[ Untitled ] July 8, 2009

So, I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I haven’t blogged in far too long, probably because I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order for long enough to write something of interest. Also, a good chunk of these summer weeks have been wonderful — my depression and BPD were stable, I was getting sleep, seeing friends, the works –, and for whatever sick reason my subconscious decided, it’s easier for me to rant and rave and blog when I’m feeling negative emotions, as opposed to positive ones.

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I thought about it for a while, and the best reasoning I can come up with is this: what if I write something positive, upbeat, praising God and crowing about how well I’m doing, wonderful, that’s lovely. Then, someone in a bad state of mind, not unlike myself during a depressive episode, who happened to glance at my blog, reads my happy entry, and just feels worse. What then? But the opposite is true as well: I wouldn’t be surprised if some of my sad posts made the day of a happy person worse. If I keep following this line of thought, still trying to please everyone, wouldn’t it be better for me to just not blog at all?

Regardless of how it actually works, this reality ticks me off.

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Anyhow, I guess a quick recap of my summer would be a good place to start. I finished school and moved back home during the first week of May, have visited family in Michigan two or three times, been to New Orleans for a week, been able to go to my home church, hung out with my amazing friends/Family at movie marathons and other assorted shindigs, had two cousins stay with my family during two separate weeks, volunteered at Feed My Starving Children, become part of a college ministry small group within walking distance of my house, had plenty of time to write and sleep, and done what I can to prepare for the beginning of next semester, which comes mid-August.

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All this stuff is wonderful — so why am I depressed right now? Why has it been such a struggle not to hurt myself, even with the increased risk of being discovered by family and close friends? Why am I still listening to sad playlists created during previous depressive episodes, nearly on a daily basis?

I don’t know. I honestly can’t think of any legitimate reason for being upset that shouldn’t be eclipsed entirely by the grace of God given me.

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That may be part of the issue. Since I’ve come, I’ve been going to a church where the Bible is opened during service, where we ask difficult questions, and answer them with relevant theology. The more I look back at my time at CPC while I was in Ames, the more I realize that it was absolutely not the place I should have been. Instead, it was a place where I watched a movie that sent me spiraling down into suicidality, where the pastor’s use of cursing was a constant confusion, where “hang out and do nothing” time happened hundreds of times more often than Bible study time. To be fair, it was also a place where I made dear friends, had many laughs, recieved encouragement from church members, had the chance to serve, and met one of my apartment-mates for the fall. Bottom line: I wasn’t growing in my faith. And with my mental state the way it was, not growing in my faith was equal to sliding backwards faster than anyone expected. Since I’ve been home, this has changed drastically: every week, I hear the message of the Cross, engage in genuine worship, and have opportunities to converse with my peers about the faith that we share. As my understanding of God deepens, so does my guilt about not being a constant acknowledger of how blessed and fortunate I am. The guilt slips me right back into the vicious cycle that includes depression and the urge to rip myself open.

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Charlie Brown has been quoted as saying “I think I’m afraid to be happy because whenever I get too happy, something bad always happens.” This line of thinking, no matter how odd, pitiful or convoluted it may seem, is one that I identify with directly. I am scared. During my time in New Orleans, I wore short sleeves while I worked, which is something I haven’t really done for over a year now. But just when I thought I was getting comfortable, my daycampers asked me what happened, and when I said it was a “long story”, only a few left it at that. More often, I got “Do you have a cat?” or “Girl, what’s wrong with you?!” One little girl named Sarai (who I met on my first trip to New Orleans, back in 2005 — Wow!) said to me, even after seeing all the scars on my arms, “I still think you’re pretty.” I smiled and thanked her, and kept on supervising their activities, but my heart shattered. How could she say that so easily, without hearing the whole story, without seeing how much of a screw up I am, after knowing me only for a few hours? The world I live in tells me exactly the opposite, and I hear the put downs constantly. My faith tells me that I have ultimate worth and value and true beauty in God, but it’s so difficult to see that, much less focus on it.

