[insert title here]

I’m feeling very purposeless today. Work was long, and I didn’t even stay the whole day, I ended up getting sick a few hours before I was scheduled to leave. There were more scoldings, more hand burnings, more crazy lunch/dinner rushes, more stares at the scars on my arms, and endless running around. Things might have ended on a happier note, but movie night plans with Corinne, Ryan, and the Cru gang fell through when I got sick, and my ride made other plans.

I don’t know why I’m so sad, but it’s happening again. Yes, I want to cut, and the wounds healing on my arm itch like crazy. I need to turn off, turn numb, something… Even though I don’t know why it feels like my heart is being tossed around between gloves wrapped in barbed wire, I do know that it hurts terribly.

I know that I’ve been focusing too long on my lack of a normal, happy future, sitting at my desk, and crying to myself for almost two hours now. The dialogue in my head keeps reminding me that happily-ever-after will never be for me, that my scars and my past and my fears and mistakes condemn me to live alone, held at arms length. The pills, the long sleeves, the odd fears and mannerisms will all stand as evidence of my complete brokenness for as long as I live.

I want to scream, I need to bleed, smash something, break myself, induce physical pain that’s easier to deal with than my emotions.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I need a hug, but I’m in such bad shape, I can’t ask for one.

I’m so sick of this…

Day 7

One week ago today, something inside snapped. I’ve tried to articulate what’s going on in my head and in my heart, and the best I can come up with is “I’m thinking too hard,” or more accurately, “I don’t know.” I don’t have names for the feelings or the emotions, or even the thought processes. I only know that they’re overwhelming, to the point of reducing me to tears in the most public of situations. What the heck is that?!

I don’t know.

Last Tuesday, I don’t even remember when, I got back from class and ambled into my room, not feeling entirely stable, not sure how to fight off a relapse of any magnitude. I curled up in the corner between my bed and my wardrobe, holding Orion, and cried as quietly as I could, trying not to disturb Jess, Corinne and Ryan, all of whom were watching TV in the living room. The incident becomes more and more of a heart-pounding blur every day, but one thing I do remember is having a grotesque image in my mind’s eye — I wanted to find a razor blade and go at my arm, in the same spot, again and again, until I couldn’t go any deeper, until my hands were shaking too hard to stop, for as long as I could. Thinking back now, I flinch and shudder, and realize my own stupidity.

But that evening, the image wouldn’t go away.

I stopped crying for long enough to half-jump out of bed, and land on my knees in front of the filing cabinet under my desk. In the middle drawer, next to old notebooks and folders, was the t-shirt I bled on when I cut, along with old Band-Aid wrappers and a few safety pins for impromptu bandages. Something in the back of my mind remembered that I had also put a razor blade there, but wasn’t sure if it had been put in the box that Ryan had taken from me.

It hadn’t.

At this point, I can only remember pieces of what I did. I remember that I was so far gone, I didn’t even bother closing the door, much less locking it so I wouldn’t be found. I plopped down with my back to my bed, stared at the sharp steel edge for a few moments, and went at it. Maybe what I did was akin to the mental image I’d been fighting, though my hands began to shake far before I wanted them to. I remember seeing one of the cuts gaping, but only half understanding that that meant the cut was a quarter of an inch deep. I moved on to three other cuts, none quite as severe as the first. At some point, the razor blade fell out of my fingers, and I stopped. I sat there, waiting for anything, and nothing came. Though I was a little bit calmer, all I wanted to do was cry.

I don’t know how long I was sitting there.

Eventually, I got up, wrapped a strip of t-shirt around my arm, and sat at my computer, not bothering to try and manipulate a safety pin. When I got up to throw away a can of fruit punch, I didn’t even think to try and hide the makeshift bandage on my arm. If there was ever a time I felt numb, this was it. I walked down the hall, to the edge of the living room, dropped my can in the garbage, and walked back to my room. This time, my carelessness may have been my saving grace.

I got caught.

In a few minutes, Ryan had come in and parked himself on my bed, asking what happened. I don’t know how long we talked, but there were plenty of “I don’t know” answers on my part. There was a kind of gut-wrenching guilt, and a trembling pain that shot up my arm the entire time. He asked me what Grace meant, and when I didn’t have an answer right away, all I wanted to do was crawl under my desk and hide. I’ve been taught about grace all my life, about what I didn’t deserve, and what God extended through Christ’s sacrifice. I have brain knowledge about my faith galore, but the more I fight against my inner demons, the more seems to get lost in translation between my head and my heart.

A week ago was the first time I got a hug and couldn’t stop crying.

