Angel Sighting

 I like to think every single person is placed in their daily lives for a very particular reason. There is purpose behind the placement of every single individual on every sidewalk, every second. God places them there because they have lived certain experiences or have certain qualifications that render them perfect for certain necessary interactions. God wants some people to meet.

...On the way to Drawing class, I was crossing the long, four lane street to get to Regis Hall when a car jumped in front of me. And at the exact moment I laid eyes on that car, my mind screamed "HIT ME". And this message flashed across my mind and I froze up--my body tensed, my eyes widened, I was feeling the panic attack coming hard, strong. I forced myself to the other side of the street and my breathing was already erratic, I wanted to die, I hadn't been this bad in weeks, I couldn't go to class like this, no no no no no

and within seconds of me getting to the other side of that road, a woman walked up to me. She had to try a few times to get my attention, I was shaking so bad inside, but I finally heard her and looked up from my feet. She was small, with curly hair wild around her face, and her eyes looked at me with the smallest bit of urgency from behind her spectacles.

"Excuse me, could you help me?"

And her voice calmed me down a bit, and I answered very politely, Yes, yes I could, what do you need? and she pointed to a magazine lying open across the sidewalk and asked if I could pick it up for her. She had a terribly bad back, she told me, and couldn't bend down to get it.

And I said "Yes, of course," and as I went to get it, I felt positivity slowly cleansing my thoughts. By the time I walked back to her, within those few seconds, my breathing was back to normal, and tears no longer threatened the backs of my eyes. I was calming down. I gave her the magazine, and she looked me straight in the eyes and said "Thank You", and she smiled into my face in this completely sincere way.

And I was fine. I smiled to the tips of my ears and told her she was welcome, and I told her to have a wonderful day, and she gave me one final smile before we parted, and my heart soared and sang because it was free of the terror that had so recently gripped it, and I was alive, and I was breathing, and I was no longer breaking. And I thought, "that was very convenient." And I thought, "I must have met an angel."

Because what were the chances of someone needing to talk to me right as I started having a panic attack? What were the chances of someone being there who had every reason to speak to me, who had that kind of smile that would free me? God put her there. God went to the woman with the bad back and the bright smile and placed her gently across my path, God took the magazine out of her hands and placed me there instead. God let me get there just as she did, God let us meet, God wanted to tell me that He was looking out for me.

Maybe God even caused the car to jump out, and caused my mind to scream out pleas of death that I had held back for weeks, finally convinced that I had my life under control. Maybe God set all this up to remind me. Maybe he wanted me to recall my faith in angels, in faith, in a God that could support me and make me believe.

Or maybe it was coincidental. Maybe it was sheer luck. Maybe I am misconstruing a series of very regular, exceedingly mundane events. But maybe I'm not. I don't think there is such thing as a mundane event left in this world. We are all placed very strategically in our lives in case we may be of use to others. We are pushed through experiences that will equip us with conditions advantageous for certain situations. And we will be used to help people, and we will be helped. Every single person on the street is there for some other person, in some way, shape or fashion. Even little things--it matters.

Regardless of the background circumstances, i can safely say that woman helped me much more than I ever helped her.

Life is good.

Standards

 I was going into the Delaware Clinical Research Unit to be assessed for the self harm study they are conducting. It specified that minor self harm was included in the study (they mentioned burning and scratching in the same context as cutting), and depression was not a requirement. And yet, I still felt the pressure of those per-conceived standards of "real mental health issues" during my interview.

I had been diagnosed with mild depression when I met with my therapist last year, and but mostly i had recovered from depression by that point. Most of my anxiety and depressed thoughts now stem from inadequacy stemming from my self harm. They said that was okay. It was okay if I did not have terrible depression.

But I did say I had lots of experience with depression, starting in junior high. That that was where it all started. And the head nurse who was interrogating me, she looked at me and said, "were you diagnosed?" I told her no, I was self diagnosed, I was too scared to tell anyone about my depression. She asked why. I told her my step father was emotionally abusive and that I was afraid to talk in my house or gain his attention, and that I was scared for more obvious reasons besides stemming from having mental illness. She nodded and looked uninterested. "My daughter's in junior high right now, I understand what it's like to be that age. It's a hard time in life."

At first this made me feel better. But the she kept bringing it up: "I had a phobia in junior high" "Were you diagnosed?" "No, but--" "Junior High is a tough time, I know." Any time I brought up my depression, she reasserted how junior high was 'a very difficult time'. Yes. Yes, I know it is. But do you think I would be here getting an interview about self harm and still confuse regular preteen angst for depression?

Please, do not make me doubt myself now. I know what I went through. I hate doubting myself. I hate thinking maybe I was stupid and exaggerating. That kind of denial is what kept me from going to a therapist for so many years. That denial was what kept me from dealing with self harm. That denial is what led me to believe I didn't even HAVE self harm. If that denial hadn't existed, maybe these damnable habits wouldn't be so deeply engrained into me that I need to go get free treatment from the Delaware Clinical Research Center under the guise of participating in a study.