I didn’t believe Sarai. I don’t believe her. I can’t.

And it hurts like hell.

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I’m afraid, every time I open a book or start watching a movie, that it’s going to bolster my hopes about being “normal,” about what my future as a 19 year old girl is supposed to be like. Because, every single time, I know that my scars, my meds, my memories and regrets and mistakes, are going to slam another reality down my throat as soon as my confidence slips — I’m damaged goods, I can’t ever be “normal,” and what happens to the girls in the movies and the books is never going to happen to me.

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I’m also becoming more self conscious about my scars, which doesn’t help. Some of the oldest ones are barely noticible — they’re also the thinnest, smallest scars on my arm, and most of them are underneath white and pink lines. At least ten of the scars are still raised up, fatter than the other scars, and far more visible. Two of them cross my wrist, and might have killed me, had I spent another ten minutes slicing my arms. There were razor blades all over the worksite in New Orleans, used to cut drywall that we hung. That didn’t help at all… In fact, I nearly had a panic attack on the front porch during the middle of the week.

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I’m so, so tired, and I hurt so badly. I haven’t been sleeping well, my appetite is wimpy at best, and I have to fight with myself most mornings to get up and go downstairs. Complaining about it, even talking about it, makes me feel ungrateful and whiny, so try to keep it to myself. It shouldn’t be this way, and I know it. Right now, I’m exhausted, but not likely to get sleep for another hour or two. Once school starts, this kind of night-time insomnia and daytime napping, without any set schedule, is going to screw me over.

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I am more than ready to be done with this insanity and this pain. People look at me like I’m crazy when I say I’m ready to be Home… But it’s true.

Apologies and promises May 23, 2009

I’m so sorry for not updating more regularly… Things have been insane the past few weeks: ending my second semester at ISU, finals, packing everything up, getting home, unpacking, catching up with everyone, writing, trying to sleep, meeting with a psychiatrist, medication changes, scheduling visits to family and from college friends, gearing up for New Orleans, talking to God…
And let me tell you, I think I am about to lose my mind. The same question — how on earth did I miss all this while I was away at school?! — keeps coming to mind. It’s mind-boggling and thoroughly confusing. And gross.

I shall write again soon with more details. Promise.

The questions just keep flooding in… April 22, 2009

These past few weeks, as well as the next week, have been and will be incredibly busy for me. It’s the end of the semester, and everything is due. Last week alone contained four separate tests, a quiz, and two presentations. This week is papers and quizzes and projects, and more trying to figure out who I am.

In my English class, we’ve been working on research papers and accompanying powerpoint presentations. Since I don’t know as much as I’d like to about Borderline Personality Disorder, it became my topic of research. Since I declared my major in the psychology department a few weeks ago, I get weekly emails containing announcements and opportunities for undergrads in the psych department. At the very end of the first one I got, there was an announcement that nearly stopped my heart: a presentation entitled “Understanding BPD”, being held at my church.

It was on my calendar the instant I saw it.

Little did I know how dangerous of a move that was. The day of my presentation, I got in a fight with a vending machine, and felt like crap while I was educating my class on the dangers of misdiagnosing Borderline Personality Disorder. While I was speaking, it didn’t hit me very hard, but once I sat down, I was sick to my stomach. I hadn’t said out loud that I had BPD, but it felt like I may as well have.

Then, last night, I realized the BPD presentation was imminent. I wanted to go for my own personal learning, as well as possibly getting some quotes for my paper. I invited my girlfriends from Presbyteria, who all initially said they had things to do. Discouraged, I went to my room and packed up, trying to get ready to face my own insanity without anyone to support me. Right before I got out the front door, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, and found that Corinne was calling. Cole, Jess, and Corinne all ended up coming, which was both a relief and  nerve-wracking. Maybe they’d be better able to understand what I was going through, but what I know about BPD scares the crap out of me — what if I scared them off? How was I going to get along?

