Scars

I remember the first time I cut myself. I was sitting on my bed sobbing. I don’t think it occurred to me until later that those kinds of things don’t normally happen to high school girls. But I sat there as something in me forced my hand back and forth as the sharp object drew lines across my wrists. 5 years later and I still struggle with it, figuring out which objects hurt and which don’t, which ones are good for scratches and which ones for deeper cuts.

Until I did it myself, I always thought most kids cut solely for attention. While this may be a part of it or all of it for some people, it was only a small part of it for me. Not for selfish attention, but a physical red flag that someone might notice and see that I was hurting inside.

It’s why I did it in the first place: I needed to get out the pain I was feeling on the inside. It only made sense (in my unstable depressed mind) to make myself feel physically what I was feeling emotionally and occasionally spiritually. I hated myself. Much of my depression stemmed from frustration and sadness over my past and how I thought it affected me then. As the years passed by, cutting became more and more of a way to take out the disgust I felt for myself. I hated the ways I had hurt other people. I hated the things I had done to hurt myself.

I recently found out that cutting can be addictive (thanks to the endorphins that are released in your brain when you inflict that kind of pain on yourself). I guess that’s why I’m writing this blog post. Well, it’s to inform others of the kinds of crazy things us depressed people can do. But it’s also to do something else with my hands when I feel like hurting myself.

I know the truth- I know what I am, that I’m forgiven, that I’m so much more than my mistakes, that I’m made perfectly. I don’t doubt it either. But realize that when a depressed person is acting on their depression in ways that can or do harm their self, they aren’t thinking logically. Sometimes the best help someone can offer in times like that is to listen. Not to say reasoning doesn’t help, but I can tell you from experience depressed people don’t usually like to listen to or follow reason when they’re overcome with unreasonable feelings.

So I’ll admit it. I love the way I feel when I take a knife across my wrist. I love how I can feel the pain for days on end. In a dark way, I love having to hide my arms from other people. But more than that, I love feeling whole and complete- like I am who I am and that’s okay. I love feeling content with myself and the place I’m at, despite what I’ve done.

Someone once said that we’ll have scars when we’re in heaven so we could look on them and remember that at one point, we were human. Christ rose from the dead and, in his perfect state, had scars to prove to others that he did what he did. I wouldn’t mind getting to heaven and seeing the scars on my arms. When all is perfect and I get to spend eternity with my Beloved, I wouldn’t mind looking down and remembering all those times when I felt like all was lost- knowing the whole time God knew what he was doing.

Story

Deep within my heart, I hear a whisper.

A sigh that tells me there’s more-
So much more than what I see.
A story, written on the hearts
Of every human that ever existed.

An adventure- a journey from the darkest pits of despair into the brightest realms of hope.

A romance- a love story between a Beauty who, despite her marred past, captured the heart of the most glorious Prince who would even give up his own life it meant being with her forever.

And adversary- a villain who does anything he can to prevent the Beauty and Prince from being together and infect their lives with hopelessness and death.

A struggle- the fight between the Prince and adversary for hope, life, and love that at first appears to favor the adversary.

A victory- the Prince, through his own sacrifice, defeats the adversary once for all. Light and hope are unleashed into the world as the Beauty and Prince come together for all eternity.

Is this not the story every heart longs to be a part of?

We love movies like Pride and Prejudice,

Lord of the Rings,

and Braveheart

because they capture the essence of this story.

The story that every heart IS a part of.
We play a crucial role in this story and can choose to be a part of it-
To be swept up in the romance and action,
To fight for what’s been won.
Or we can suffocate the whispers of our heart
With volunteering
And reading
And church
And work
And choose the comfort of what we know
Instead of stepping out despite the fear
Into a story that was embedded into the very fibers of our existence.

Story.

“He has put eternity into man’s heart.”

Ecclesiastes 3:11

 

 

Nothing Left to Lose, Everything to Gain

I can't believe it's been a year.