(I’m fairly certain it was the “of course I forgive you” I heard from somewhere above my head. Wow, that hit hard…)

I didn’t know what to do, what to think, even where I was supposed to start. Eventually, after peeling off a crappy bandage and seeing the extent of what I’d done, there was a trip to the store to get real first aid stuff. From my Google adventures since, I know I should have gone to get stitches, but most of me is glad that I didn’t. I found two more razor blades around my desk, which we put in an old soda can that Ryan threw away. Somehow, I floated through all of that, after the talking, up until I was cleaning my arm in Ryan’s apartment. Holygoodgriefwow, putting an open wound under running water hurts. I felt like I was going to bite a hole through my lip. And with that pain, I realized that I had a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of changes to make in my life.

I have to stop hurting myself.

I don’t talk to or trust God nearly as much as I should.

I will deal with the scars for the rest of my life, but I cannot let myself be so paralyzed by guilt and regret.

I know all these things, I don’t know for how long I’ve known them. Maybe that’s what’s had me so mixed up this past week… Maybe I’ve been thinking too hard about my own faults, maybe I’ve been too absorbed with the healing wounds on my arm. Maybe I’m realizing more truly the depth of my own sin, and how dark the inside of me must be. I don’t know. Maybe school has gotten more stressful, and I’m attributing it to the wrong sources, maybe I’m starting to understand how absolutely blessed I am and thankful I ought to be to have friends and Family like Ryan and the girls. Maybe I’m getting tripped up by my sheer lack of contribution to the increasing number of conversations my roommates are having about things like dating and drinking (neither of which I have any experience in), or maybe I’m starting to panic about what life is going to be like after college. Maybe I need more Fall-GetAway worship experiences with Cru, maybe I need late-night walks around downtown Ames.

Maybe all of it is the answer, maybe there’s something deeper.

And for all this typing, I still don’t know jack. I know a few simple things, and I’m starting to learn a few more, but I still can’t find the right words.

I’ve been clean for one week. And for now, I’m going to leave it at that.

My mask is crumbling…

Get up at 6 am, drive Jess to work.

Gotta smile, even though I’m dead tired.

Grab breakfast, drive home and eat. Play several games of Tetris to distract yourself, wonder what today will hold. Pack up books, leave for class. Try to listen to happy music on the way there, shiver in the cold Iowa autumn. Get to the Horticulture building — Ryan’s already there. Sit down, skim newspaper, wait for class.

I want to push my sleeves up, but the girl next to me won’t stop staring at my scars. Why am I so stupid?!

Sit through class and multiple jabs at Christianity, then find out that next class is going to be about religion, and your beliefs are certain to be attacked. Pray for Corinne, taking a test, take your meds. Walk outside with Ryan, part ways and head to psychology. Sit through a class full of information you’ve already learned. Boredom ensues. Text Ryan while he’s at work, he says he’s bored. Class ends, walk home in the miserable drizzle, grab lunch, eat at your desk and play more Tetris games. Fight to concentrate.

Why do I still want to die? Why the hell did I give Ryan my razor blades, and why didn’t I keep some for days like this?

Pack up English books, go outside, miss the bus by a minute. Stand and wait in the cold for five minutes next to a guy with the same backpack as you. Ride the bus to class, keeping your eyes on the floor or looking out the window. Your stomach hurts, you’re confused, and all you want to do is cry.

Smile, thank the bus driver.

Get inside the building, make a pit stop in the bathroom, check face for signs of despair. Trek up to the second floor where your class is, sit on the floor and wait. Read from Lessing’s Briefing for a Descent into Hell, wonder why she wrote it. Think for a moment too long, let the depression sink in, cracking the mask you cling to.

I wonder if she actually knows what hell feels like. I wonder how close I am to sliding back there again, into addictions and knives and self-injury. Yes, I’ve been to hell and somehow managed to climb out. I don’t want to go back.

Sit through class and more jabs at “the Christian myth,” try to concentrate on the class discussion instead of the scars all over your arm. Wonder what your classmates are thinking when they see the marks, especially the times you catch them staring, wonder how long before those stares tip you into a suicidal mindset that you can’t escape.

If I pull down my sleeves, it’ll be really warm. Either way, I lose. Thanks to my own idiocy, to my weakness and cowardice, this is the life I’ve doomed myself to. I will never escape the stares, the stereotypes, the callous jokes, or the anxieties.

Wait outside in the rain for the bus to take you home. Keep your sleeves down, there’s already a guy you don’t recognize staring at you. Wish you could just drop everything and run as fast as you could — run far away from the pain and the crying, from the tears and scars and regrets that constantly hound, from the incessant feelings of being in the way, from the guilt, from the crumbling mask glued to your face. Stumble upstairs to the apartment, drop stuff off, finish psych work, crawl into bed. Cave in, text Ryan asking for prayer, fall asleep.