The presentation was easy on the ears, but many of the facts that the woman presented were like punches to the stomach. Nearly everything she said hit home, and there were a few points where the tears leaked out of my eyes. There were other people in the room with BPD, who said things that validated some of the inanely intense and confusing feelings that I was trying to deal with on a daily basis. I got to thank the presenter afterwards, and wrote on my evaluation that I was grateful for her words that encouraged me to discard the notion that I was going crazy.

I put most of what I’d heard out of my mind today, because it was a busy one, and I needed to focus on homework and planning the rest of the week. But this evening, while talking to Corinne on AIM, she asked me to read her latest blog entry (which you all should read too, there’s a link to her blog in the right sidebar). I continued scrolling after I finished, and saw “BPD” in the title of the next blog post. She wrote a little about the presentation, and how, in her professional career, she never wanted to treat anyone with BPD.

I had another moment where my heart nearly stopped. I don’t even know why I’m so scared, but when this stuff comes up, even when I bring it up, a myriad of thoughts and scenarios nearly always flood my mind:

I’m going to lose my mind. Will I graduate from college, or will I snap and take myself out first? Will the BPD and and depression and the anxiety get worse? What if I have a panic attack in public? How do I ever learn to talk about the scars on my arms? Will I ever forgive myself for what I’ve done? Can I ever get rid of these self-destructive tendencies? Am I going to live the rest of my life alone? Will my mood swings and self-injury and borderline personality scare everyone away? Will God ever bring some good of this? When will the pain and the confusion end?

As the questions race, an empty, swollen feeling gathers in my stomach, and my eyes water. I begin to shake, and almost all at once, a numb lethargy steals any motivation to move. My trembling hands fall folded in my lap, as I wait for the fear to pass, knowing it will take its sweet time.

I want to say something, to communicate the feeling of my heart twisting and turning on itself inside my chest, of the throbbing brokenness covering my arm, but my words always fall short. I want to keep quiet, because I don’t want to burden my friends with struggles that I pray they never become sick enough to understand, I don’t want to sound or feel like I’m complaining or whining about something that probably doesn’t have much to do with them…

… and after all that, I want to tear myself apart, to throw myself against a brick wall until I don’t have the strength to move, to jump off of some high place, and enjoy a few fleeting moments of peace before the pain I so deserve.

What do I do now? March 30, 2009

Before I started this post, I sat at my computer, staring at the screen with tears in my eyes for a good five minutes before I started typing — I’m so frustrated and confused, I can barely concentrate or think straight.

Since I got back to school, I’ve been slipping back towards major depression, and I think it would be accurate to say that I’ve landed there. I’ve been floundering around in a chasm full of mud and dark voices and fear and biting addiction. Most days, today included, I can manage to kick my way to the surface to interact with other people for a few hours. I went to dinner with Corinne and Cole and we all saw Jess and everyone was laughing and having a good time. Less than an hour after I returned to my room, the clouds descended, and now I can’t see a way out. Last Thursday, I was such a mess, that I skipped my English class — the first and only class I’ve ever skipped in my entire educational career.

I don’t know how much of this is Major Depression and how much is Borderline Personality Disorder, but I can’t seem to run away from any of it. My thoughts are saturated with a kind of darkness that makes me feel so far away from God, so broken, so completely worthless, that it physically hurts.

I can’t see anything good about this, I don’t know how God plans to use this for good. My heart is such a huge, bloody, twisted mess, that I don’t feel like anyone will ever be able to put it back together again. Only a portion of that brokenness is reflected on my arms, in the scars and scratches.

I can only hide this for so long. I’m scared that the longer I wait, the better the chances that I’ll end up in the hospital after a ride in an ambulance, instead of walking in on my own two feet and asking for help, like I’ve been thinking about. Thing is, I don’t think my family’s insurance will cover the bills I might rack up. Part of me wants to go in and throw myself at the mercy of the medical staff, leaving all the decisions and first aid to them. The other part of me wants to stay hidden in my room, caring for myself, not letting on that I’m in such pain.