But maybe I'm wrong! Tell me, is having convulsions and hyperventilating at the sight of blood a normal preteen experience? Should I discount my years of phobia, where the sight of even a vaguely red liquid would throw me into a panic attack where I couldn't use my muscles for half an hour, becoming a trembling mess on the floor? Is it normal junior high life to constantly want to die, constantly think you're going to die, honestly believing you're in danger of breaking at any given moment, even when you're supposedly safe in a classroom? Is it normal to break down in tears in the middle of the school musical because you saw a nail behind the stage and imagined being impaled by thousands of them? Is it just regular preteen drama to never have a single happy day for three entire years of life, where smiles are either fake or terribly fleeting, where home is the place where you can finally collapse on the bed and think of dying for a few hours without anyone there to judge you? Are the middle school years supposed to haunt you for the rest of your life, always creeping on the edges of your vision, intensifying your sad moments, whispering how you could easily go back into relapse, where the self harm first started, where you first decided that chipping away at yourself was the only way to be functioning again?

I am in college now. I am in college, and I still spend half my week mumbling how much I want to die under my breath. I still get nervous around sharp objects because I'm afraid what I'll do if I'm not controlled. I walk in front of moving cars and hope they hit me, every single time.

I know I shouldn't. I know people care. But every time I cross a street I can't help but long for a car to just sweep me off the road. I want to be hit, and I want to go to the hospital during one of the most excruciating ambulance rides I'll ever have. I want to wake up in a hospital bed with a thousand needles stabbed into my flesh, IVs and beeping machines shrieking madly around me. I want to wake up in the middle of surgery and see them cut me open. I want to finally go home, still feeling a terrible soreness run through my body that threatens to plague me forever. I want to run my hands over my stitches and fantasize about ripping them out, reopening my wounds, bleeding out.

Luckily, cars on campus always stop for pedestrians. Even when they don't, I think about how horribly guilty I would feel seeing my family have to pay for the medical bills. I don't necessarily mind how they would feel about me--it's hard to care, sometimes, or remember that I'm cherished. But I would hate them to worry about money again because of me. So I won't run into moving cars.

These thoughts, though, are direct results from my depression in junior high. Does everyone feel like me? Did I just go through one of many hard junior high experiences?

How dare you judge me based on appearances, doubt my trials, think I'm not 'depressed enough'. Yes, I have only gone to one therapist. Yes, I never got diagnosed in junior high with anxiety, depression, or phobias. I talked well in your interviews, I seemed happy enough, my self harm is mild. But does that mean I lose my identity as mentally ill? Because you believe that I'm probably too happy to own my own past?

Shouldn't you, who is interviewing mentally ill people as a job, know just how good we are at hiding our pain and how much we try to?

Stop setting standards for mental illness. My label should not be an achievement. It should not be something I must earn by meeting a baseline. I should not need trophies on my wall or on my skin. So much mental illness is invisible. So is mine.

Life is good.

I'm Fine

 I keep on remembering this poem I wrote in 2013. I think I actually write is in 2012, but I didn't think it was good and hid it away as a scrap. Then I rediscovered it, loved it, and put it up. I used it for poetry reading. And I come back to it, time and time again. Roughly two years later, it still sounds so accurate. (It also includes how I felt when Kate and I were growing apart--strange how I keep coming back to that. It also talks about how I found out Tyra had self harm problems.)

My friend, I know, has joined me now
As each day, we count another night
Further from that death
And each day, I break a bit more
But I also become much, much stronger
So no need to worry, I'll be fine.

I hope you never become one of us
Waiting for our hearts to heal
Standing in bands of broken soldiers
Keeping our chins up
So the enemy thinks we're strong
And the ally believes we aren't weak.

It doesn't matter how many prayers I whisper to God
In harsh, shaking gasps at the window pane
And it certainly doesn't make a difference
What I write inside these pages
So all the little hints I drop, with forced smiles
And shaking laughter-
Ignore them, I'll be fine.

Your distant warmth and promises that you cared
I can only hold onto memories and believe they still apply
Having no right to doubt your heart, I try
But it's hard to hold on when you create walls
And those walls are flat, polished, reflective
Where am I supposed to grasp onto?
How can I survive near you?
When the only glimpses I catch are sad, shallow smiles?

Oh, but now things have changed
Slowly, I'm regaining my grip on reality
And taking my fate into my own hands
See, how she laughs with me now, and my chest bursts with joy?
I smile internally multiples of before, when the world didn't tremor
Without purpose, I'll wander aimlessly,
Hoping I can convince myself that searching is my 'reason'
And that I'm not just searching in circles where you stood---
But see, at least I have my efforts back
Worry not, I'll be fine.

I'm leaving behind the past me, who accepts everything
--that's what I say while taking steps forward,
My past self clinging to my shirt sleeve like a lost soul.
There's no way I could dispose of something so pitiful
She represents my hope, and hope is so hard to do away with
Though I've told myself the truth time and time again
It rolls around in my head like a stone that doesn't exist.

