I don’t know what I wanted to write, but this wasn’t it. I started writing about trauma and memory loss and how four years of my life are missing. Then it was a poem about OCD and WebMD and how, like oil and water, they don’t mix.
And now it’s this. What is this?
I don’t know exactly.
It’s confusion and pain and anger. It’s me trying to make sense of the mess going on in my head. If you heard the conversation between my anxiety, my OCD, my depression, and me, you’d laugh too. Or go crazy.
Maybe I’m crazy.
I told him that once, sitting in his office, as we discussed God and trauma. Maybe I’m crazy for believing that there can be a God in spite of what happened to me. Maybe I’m crazy for feeling the need to drive into trees, for feeling the insatiable urge to cut my wrists open and watch them bleed.
Maybe, he replied, we’re all a little crazy.
Is craziness doing the same thing over and over expecting different results, i.e., insanity. Or is craziness not having it all together, pretending to be ok when all you want to do is collapse into a pool of nothingness.
Nothingness sounds good right about now. I have to feel things in order to heal.
Heal. Heal. I want so badly to heal. Right now, I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m hurting.
I’m hurting, and I want so badly to just stop. Maybe self-harming would help.
No. That’s dumb. That won’t accomplish anything except more pain.
Is it the OCD telling me I need to cut?
cut. cut. cut out like paper dolls. strungtogethersodelicately.
Delicately, some days I feel like I’m hanging on by a thread. Somedays I’m afraid that the thread tethering me to sanity will break
I’m a frayed knot.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. It shouldn’t hurt this bad. I’m celebrating how far I’ve come, celebrating recovery and all that means.
Yet still. Still I hurt. And I question. And maybe I search for answers in all the wrong places, but this thread hasn’t broken yet.
Still. Be still.
Be still and know.
I’m 4-years-old, seeing a dead body for the first time.
I’m 5-years-old, having my body traced discreetly on the ride home.
I’m 6-years-old, wondering what it would be like to be dead.
I’m 13-years-old, wondering if I’ll forever be dirty like they said.
I’m 24-years-old, trying to undo what’s been done, trying to accept that I’ll never be what I’m not.
But I still hope there’s more than this: more than pain, more than suicide, more than self-harm.
Will I ever again be able to sleep without fear? Not have parts of me try to race me to the grave? Will I ever really be ok in my own skin?
Forgiveness is not forgetting. It’s letting go.
Progress is not forgiveness.
Maybe progress is what this is: taking my racing thoughts and writing them out.
Progress is breathing.
Just. Just be.