This too shall pass

I took suicide off the table as an option the other day, and I’ve been panicking ever since. Not so much at the thought of killing myself being a solution. Sometimes the thought of living is much more terrifying. For so long, my brain told me that suicide was the only solution to a problem I was too young to even know I had—having passive suicidal thoughts at five-years-old, thinking that maybe a fall down the stairs would kill me and be easier to deal with than trying to live in a world where I felt alone.  

Eventually, the thoughts weren’t passive anymore. They became active without a plan—the most dangerous kind, popping up out of nowhere for really no rhyme or reason. Because as much as I tried to convince myself I wanted to live, there was always this thought in the back of my mind that maybe I really didn’t, and that was enough to keep the thoughts creeping up. That’s the problem with being suicidal: your brain tells you to die even if all you want to do is live.  

So, I took suicide off the table as an option because I’ve spent the last year of my life trying to do all I can to keep going. Therapy. Medication. Learning skills. But sometimes I doubt if I can do life. What if one day, I fail? Not that I have any intention of failing, but even the worst things start with the best of intentions—and I intend to live.  

What if I fail one day?  

And I hate to ask that because as a Christian it seems counterintuitive–why would you fail when you have the best reason to live? But this is bigger than spirituality and sheer willpower. It’s a chemical imbalance, a brain defection. That’s the ugly truth of a depression-ridden brain that uses suicidal ideation as a way to feel less anxiety. It’s a way out. If things get bad enough. It’s so easy to live in the dark, to hide there. It’s so easy to believe that the only way out is to remove yourself from the world. It’s so easy to believe we’re too broken to be saved. 

And in order to stay, to stay here, to live in the light and find the things worth living for, I have to rewire my brain, use my skills, fight until I’m exhausted, fight until I’m sobbing and panicking because I’m undoing the only thing I’ve ever known.  

I want to be able to say that now that I’ve chosen life, living’s going to be a piece of cake. But that’s not the truth—none of us get through this life unscathed. We all have struggles, pain. We are neither 100% positive nor 100% negative all the time. Time is not linear. And we exist in these pockets, and some seem like they last longer than others. And sometimes it seems like the pain is going to last forever, but I promise it won’t. And even though I don’t believe that myself, I’m promising myself that this pain won’t last forever, that it’ll come and go, ebb and flow. 

And sometimes, when the bad moments hit, I give it a beat, a breath or two, a moment or five, and eventually, I find myself in a different moment: when the light shines a little brighter and the weight doesn’t seem so heavy. These moments aren’t always moments—sometimes they’re days or weeks, but i know that this too shall pass.  

This too shall pass.  

This panic at living shall pass.  

This belief that I’m too broken to live shall pass. 

With suicide off the table as an option, life is the only option I have left. The only option.  

And it’s terrifying and messy and beautiful and ugly and tiring and exhilarating, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. Because today I chose life, and tomorrow I’ll choose life. And when those thoughts creep in, I’ll take a beat or two and say, not today. Not today. This too shall pass.

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How trying to drive into a tree taught me to let go

You have to let it go; in order to move forward, you have to turn it all over. 

Yes, Brandon, but I don’t know how.  

. . .  

I look out over the sea of faces before me, and I recognize what is looking back: brokenness. It’s as familiar to me as the back of my hand; I could pick it out in a crowd, just as easily as I could pick out myself on my good days. I recognize it because I, too, am broken. I am them.  

I stand on the platform in the sanctuary singing songs about how great God is, but half the time I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it somedays because the trauma is too loud, shouting my past at me through a megaphone, and it’s in those moments that I forget how good God is. I forget how good God is because I’m too focused on the anger I feel. 

I sit in therapy, and I talk about how I’m angry: at myself, at them, at God. I’m angry at myself for all the hurt I caused myself and others along the way, angry at them because if I wasn’t raped, who would I be? Angry at God because where was He in all of this?  

I sit in Celebrate Recovery and I have to admit I lied. The answer I wrote down is not the real answer I should have said. I thought I had let the anger go, but I hadn’t let all of it go–I was still as angry at myself as I was a year ago. 

Anger is destructive; it destroys that which is beautiful, corrupting happiness, sabotaging the future before it even happens, eroding your identity away before you even recognize it’s happening. Anger is blinding, forcing you to focus on the past instead of looking towards the future. 

Or, in my case, it causes you to try to drive into trees.  

You see, friends, anger has this way of sneaking up on us; one minute we’re fine; the next, we’re sobbing on the side of the road because we tried to drive into a tree. I thought by now I’d be done with that, should be done (but that’s a negative self-judgement, and I’m not allowed to make those).  