One year ago tomorrow, I tried to take my life. I don't know how my roommate didn't hear my sobs as I asphyxiated myself, waking up gasping for air, or shuffling around trying to put clothes on as I prepared for what would be the most life-changing week in my life.
I found out later that not many people drive themselves to a mental hospital. As I pulled up to Acadia, I doubted whether or not I should even be here. I could go home and sleep it off (but, if you've had any experience with depression, that usually makes things worse), or I could veer off into the oncoming lane of traffic on the drive back ensuring my death. Something convinced me to place one foot in front of the other as I walked up to the door, pressed a button, and told a lady I just attempted suicide.

The rest of the night was spent in shock. Not shock that I attempted suicide, but shock that I was actually in a psych ward. Shock and shame that because my suicide attempt hadn't worked, I was a coward. Up until that night, I had struggled with depression for a while. I remember nights where I'd hole myself into my room, and cry until the only thing coming out were tearless sobs begging God to take me home to him. I felt so hopeless and so lost. Lonely. Worthless. Ugly. Used. Utterly and thoroughly shrouded in darkness.

There are times, few and far between, when I know that I know that I know I heard the voice of God. Mind you, there weren't angels singing and lights. It was a voice-clear and strong like a river- that I heard in the depths of my then-darkened soul.
"Baby girl, get up. I gave you what you need. Get up."
You see, up until this point, I felt like God was asking me to walk on water, but I was drowning in my fear. I had asked God to take away my depression and deal with complicated circumstances in my life. He never did. Instead, he held out his hand so I could stand up on my own with the help he gave me.

Stand up I did.

A mental hospital is much like a jail, except you get to use scissors and wear your own clothes. I walked in with the clothes on my back and nothing more. They took my shoelaces, drawstrings, and anything else I could potentially harm myself with. Needless to say, a girl can feel pretty miserable with a 2 oz bottle of shampoo-body wash-conditioner-hand soap and a comb to groom herself with. For some reason, God showed me the depths of my true beauty that week. I saw what a beautiful creation I was, and how much I had overlooked that in the past.

I also saw how God uses broken, jacked up people to heal other broken, jacked up people. I got to help others heal, simply by painting them a picture or braiding their hair for their visitation with family. I got ministered to by fellow suicide-ees, a bipolar, a mentally retarded man, detox patients, and a number more of unlikely people. We banded together to joke about our problems, make each other hot chocolate; provide a listening ear, shoulder to cry on, and judge-less heart to reach out with.
I'll never forget the second night I was there. They gave all the patients an anti-psychotic (which makes no logical sense, by the way) called Geodon aka the drug from hell. It caused me to collapse or pass out on the way from the bathroom one night. As I crashed to the ground and nurses rushed to my aid, I'll never forget my roommate in the ward came to my side and cradled my head, telling me it'll be okay. She was admitted into Acadia because she tried to stab her husband. Talk about humbling.

The day I got out, I stuck my arm out the window as I drove down the highway and felt like I was flying. I was free. I was free. I was free. Free from that hell-hole called Acadia, yeah. But more importantly, I didn't have to be chained by my depression any longer.

That week, I learned to stand up to my depression and fight back. I learned just how beautiful I was. I learned that the God of angel armies and gigantinormous stars cared enough for and loved me enough to keep my heart beating even though I tried to make it stop.
With every beat of my heart, there is purpose.

I share this story because it helps me to remember. I also share it because I know there are others who have a similar story, and others are headed in that direction. There is hope, and more importantly right now, you're not alone.

I didn't get rid of my depression that day. It just doesn't work like that. I consider it my cross to bear at least for the time being. I have my good days, I have my bad days. But through it all, I can't and won't stop fighting.

I came up with several of the most important poems I've written thus far in that dark place. Part of one has become a portion of my motto, and I leave you with it:

Keep Moving Forward

Ahuvati Sheli