I’m still out of it. I took the step off the cliff, and am still in the middle of the stomach-churning sensation of falling. I don’t know when I’ll hit the bottom, where I’ll land, or how long the pain will last. I’m struggling to see hope.
After my confession that I was afraid I was going to kill myself, my counselor told me that, deep down, there is nothing wrong with me. I disagree vehemently – I’m about as screwed up as they come. I am fragile, vulnerable, damaged goods at best. My sense of self worth is all but nonexistent. There are days, even now, when I wonder if I’ll graduate from ISU, or if I’ll have another huge relapse and lose myself completely. I wonder if this place is where I really belong, instead of a hospital full of other crazies. I wonder how people still associate with me, even knowing just a part of my illness. I realize how unlike everyone else I am when I see people wearing short sleeves. As I down three pills every morning like clockwork, I see the looks people give me. I wonder if they know what I’m taking, or if they know that I’m taking it so I don’t go insane and kill myself. I have no idea what they think when their eyes skim over the dark and healing scars on my arm.
And in spite off all this, I don’t think I want pity. I crossed the line that is “normal” a long time ago, and I can’t pretend things are peachy without ignoring years and years of my life.
Who am I supposed to be? I can’t erase what I’ve done, and the scars in my mind are going to be there rest of my life. And with these scars come a multitude of other demons, clawing to the front of my thoughts: I will never be normal. I can’t pull my sleeves up in public, because I’ll embarrass my family and friends. I will endure stupid “emo” jokes from those ignorant of mental illness. I will sleep with a teddy bear for the rest of my life, because I need some sort of comfort to sleep. I have disappointed and worried almost everyone I care about. I’m still stuck in the cycle of depression, self-hatred, and self-harm. And next time a relapse hits, I’m screwed. I’m going to be (paying for) and taking medication for years. Yes, I am a Christian, and I believe in a benevolent God who loves me unconditionally, but I so often lose sight of Him that I feel He shouldn’t waste his time on a failure like me.
I don’t understand. People like me – where are we supposed to be? Where can we ever truly belong, in spite or our scars, in spite of our abnormal fears and medicated minds? How can we express everything churning in our minds, when we can’t understand it ourselves? How do people like me reconcile such a physically manifested illness with a belief in an all-loving God? Will I ever feel deserving of anyone’s love again? (The answer is a resounding “NO.”) How do I stop seeing triggers every time I step foot outside of my room? How do I claw my way out of this grave that I’ve been digging since I was first diagnosed, 11 years ago? Who will still want to associate with me when I pull myself over the edge?
Where do I go from here?