And I didn’t know how to let it go—how to hand over the anger, the trauma, the depression. I didn’t want to let go of it because letting go means giving up control. Meant giving up control, and I don’t feel in control. 

Driving home last night, my world changed forever. The anger consumed me so much, I tried to drive into a tree. Last night, I saw the faces of those who hurt me the most, and felt peace, not anger. Instead, I was angry at myself for not being able to let it go, and it was in that moment of suicidal anger that God took it all.  

He took it all. 

It took directing the anger at myself for me to let it go—fully and completely. And for the first time in my life, I felt that everything was going to be ok.  

Defining yourself by the past does not allow you to move forward, makes you fearful of the future, makes it hard to establish an identity.  

Wallowing in brokenness worsens the lack of identity.  

It’s so easy to let our brokenness define us that we forget we can be healed. It’s so easy to isolate ourselves in our suffering that we forget that Jesus himself wept, that He cried out on the cross “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” He, too, felt forsaken and dejected, rejected and disgraced. He, too, was trying to find God in the midst of the pain and brokenness, trying to find hope in the darkness. 

Aren’t we all? 

Aren’t we the same ones who wandered in the desert for 40 years trying to find the Promised Land? 

Aren’t we the same ones who wondered if God could calm the storm?  

Aren’t we the same ones who walked on water to Jesus and started to sink when we started to doubt? 

Aren’t we all the broken ones, the hurting ones, the weary ones, the ones who wonder if God really cares, if He’s really there at all? 

Sometimes, I do. And it took me trying to drive into a tree that God really is there—He really does care, and He can take it all. He can take it all. You just have to be willing and ready. 

I’m willing and ready.  

Kierkegaard, PTSD, and Reclaiming My Self

…why bother remembering a past that cannot be made into a present?

Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling

I don’t know who I am right now.

Reading Kierkegaard probably hasn’t helped. 

. . .

It’s easy to romanticize the past, let yourself be defined by the past, let the past dictate your path in life.

For so long, that’s all I’ve done. I’ve let myself be defined by what was done to me, by what other people told me I am… was (is there a difference?)And I don’t know how to step out of that–how to separate myself from the trauma, the PTSD, the depression, the anxiety. Outside of those, who am I?

Who am I?

That’s a question I’ve been asking a lot of people lately. My friends, my pastors, my therapist, even my dog have all been on the receiving end of my identity crises. (Yes, there’ve been more than one.) I’m trying to heal, to move forward, to move through, and the only way to do that is to face the monster head on, to weather the storm, to stand your ground in the fire, let it burn you, and then rise from the ashes–stronger than you were before. Than was before.

I feel so lost. I’m terrified of the future because I don’t know who I am right now. 

I don’t know who I am right now, but I know who I want to be. Because I know who I once was.

I am laughter. It echoes down the hall as we discuss how our other coworker cannot win our fantasy league. It reverberates off the walls as I make fun of myself for being how I am.

I am a fighter, a survivor, delivered, redeemed.

I am healing and recovering and rewriting my definition, no longer letting things that aren’t personality traits define me. I have depression and anxiety and PTSD, but I am not those things. I cannot be those things because they’re not adjectives.

You cannot be what aren’t.

I am my father’s daughter, an adopted sister, a child of the King. Beloved, chosen, called, loved.

I am not defined by my past or holding on to it any longer, but I’m using it to make a difference in other’s lives.

I am present. I’m here, fully engaged, feeling the feelings as they come, surviving the moments by using what I have.

I am loud and I’m quiet, and my emotions don’t always fit the situation. Sometimes I overreact or under react, but I’m working on that, too.

I’m a learner and a questioner, a writer and a leader. And sometimes I don’t know how to be everything that I want to be.

I don’t know where the path I’ve been on is taking me, but life is understood backwards and lived forwards.

And there are problems in life I can’t solve: like why do I try to die when I so badly want to live?

Why does healing have to be so hard?

I am fearful of the future because I can’t control it.

I am living for the future when for so long I wasn’t.

I am doing what I can because I am.

I am. I don’t know who I am, but it’s as simple as this: I be. I is. I am.

You’re Nothing Special

“I don’t know how to move forward,” I said between tears just one day after saying, I can do this.

“You’re doing it. You’re here. You’re standing,” she softly replied.

. . .