Even my teddy bear should hate me. I’m nothing. I want to cut. I need to bleed, or I’m going to lose it.

Wake up before you meant to, play some more Tetris and scan through YouTube videos. Smile briefly, truly, for only a moment. Begin to fight panic about going to Cru tonight, because you know that your heart is in such a sorry state. You don’t want to be an outright hypocrite, even though there are few who see the mask you wear, and even fewer who have tried to pry it off. Corinne and Cole are going to see The Hangover in the MU, and then Corinne is coming straight to Cru. Your stomach hurts, because you don’t understand going to see a raunchy movie that was not created to glorify God, and then going to praise that same God forgotten for a few hours of entertainment. Hate yourself for being judgmental.

Smile, laugh, talk to Jess. She can’t know how terrible I am, how much of a wreck my mind is, or I’ll have to talk about it. I’ll have to try and explain why I can’t sleep at night, why I’m always crying, why there are hundreds of marks on my arm, and permanent scars on my mind.

Go to Cru, fill out puzzles in yesterday’s newspaper. Sit with Jess, wave as Alyssa comes in, then Ryan.

Can they see? Can they see how badly I hurt, how badly I want to die? Will they tell me I have to leave, that I’m not living the way I ought to?

Rest your head on your arms, close your eyes, and fight everything in you that wants to break down and cry. Collect more fall getaway paperwork, try to hold on to the pieces of your mask that are still intact. Ryan and Jess hug you, and you nearly lose it. Sit down in Cru, sing songs, watch Jess leave and hope she’s alright. Take a quick out to go find her, realize she’s on the phone and trying not to let the worry come through her voice. Her cat is sick, and she’s worried, so you give her a hug and lend her a shoulder to cry on. Tell her that her hair smells good, try to cheer her up.

Please be happy, Jess. I can’t, so I want you to. You deserve it far more than I do. After all, I’m a catastrophic failure.

Go back into the lecture hall and sit through the rest of Cru. The music is nice, but you’re not sure if you should raise your hands. God has no reason to talk to you. You can’t forgive yourself, and you don’t know why He would. Leave as soon as you can, go to the registration table in case anyone else is going to sign up for the weekend retreat. Try to laugh, try to smile, make sure everyone gets a packing list and a “have a good week” before they leave the building. Your stomach still hurts, you still don’t know which part of your mind to listen to. You’re starting to make your head hurt.

I hate this. I hate me.

Get in the car with Corinne, Jess and Ryan, drive to get ice cream with the other Cru attendees. Eat ice cream with Twix and Reeses, even though you know it’ll probably make you sick — sick is what you deserve. Sit alone at a table for a while, pretend to laugh and smile with Jess, Bo, and Justin when they join you. Wish you could go home and carve a few lines in your arm, then sleep. Realize you can’t, try not to let your hands shake too badly. Get ready to go, set your backpack by the door with your shoes, make sure no one is watching, find a corner to hide in. Scrape your knuckles on the wall, wish they would skin more easily. Trace the scars crossing your wrist, understand they’ll never go away.

I don’t understand, God. I don’t understand one damn bit of this, and I’m losing my mind.

Listen to your friends somewhere behind the wall at your back, laughing, enjoying each other’s company. Hear your name in passing.

I’m going to die alone. I don’t want to keep going like this, I don’t want to keep being in the way, I don’t want to worry them. But I don’t want to to die alone. I just want peace, I want my emotions to level out, I want to at least appear normal. I want to die, alone or not. What is wrong with me?!

Barely hold in a sob, scratch at your scars as if you could erase them. Beg them to disappear.

“Hun, are you okay?”

Ryan’s found me. Get up, don’t cry. Tell him everything’s fine, I’m perfectly alright, even though only half of me hopes he knows better.

Climb to your feet, try to apologize. Your legs are shaking, and you’re about to stutter when Ryan hugs you tightly. All you want to do is bawl, but you hug him back, squeezing your eyes shut, ordering yourself not to cry, pleading with God to bless your friend, to end you. Go outside, get in Jess’ car, turn around the block to give paperwork to other planning team members. Try to smile, squeeze out a laugh, as you talk to Corinne. Hug your backpack, close your eyes, try to keep your composure until you get home, where you can wait for your roommates to go to bed, so you can cry aloud, alone.

I hate this.

