that still surface sometimes. I haven’t slipped. I haven’t fallen. But there are times I want to. There are times I want to so bad I can taste the bitterness of the pills, the burn of the alcohol running down my throat, the feel of a blade gliding across my arm as warmth runs, drips down to my elbow.

The dark place takes me to the brink of these old habits- these addictions- I’ve fought so hard to overcome, beat, hide. So I sit here typing. Thinking. Wishing. Praying. Hoping. For someone. Someone to show up at my door with their arms out. Ready to hold me until the tears start and willing to not let go until they stop. Because as long as I’m hoping for that dream I can deflect the one where I think, wish, pray, hope for someone to show up at my door with their hands out. Something wicked in them. Something that will, for the night, send me into oblivion and numbness.

I don’t quite know how to leave this dark place. Part of me never wants to leave. I hate this dark place.