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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.