Most of me wants to sew my mouth shut and tape my fingers together so I don’t write like this and feel like I’m complaining so much. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t feel like I know much of anything, actually.

Phew. Am back. March 23, 2009

It’s been a while, and I do sincerely apologize. Life has thrown me a lot of curve balls in the past few weeks, and I’m still trying to figure everything out, which should not surprise you… Blehh. Here goes.

Last night, I arrived back on campus after a week of spring break. My “twin” Jess and I spent Friday evening through Wednesday morning at my place in Oswego, and then drove almost 8 hours back across IL and IA to spend the rest of the week at her house in Sioux City. While we were in Illinois, the weather was gorgeous, so we spent lots of time outside, playing with my little brother on neighborhood playgrounds, driving around, window shopping, and hanging with friends from church. On our last day there (St. Patrick’s Day), we took the train (Jess had never ridden one before!) into Chicago for the morning and some of the afternoon,  going home to have Chicago style pizza with Derek and Eric for dinner, and ending the day jamming out with RockBand in Eric’s apartment. Things were busy busy busy, but I had a wonderful time.

Then, it was off to trek across two states and meet Jess family. We spent Wednesday evening through Sunday afternoon hanging out at her house, playing and watching video games, visiting the chiropractor, playing UNO-Interrupt with her family, laughing hysterically at everything from root beer to Pop-tarts, watching tv, going to a hockey game (complete with partying to YMCA and being featured on the jumbotron!), playing with the cuddlies (two cats, Fred and Garfield, and a dog, Gizmo), being stranded on the side of the highway for three hours trying to figure out why Jess’ car died, and waking up to two cats sleeping on me.

My spring break was awesome, and will go down in history as one of the best ones I can remember.

And yet, this morning, I woke up more depressed than I have been in a while. I knew that today, I would probably see most of the gang, and hear all about what they did during their week of break. I knew that every time I logged onto facebook during the next several days, I would see new photo albums posted from trips to Florida, New Orleans, and out of the country. I would hear about every single thing I missed by not going to a certain place with a certain group of people. I can’t think of any kind of justification for that being depressing at all, but experience tells me that by the time the stories are done, probably before the first one is even finished, I’ll be upset about my spring break choices. Even with all the great memories I made and all the laughs I got to share with friends new and old, I’ll feel left out. I’ll be an outsider (which I should be plenty used to…), unable to contribute to stories or laugh at pictures like others do.

I’ve been doing well dysthymia-wise recently, better than I’ve been in far too long, and I even managed to surprise myself with how well I’ve been dealing with the recent Borderline diagnosis. I don’t want this to trip me up.

Thing is, it’s already begun.

Do normal people do that? ‘Cause somehow, I can’t see it.

Sifting through piles and piles of thoughts… March 5, 2009

It’s already 12 minutes into Thursday, and for some odd reason, it still feels like a Monday to me — maybe a generous Tuesday, tops. Couldn’t tell ya why, maybe I’m just losing it…

As far as weeks go, this one has been decent, but bumpy. I haven’t fallen asleep in any classes, the weather’s looking up, and I’m getting closer and closer to spring break. The bumps in the week have showed up in various irritating forms… Dealing with re-registering for a class that I shouldn’t have had to take, flare-ups of dysthymia and BDP, waiting for a month’s worth of paychecks to come in so I can go pay for an Effexor refill, and having no choice but to endure everything at the same time as withdrawal. I’ve gone a day or two without my meds before, and survived, but I didn’t enjoy it. It’s been four days now, and I’m starting to feel it — there’s a constant wooziness that has me afraid I’m going to pass out wherever I happen to be, extreme tiredness, and little appetite.