I can only struggle for so long…

I have no idea what’s wrong with my mind. The past few days, maybe even a week, my moods have been swinging up and down and up and way down, from hour to hour. I can go from laughing with my roommates on my way to class, and come back two hours later with a rancid craving for sharp steel. I can go from being in philosophy class with Ryan, grateful to him for helping me throw away my razor blades, to coming home after another class, furious with myself for giving them to him, hoping he hasn’t destroyed them, that I might get them back. I go from smiling to Hillsong, trekking to my next class, to listening to the saddest music I can find, crying all the way home. Just today, I went from upbeat, to trying to scrub scars off my arm during down time at work, cursing my own stupidity, and wishing I could be normal for even a few moments.

If I could see triggers popping up unexpectedly in any of these situations, I might be able to understand. But I don’t.

As such, I have to lie to Corinne, Jess and Nicole when they find me curled up in some corner of our apartment, holding Orion and crying. I’m almost afraid to move around and function, for fear that I’ll hold on to a bad thought for a fraction of a millisecond too long, and send myself spiraling down into mental darkness.

It’s the middle of the semester, and everyone is starting to get stressed with the workload and midterms, so I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s day to tell them that I’m feeling down. I feel like talking about my depression and my desire to cut will be seen as an obvious grab at whatever pity I can get, when that’s not my intent at all. I don’t know what my intent is, I don’t know how I sound when I ask to be heard, I just know that I don’t want to get in the way. All three of my roommates, Ryan and I — all of us need to do well this semester, or face a myriad of unpleasant consequences. I don’t want to hinder that.

But the longer I hold it in, the closer I know I’ll get to finding something sharp and relentless, or to downing all the pills I’ve saved up and hidden. Part of me is outraged — I said I’d never go back to this, never go back to seriously considering suicide again. The other part of me– the heavy, sad, wounded part — tells me that I should just OD, cut myself up, and fade away. I hear both voices constantly, shouting at each other, at me, pointing out the strengths in their argument, demanding that I choose a side.

And somehow, I can sit here and type, biting my tongue to keep from screaming, wishing someone could see and do away with my illness, free me from these addictions, and erase my scars, someone who can tell me that I won’t die alone.

Or a hug.

I think that’s what I really need now. A big, safe, hug.

I’m slipping…

Thanks to a dumb English paper, I got three and a half hours of sleep last night, and I’ve been running around most of today, and yesterday. I’ve had two tests already this week, with another one on Friday, and then a whole weekend on a retreat with Cru, as part of the planning team. None of that says anything about the relational issues going on around me, in my group of friends, any of the homework I have to do, or working tomorrow or Friday. I don’t know what to say when people ask questions, I don’t know how to take care of myself, to get enough sleep or eat well, anything.

Today, I was walking home alone in the dark, crying, and the thought crossed my mind: Maybe I should just swallow all the pills I can find in the apartment and get it over-with now.

I thought about suicide, realized I was thinking about it, and let the train of thought continue. The more I thought, the more I cried, and the better the idea sounded. I decided that no matter when I go, I’m going to die alone, and if I were to end things now, I could guess that at least my roommates and my family would come to the funeral. If I keep drawing things out, the approximate number of people who would care dwindles.

What’s worse, I have the means. Yes, I gave Ryan my razor blades, but I know where to get more, and I know that he’s got his own set of issues to deal with. All I would have to do is remind myself of how much I get in the way, hop on a bus to the store, and I would have another package of steel, sharp and ready for use. In the medicine drawer, between the four girls living in my apartment, I’m sure I could find enough pills with a large enough variety to do damage I can’t turn back.

I told God that I wanted to die, and I didn’t hear anything… I feel like I’m falling away from my friends, falling away from my faith, starting to lose my mind more quickly every day. I am so tired, so lonely, and so unbelievably scared, that I can barely concentrate enough to finish this sentence…

I don’t know what I’m going to do.

Monday, 10/5/09, 12:47 am

I should be sleeping… But I’m not. Instead, I’m thinking too hard again, and wondering how I’m going to get through the next few days in one piece. I gave Ryan my razor blades, and I shouldn’t regret that for an instant. But experience tells me that, on a night like this, bleeding would calm me down enough to fall asleep quickly. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do… If I’m hurting this much from disappointing myself, how much more has it hurt those around me?

I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me.

Am I doing better?

I think so.

