I’m Here

Friends, I call you friends because if you’re reading this, that’s what you are, many of you know my story; many of you have been on this journey with me for a long time. For those of you who don’t know my story or are relatively new to this blog, welcome. This is a place where I’m open and honest about my life and its struggles–from dealing with the aftermath of being raped, to battling an eating disorder and self-harm, to fighting suicidal urges and nine-year-old depression and lifelong anxiety.

I’m being honest once again. I’m not doing well, friends. I wish I could say I was. I wish I had better news. But these last six months have been hands down the hardest time of my life, the biggest battle, and there are many nights when I’m lying in bed absolutely 100% convinced that I’m not going to make it to see the sun rise. And I don’t want to feel this way. Sometimes I’m ashamed that I feel this way. Sometimes, I even feel guilty for feeling this way after surviving a suicide attempt, like I should be happy that I’m alive when so many other people do not get a second chance.

And I am happy. I’m so so grateful because there are still so many things I want to do with my life. But here’s the thing about Depression and Anxiety and Mental Illness in general: it doesn’t care about second chances and gratefulness and the love and support you have around you. It can hit anyone at any time. Girls carry pepper spray to protect themselves from creepy guys in the night. We carry guns and pocket knives for our own protection. But how do we protect ourselves from ourselves? How do we protect ourselves from the power of our own thoughts?

For so long, I tried to block them out: you’re worthless. You’re better off dead. No one wants you here. No one will ever love you. But the more I tried to block them out, the stronger and louder they became. It’s kind of like when you get a song stuck in your head, and the more you try to ignore it, the more it gets stuck. Or like when you’re lying in bed at night trying to sleep, and the instant you’re about to fall into complete and total relaxation, your mind decides that that’s a great time to start singing “The Ants Go Marching One by One,” and you try to fight it, but by the time you get to The Ants Go Marching 543 by 543, you’ve resigned yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to use the rhyme “the little stopped to climb a tree” one more time.

It’s like that.

And the problem with trying to block them out is that one day, you’ll be too tired. You won’t be able to block them out anymore, and then they’ll be overpowering. That’s happened to me exactly twice in my life: once on the night I attempted suicide almost eight years ago, and once on a Friday night at the gym about six months ago; the difference between these two times is that this time, they haven’t let up. It’s been six straight months of this feeling that I’m not going to make it out of this. It’s been six straight months of the worst anxiety I’ve ever had, full-blown depression, and straight-up panic attacks.

Back in September, I drove myself to the Emergency Room because I wanted to die. And since that afternoon, I’ve fought over and over and over again to stay alive.

I want nothing more than to be here, guys. I want nothing more to live a full life and to die in my sleep at the ripe age of old. I want nothing more than to be fixed–wholly and completely. But here’s the thing I’ve learned: this isn’t fixable. The therapy I go to and the medication I take isn’t going to fix how I feel. They’ll make it more manageable, and they’ll make the ground underneath my feet a little bit firmer, but there’s no magician on the other side of the rabbit hole of my thoughts waiting to pull me out of his hat and say, “Tada–You’re healed.”

But there is God. And there is hope. And every day I’m reminded of all of that.

And despite how hard all of this has been–feeling everything and nothing and hopelessness and hopefulness and wanting to die and fighting to live–I still show up. I show up to the gym and work and Bible Quizzing and family gatherings and church and all my scheduled therapy sessions–both individual and group. I show up to laughter and tears and music and writing and coffee with friends. I show up to life even if life doesn’t show up to me. I show up to feel, even if I can’t feel anything. I show up, despite the fact that most days, I have to stop myself from crying in public. I fight like hell to survive even though somedays the feeling that I’d be better off dead is so strong.

So, yes, these past six months have been the worst. And I don’t know when they’ll get better. And most days I’m not doing well. But I’m trying my best.

Because life is so so beautiful. There’s beauty in sunsets and sunrises and freshly fallen snow and laughter and sadness and happiness and tears. And I have hope, this indescribable “I can do all things” kind of hope that I try so hard to hold on to when everything within me is telling me to give up.

As he walked into work today, my pastor asked me how I was doing. And I replied, Honestly, not that well. Last night was hard and today is hard, but I am here.

What I didn’t say was that I was barely holding it together–I’m barely holding it together, guys.

But I am here. And I’m trying my best.

And I am thankful for that.

 

 

 

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