I’m also still trying to figure out what to do over spring break. Cole is going to New Orleans with our church in Ames, Corinne is going to Florida with Cru, Jess is trying to go to Florida with Cru, and I’m debating whether or not I want to try and scrape together several hundred dollars to try and go to Florida, or just go home and hang with friends. No matter which option I choose, thanks to some janky wiring in my brain, experience tells me that I’ll be wondering what my friends are doing, how they’re doing, hoping no one gets hurt and that lots gets done, and absolutely hating the fact that when I get back together with them, they’ll have dozens of stories to tell and laugh about with each other, leaving those of us who didn’t go with them to wish we’d been a part of the experience.

I don’t know if that happens to other people… It seems like a lot of things that go through my mind are singular to Olubunmi Ajayi’s thought process, in all it’s angsty, snarky, emotional convolution. And it’s going to happen, no matter where I go, so I’m trying to psych myself up for it.

I think I’d be able to do the Florida trip now, even though there would be plenty of short-sleeve-apprehension. I’ve been clean for a month-ish now, and for the most part, there aren’t any scabs or open cuts on my arm, which helps. But then again, I’m not foolish enough to say that between now and next Friday, there’s zero chance of me having an episode and reverting back to old, yicky coping methods. And, whether or not I hurt myself again between now and the time I leave for wherever I’m going over break, the scars will remain. A good number of them are tiny little white lines that are starting to fade — the oldest of the bunch. Others are nowhere as subtle… There’s even a keloid-ish mark or two…

There have been a lot of up and down thoughts too, but thankfully, only one panic-attack-inducing incident… I was talking to a good friend who was trying to get me to elaborate as to why I was having such a sucky day. I didn’t want to say anything, because he had had a hugely better day than I had, and I know that seeing/hearing about others suffering is very likely to yank me down from any kind of high I might be riding. I had no reason to, but I snapped at him, which only made me more upset, and the episode ended when I had literally no energy left to cry and beat myself up, and he went to bed. I understand that I need to vent somehow, or I’m going to implode on myself, but venting at other people always makes me feel like a whiny child, especially when it happens several times a week. I frustrate myself with my lack of gratefulness, if nothing else… Bahh.

On an extremely random note, I’ve been having really odd, memorable dreams these past few nights, which may or may not have anything to do with my lack of Effexor… Had to throw that in there, there have been some weird things going on in my subconscious…

Oh well… There’s a lot to do, a lot to figure out, and not nearly enough hours in the day. Time for sleeping, and then another busy busy day.

Thursday’s Encouragement February 27, 2009

I must say, these past few weeks have been long, stressful ones for me, and they’re starting to take a visible toll. I’m exhausted, I don’t feel like getting up in the mornings, I yawn all day, but still toss and turn when I do try and sleep. On the off chance that I do initiate a successful nap, I’m likely to sleep though my alarm and nearly miss class…

I’ve been clean for a few weeks now, I don’t remember the exact number of days, but the stresses that continue to build up are backing me into a corner. This past week, I’ve made plans to get back to my room and bleed out my stresses on several different days, only to have my plans interrupted, or being too tired to follow through at the end of a long day. While I am grateful for this, I fear that every day I abstain from self-harm
will only add to the severity of my next episode, whenever it happens. There have been a lot of moments when Dysthymia, and this new BPD irritant have ganged up on me, pushing me to reluctant tears, without even really being sure why I’m crying.

I’ve been trying, so hard, to keep my focus heavenward, on a God that can take even the most grevious of mistakes and turn them into opportunities for me to learn and to glorify Him. I have no clue in this world how He does it, or how He plans on using the scars on my arm and in my mind to let the world see who He is, but if He can, I’m more than willing to be along for the ride. I’m sure it will hurt some, and I won’t like all of it, but my own comfort has never been the point.

Part of my attempt at heavenward focusing has been lots and lots of praying about what I want to do over spring break. At this point, I could go home (which would be a much welcome relief, and I’d get to see family and friends and get lots of hugs that I’ve been missing so terribly), or I could go with a group from Cru (Campus Crusade for Christ) on an evangelism training/missions trip in Florida. I would absolutely love to do both, and one is significantly less expensive than the other. I really haven’t made much headway as far as deciding, but in an unexpected turn of events, some of my questions had been cleared up.