Last weekend was really difficult, and I cried myself to sleep three nights in a row. I’ve been clean for nine days now, after a very emotional Thursday night, a week and a half ago. During that bad weekend, Ryan convinced me to vent to him, and I ended up leaking that I’d been considering suicide again, and a spur of the moment flub on the part of my roommates completely destroyed my plan. (That’s another story, ask me if you’re interested, I might post it later.) He offered to help me throw away my razor blades, and last Thursday, I somehow managed to give him a mint tin full of all the old blades that I could find, and my newest acquisitions, most of which hadn’t been used. I don’t know how I did it — I was so scared, I barely got through Cru in one piece, and since I gave up my sharp safety blanket, I’ve had several near panic attacks, and one total breakdown…

[ That's another story, and one which still upsets me a lot, so I won't tell it now, because I need to sleep. ]

On October 1st, I made it through the three-year anniversary of the death of one of my high school classmates, which was an event that played a major role in my descent into dangerous self-injury. I’ve been coping with work well, even though Saturdays are frustrating and very long. Schoolwork is keeping me busy, sometimes enough to distract me from being depressed. The weather hasn’t been the greatest, but the sun came out today, which was nice.

And in spite of all of this, I think I might be getting worse. I’ve given up on some of the cultural ideas held by 19-year-old female college students, even though I’m reminded of them every day, and it stings a little bit more every time. And, perhaps worst of all, after several bad weekends and enough thinking to give myself several headaches, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m going to die alone. Statistically, it’s likely to happen before I’m 21, which really, really scares me. God and Orion are the only ones who know what I’ve whispered to myself, trying to sleep, trying to stay sane.

I didn’t know it was possible to be this terrified of loneliness, and I had no idea it could hurt, so much.

Can’t sleep, so I shall blog.

I should be sleeping, even though I don’t have school tomorrow. But I can’t, I’ve gotten my mind whirring too furiously, and my heart too worked up to even keep my eyes closed for long. This weekend has been a series of catastrophically dramatic ups and downs, from laughing with friends for hours, to working from open to close, being the grunt all 10 hours, to dinner with roommates and fellow Cru attendees, to church (and a wonderful sermon about the sovereignty of God) and the barn, to now — sitting at my computer, trying not to cry too loudly, because I don’t want Jess to hear, getting closer and closer to giving in to the cold, silver voice asking me for red.

And yes, my disappointment about having to work tomorrow (especially after I was told that we were just going to close for the holiday weekend) instead of being able to go to a cookout at Corinne’s place with her, Jess, Ryan and possibly Lee (a buddy from Cru) is justified. And yes, there’s nothing I can do now about having to work, or them leaving. I guess I really wanted to go, but I still don’t think I ought to be this worked up.

This kind of frustration with myself is nothing new. Some nights are worse than others, some days I can push through. Others, like many of the nights that I took a razor blade to my arm, or smashed my hand into a wall, days when BPD and depression and anxiety tag-teamed me easily — days like these aren’t easy, days like these remind me of what being suicidal is like. I can’t figure out if I’m alright or not, I could just be responding to the stress of a new school year. Or, I could be on the verge of another psychotic break.

If that’s the case, I’m not going to last very long.

Busy busy busy Bunmi…

It’s week two of school, and somehow, I’m still managing to get sleep, stay awake in my classes, and be a competent employee 11 hours a week. I’ve been keeping on top of my homework, which I intend to continue, and I’ve been doing what I can to work ahead. I’ve even been able to tag along to the barn with Corinne to see her horse, play with the kittens, and make friends with other horses on the property. I’m still having a hard time at work when I have to use razor blades to open cases of stuff, and the fact that I’ve burned my hand on every single sandwich I’ve cut right after its been toasted hasn’t helped. I’ve been trying to wear my sleeves up more often, especially around friends. At the same time, when Ryan mentioned it the other day, I wasn’t sure how to respond. I’m used to the scars, used to seeing them, and itching them at random moments, used to tracing them when I get nervous… I’m also used to them frightening/unnerving other people, especially the ones who don’t know me.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this… I can’t seem to get my mind around things at the moment, which probably means I need sleep.

[taking a break from watching friends play Smash Brothers]

I feel like I should be a lot happier right now… I did alright out in the social world after a really bad nightmare, work is going well, we’ve been having people over to the apartment every few days, my classes are going alright… But since my last post, my thoughts have turned a shade darker, maybe three or four shades. I’ve had to use razor blades to open cases of soda and food and such at work, and it’s been really challenging. These past few days, I’ve become really self-conscious about my scars again, and had a couple moments where I reflected too deeply on the worst parts of my relapses last year. I don’t really want to talk to anyone about being uneasy, because I know everyone is working on getting into the groove of school, and I don’t want to throw them off or anything… I don’t really know what to do. My brain is only sort of working, so I don’t have anything epic, or even deep to say, I just seem to keep rambling…

Oh well. Maybe things will look better in the morning.