“I’m afraid that if I’m honest with you about how I’m doing, you’ll hospitalize me. And that’s my biggest fear because I’ve done that, and I don’t want to do it again,” I whispered, trying not to make eye contact with him so he wouldn’t see the pain, fear, and emptiness in my eyes. 

We didn’t talk about the trauma yesterday. I didn’t need to talk about the trauma yesterday. Instead, we filled out a safety plan, a “what do I do if” plan, an “I hope I never have to use this, but just in case” type of plan. I’ve spent so much of my last few years living in the past, letting my trauma be my definition. I’d forgotten how to move forward, how to live for the future. I want to be here, so much so I’m actively trying to take suicide off the table as an option, terrifying because it’s been my only option for so long.

I didn’t talk about the trauma today. I didn’t need to talk about the trauma today. Instead, we talked about the present–the “I met God who was waiting for me in the messiness” moment, the “I’m just trying to make it through this moment by counting backward from 1027 by sevens” moment, the “I’m gonna use all the skills I can to get through this crisis” moment.

My emotions don’t always line up with the facts–sometimes I overreact, sometimes I underreact.

But the point is, I’m trying. I’m standing. I’m moving forward.

Because I thought for sure that someday, I’d end up killing myself. Now, I’m sure I won’t. It’s sort of funny how one day you wake up and realize that the thing that caused you to want to die in the first place is now what’s causing you to want to live–I want to use my brokenness to help others, the whole “beauty from ashes, some good must come from this” type of thing.

It’s so easy to bask in our brokenness that sometimes we forget that God can use our brokenness; we just have to allow it to be used–allow God to meet us in the lowly, broken places.

He came to a broken world, to redeem a broken world, to use the broken world. And he used the broken ones, the hurting ones, the lowly ones. We just have to allow ourselves to be used.

I’m allowing myself to be used because I want my life to have a purpose–to be bigger than myself. And that, that is why I’m moving forward.

“See that, that right there is why I’m not going to hospitalize you: you have long-term goals.”

I can do this. I am doing this. I’m breathing, standing, crying, feeling, hurting, letting the past go. I’m moving forward.

. . .

“I think we’re all in this place right now to help each other through these moments. You’re nothing special–we’re all part of the same broken vessel. We’re all part of the same piece of pottery, fit back together by the most precious thing of all: God.”

kintsugigrigia1

I challenged her to write a post in which she doesn’t mention her past

I forgave myself today, kneeling at the altar.

You can’t move forward if you’re angry at the past–

angry at yourself for things that are not your fault,

for relapses you could’ve controlled if you had just. . .

just . . . re  a   c  h  e   d   out,

for relationships you purposefully sabotaged because you don’t feel worth anything.

Maybe forgiveness can’t change the past, but maybe

it can change the future.

I cried at the altar today, got angry at the altar today, wanted to scream at the altar today.

I feel sometimes as though I’m being to/rn in two–

the part of me that wants to die fighting against the part that wants to live,

a tug of war with my soul

(I want to live).

Forgiveness can’t change the past,

but perhaps

perchance

purposefully

it can change the future.

The future–God can find us in our brokenness–

is waiting for us in our brokenness–

meets us in our brokenness–

is beautiful.

I challenged her to write a post in which she doesn’t mention her past–what happened to her,

he said to him as they sat across from me, my head buried in my hands.

I forgave myself today.

I was angry today, trying to turn it all over to God,

but Satan?

He won’t let me.

The punk.

What do you want to do with your life? He asked,

as I sat in his office, trying to hold back the tears threatening to overflow from my eyes.

I want my story to be used for good, make a difference, beauty from ashes.

I want to know that there’s a purpose for all of this, not a giant game of yo-yo with my existence.

Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

How many animals begin with J?

On a scale from 1-10, how are you?

Why can I help someone else out of a panic attack but can’t help myself?

My mind goes blank as soon as I get to 100.

100

99

98

97

count backward and breathe.

I forgave myself today,

trying to move forward,

Here’s his phone number. Promise me you’ll use it in case of an emergency.

Right now, I’m moving through the fire–and this fire?

Future?

I don’t know where it will take me.

Hopefully somewhere great.

But right now? This journey ahead–

looks

daunting. threatening. foreboding. And,

I’m not always sure I can do it. I

forgave myself today. For things that may happen in the future

as I walk , walk , walk , this

w

i

n

d

i

n

g

p

a

t

h

of healing.

Because I don’t know what the future holds, but I want to be a part of it.

I’m chasing happiness, and though it feels like a 50pound weight is

d

r

a

g

g

i

n

g

me down, i still stand.

I move forward.

I breathe.

And I let go.