If I was to go to Florida with the Cru gang, I would almost certainly be wearing short sleeves most, if not all of the time, which brings up an issue that has reared its head several times since the beginning of my college career — there are scars all over my left forearm, and they’re hard to ignore. I don’t want to trip anyone up, Christian or non-Christian, by saying that I believe that Jesus died for me and has called me to live a holy life in His Name, all the while displaying evidence of my own weakness and failure etched for all to see on my arm. I would have unspeakable amount of trouble trying to forgive myself if my mental/behavioral health issues became a stumbling block to someone. As much fun as I’m sure I would have on the trip, if I knew this was going to happen, I would pack up and head home as soon as break begins.

I wasn’t sure where to go with this concern, so after our meeting tonight, I went and talked to one of the Cru leaders (Emily), who was the person who could answer my questions about the trip. Jess and Corinne and I all had questions about financial issues, and then afterwards, I told my friends I’d catch up with them, I had one more question.

Trying not to panic, I sat on a stool across from Emily. I told her that I really wanted to go on the trip, but I had an issue I wasn’t sure about. Pulling up my sleeve, I showed her my scars, and said that I didn’t want to offend anyone while I was trying to witness to them. She asked me if the cutting was something I struggled with, and I answered honestly — “Yes.” I explained that I didn’t want to trip anyone up or make anyone feel uncomfortable. I honestly wasn’t sure what she’d tell me, but her response made a profound impact. After I finished, she reached over and touched my knee, and told m that the Church today has a problem with being honest about the brokenness and struggles of those inside it, because we all want to look like we’re tight with God, and everything is peachy. Emily told me that I would be fine on the trip, all I had to do was be honest, in that I have my own struggles, and that I’m trusting God to help me get through them.

I nearly broke down and bawled right there and then.

There wasn’t even a hint of distaste or disappointment in Emily’s voice, on her face, or in her expression — there was only compassion. No judgment, no jumping to conclusions, no prying questions — just honesty and kindness.

It was absolutely wonderful — I got just a taste of what it feels like to be accepted in spite of myself, like Christ does.

I’m still not sure what my plans will be like for break, and I have a week to finalize my decision, but now there’s some hope that things won’t be as awkward and alienating as I first assumed.

^_^  Praise be to God!

*Ramble, ramble, sigh* February 22, 2009

I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know how I’m going to get there, and I don’t know how long it will take. So many things are uncertain, and yet things like my own clumsiness, vulnerability, and self-destructive tendencies can always be counted on. Sometimes, I can see myself and my condition through eyes that comprehend why I act the way I do, and sometimes, I’m completely overwhelmed, to the point of acting without any conscious thought at all. Most days, I wake up feeling stable, albeit exhausted. By lunchtime, I could be listening to Hillsong or David Crowder, grinning like an idiot consumed by the joy of my salvation, or I could be walking back to my room, eyes on the ground, unable to get images of cutting and suicide out of my mind.

Another constant: I have little to no control over my racing thoughts, and will usually act upon them, unless I get back to my room and find my roommate there, or I’m simply too tired to follow through. And I never understand why.

It feels like all I can do is ramble on and on irritatingly, writing about how confused I am, and how I struggle to reconcile my mental issues with my faith in Jesus Christ. I’ve been clinically depressed since I was seven, so it’s perfectly reasonable to assume that I’m used to it by now, right? I have few memories of anything else. But now that I’ve exhibiting enough symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder (also known as Emotional Regulation Disorder, which is a little easier on the ears) for a positive diagnosis, I have an entirely new reality to get used to, and more statistics to try and swallow.

15% of the clinically depressed die by suicide. Somewhere between 9 and 10% of Borderlines die the same way. The BPD usually decreases with age, but there are still at least 12 years before the tapering off is scheduled to occur. Add to all of this my self-injury that gets continually more severe with each episode, and statistically, the most likely way for me to die is by suicide, which bothers me to a degree I can’t even express. It’s terrifying like nothing else I’ve ever experienced.

I have so, so many things to be thankful for — a family and friends who (at least pretend to) put up with me, a roommate who abides my scars, a great scholarship to a great school, a roof over my head, clothes to keep me warm, three future roommates (Jess, Corinne and Cole) who never cease to make me laugh, opportunities galore, and best of all, a Savior who forgives even damaged, pitiful me.

The fact that I can lose sight of all of this, and all of the blessings I don’t have room to list, on a daily basis absolutely sickens me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt any more wretched than when I sit and consider this, running fingers over the scars covering my arm, thinking of all the stupid things I’ve done, and how wholly undeserving I am of any kind of blessing, love, or kindness.

Days like today, filled with ups and downs, I get so consumed by my own mind, that I barely get anything done, setting myself up for late nights, early mornings, and even more stress, pushing myself that much closer to my breaking point.

I’m tired of being broken, unable to find the strength to forgive myself, sick of agreeing with the labels and the emotions and the hurt. The memories may be worst of all.

… so tired.

Suddenly, I feel very small… February 16, 2009

I don’t even know what’s the matter with my head. Today started off really really early, but this morning was good, and even with not nearly enough sleep, I managed to stay awake in both of my classes, and my appointment with counselor lady. I even took the initiative to go to a familiar quiet place and study, instead of waiting until tomorrow to get my work done.

So why do I feel so suddenly insignificant?

I’m not sure — at this point, all I should be seeing are the blessings God has placed in my life: amazing friends, a super awesome living situation for next semester, relative health, a place to sleep out of the cold, food to eat, music to listen to…

So why can’t I take my eyes off of my scars?

I had a short episode over the weekend, but I’m feeling better, so I don’t know why I can’t think about anything else. Counselor lady and I talked about my negative worldviews today, and apparently I have more than I thought — “I’m permanently damaged”, “I deserve to be miserable”, “I made a mistake”, “I don’t deserve to be loved”, and on and on and on… And while I see that these things are negative, they feel so true that it’s hard for me to think otherwise. I believe that Christ has forgiven me of all my sins and made me a new person by His grace — but my heart and my brain don’t seem to be in sync. This morning, I was listening to Hillsong and feeling great about life, now I’m sitting at a computer, listening to Tokio Hotel’s “Don’t Jump,” and feeling terribly small.

This is a problem.

What makes it all the more frustrating is the fact that I have no idea how serious the problem is, or to what extent it’s scheming against me. I know I’m dysthymic, and prone to self-injury, but what if there’s something more? What about the random anxiety fits and near panic-attacks? I’ve done some Google-ing and internet searching (all the while wary of the fact that online tests are by no means a firm diagnosis), and after looking through a good chunk of information and taking a handful of online tests, and found that “something more” could be a lot of things.

Borderline Personality Disorder has come up a lot, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. It seems to fit my experiences, but I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t like reading about it and feeling like a certified crazie, no matter how much people try and convince me that my brain isn’t broken. I don’t want to put my family and friends though more of this embarassment, the that’s-the-girl-who-can’t-cope-with-life looks and explanations, the awkward questions and situations…

… I think I need a serious nap. Now.

I survived another Wednesday… February 12, 2009

This morning started off differently than usual, when my roommate’s alarm didn’t go off, and I woke her up about half an hour before her 8am class. Molly is a beast — this chick was out of bed, showered, dressed, and made it to class on time. Usually, she’s up before 7, and isn’t rushed. She’s a little crazy, but she’s a sweetheart, and I have a lot of respect for her.

… and then I went to get ready for my day, and that effort ended horribly. I grabbed my facewash, my hairbrush, my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, and headed to the bathroom. I had no trouble washing my face, but when I went to pick up my glasses and my purity ring (the same ring I’ve worn every day since my 16th birthday, the ring that I only took off to wash my face in the mornings, the ring I played with whenever I got nervous) got knocked into the sink, and down the drain.

I’ll never get it back.

I was so upset that I couldn’t brush my teeth — I just tied my hair back and went back to my room, trying not to cry. I called my mom, but obviously there was nothing she could do. Yes, my ring was lost because of my own clumsy, accident-prone-ness, and there’s nothing I can do to change what happened, but I was so upset, all I wanted to do was curl up and cry.

… there go my dythymic emotions again… Lovely.

I met Corinne outside at 8:30, and we walked to Biology like we do three mornings a week. I must say, I love this girl to pieces — her cheerful spirit and big smile never cease to provide a kind of encouragement that sinks in deep and sticks with me. This chica is going to teach the world something amazing, and I can’t wait to watch. ^_^

The next three hours of classes went decently, but when I would instinctively go to spin my ring on my finger, I would become upset all over again. I went back to my room around lunchtime, and sat around for a few hours, Law & Order on the tv for background noise. I left for my Statistics lab about 3:45, and was finished around 5. After that, I hauled my ginormous backpack over to the Memorial Union, grabbed an early dinner, and hunkered down in the browsing library to get some homework done.

I have found my new favorite place to study. Comfy chairs and couches, an old library-esque setting, a long table with computers, and constant quiet let me get through all my HDFS reading, and the 5 pages of handwritten notes that came along with it. At 7:45, I called Corinne to see if she was going to the student leadership team meeting at church. She said she was already there, fresh out of a date. And so, I made the 15 (20 with my huge backpack) minute trek to the west side of campus and up into the student center at church. As soon as I set my backpack down, I plopped onto the couch and closed my eyes. We talked about our plans for the upcoming semester, and then it was time to head back. There were gallon sized bags of breadsticks left over from the middle school youth group-ish meeting that had just ended, and our campus minister said that we were welcome to have some. So, Corinne and I grabbed a bag, and then it was time to get back to our side of campus.

Since Cole was already in the building where Corinne and Jess lived, I tagged along, and before long, the four of us living in Presbyteria (… another inside joke… also the newly adopted name for our apartment next year…), and Corinne’s current roommate were hanging out in Corinne’s room, watching tv and talking. She told us about her date, and we all chipped in to try and finish a wacky crossword puzzle I’d been trying to solve. There was a lot of laughter, and a lot of references to the inside jokes we’ve come up with over the past semester + several weeks.

Come 10:45/11 pm, Corinne’s roommate was plucking Cole’s eyebrows, and I was helping Jess de-stress by playing with her hair. Everything was so relaxed and so familial — it was absolutely wonderful. I have no words for how excited I am to live in Presbyteria next year, especially getting to room with Jess (my “freaky twin” and a fellow Dr. Pepper lover!), and share living space with Corinne and Cole too. We’re still figuring out who’s going to bring what, and how we’re going to set things up in Presbyteria, but I can guarantee that it’s going to be one of the most loving and supportive communities around.

Especially now, after relapses and bouts with cutting and bruising, sleepless nights, and exhausting weeks, I’ve learned that I can’t take my relationships with others for granted. Jess and Corinne and Cole and I may as well be sisters, and we take care of each other as if we were. The other night, when I was having a rough time getting my mind around some stuff, and was in a really unsafe frame of mind. My non-biological brother from back home, Ryan, had left me a message on AIM, and spent time that could’ve been used to do something fun, talking sense into me. Granted, I cried through most of the conversation, but I didn’t hurt myself. This afternoon, my little brother Timi called me to let me know that he was still trying to convince my parents to let us get a pet, wanting to know if I’d rather have a dog or a cat.

I don’t know how else to respond to friendships like this, except with thankfulness. I don’t deserve any of that, and I know it full well — but God’s blessings still abound in my life.

Crazy amazing grace — it doesn’t get any better than that.