But see, I have people who care
They hold me and smile sweet, grand grins
And float about like doting parents.
They say kind words with sincere expressions
So sincere I would never want to worry them, or disappoint
So I'll tell them that I have gotten over that pesky problem
The one they never agreed with
But saying so is the first step toward making it a reality
So don't cast your eyes here, I'm fine.

Just like I'll always be fine.
Just like I have been forever.
I'm too good to struggle.
And as you know and loved,
I'm too good to fall.

Life is good.

Forgiveness

 I still often think about when I put myself at my absolutely most vulnerable state. It was in high school, maybe junior year--it was when I was realizing my entire friendship with Kate was falling apart.

For example, our last year of junior high, during the Chicago trip, we were talking in the middle of the night and I told her I had been suffering depression. I told her I had been suicidal. And even as I told her that I had since recovered (my obsession with Julie had successfully distracted me from my dark thoughts enough where depression no longer ruled over my life), she was crying. She cried over my sadness, and I felt then that she truly cared about me. (I now realized I have told people 'I've recovered' a lot, and never once have I been right. Maybe I should start reevaluating how I use that phrase.)

In junior high, we told each other absolutely everything--we cried together, we held onto each other, we told each other the darkness in our hearts. I think the problem was my darkness kept growing, and her darkness ran dry. Her life got better; mine got worse.

My depression got worse. But I had been seeing more and more that Kate didn't really talk to about her life anymore. Not even just about concerns or darkness--about anything. I was losing track of whether I even knew what was happening in her life anymore. I was losing track of her. And I realized I didn't want to tell her about my darkness anymore---it was too large by this point, she wouldn't be able to understand anymore---and I didn't feel safe telling her. Not only had I become distant to the point where to burden her with my troubles felt like an intrusion, but it now felt as if she would hurt me if I let her in.

I started dating Rachel, and I finally had someone to talk to about my depression. It was strange not talking to Kate about it. At one point, I realized I was hanging out with her more out of habit than out of fondness; she became more and more volatile, and I felt like anything I had to contribute only served to get her angry. She didn't have enough patience to deal with me. And it was scary. And it hurt. I became to be terribly afraid of her.

And I was getting more and more stressed and more and more worried about it. At one point, my own insecurities started to feed into my depression. And then, there was one day where, more than any other day, I wanted to die. I wanted to die so badly.
And it felt awful. It was terrifying. And within my terrible, horrible panic attack, I remembered Kate and I's old friendship, and thought that if I never came out with my feelings, I wasn't being a good friend either. I had to try trusting her.

So in my most vulnerable, I called her. And I told her I wasn't feeling well and that I needed to talk to someone, and she said okay. And I was so scared. And putting myself in the most bare and defenesless state I will ever be in, I asked he this question:

"If I were to die, do you think anyone would care?"

Now, this is a terribly awful and manipulative question, especially coming from someone who just admitted to being suicidal. But it is also a very easy question. This was one of those questions that had a pre-set answer, one that you had to say regardless of your feelings about it. And anyone picking up my very obvious, depression-mangled hints would be able to see that. There was only one right answer, and it could very well set my life.

She did not see that. I still remember her response often, though I know I should let it go--the fault was mine for asking questions when I was expecting an answer. But somehow I still can't forget it:

"If I were to die, so you think anyone would care?"
"I...think so"

She never gave the sentence conclusion. It was very non-commital. After she said that, I went through the rest of the conversation with my mind blank and in a fuzz--I ended it as soon as I could and curled up in a ball on my bed. I didn't even have the motivation to go through with my suicidal urges--the life had been sapped out of me. I just had to lay there broken and dull, wishing my heart would stop so I wouldn't have to get up and stop it myself.

She didn't say she would care if I died.

We are friends now--with a much different relationship than when we were confidants, but a healthy friendship nonetheless. But ever since that conversation, I don't think our friendship could have ever been the same. I don't think I have forgiven her for that comment. I think I'm going to hold it in my heart for the rest of my life, as a weight I can't get rid of. I will not bring it back. I'm still alive, she still cares about me--there's no reason to burden her with that kind of guilt or shame this long after the words had been said.

...Recently, my college course on thinking critically has been covering A Case for Reparations. It goes that the actions of the past can be at least partially forgiven if the offending party admits they have wronged the other, acknowledges it, and tries to do something about it (such as an apology and some kind of forward action to redeem themselves). It keeps reminding me of John.

My therapist told me before that I'm supposed to just forget the emotional abuse, and that bringing it up may not necessarily change anything. I have been trying to. I put the house behind me, I put the man behind me, but I can't escape it--I still have to see him often. I still have to talk to him. Yesterday was his birthday, and I was supposed to call him. I didn't. Because although he hasn't hurt me lately, those wounds are burned into me as resentment and fear, and even wishing him a happy birthday feels like I'm betraying some part of myself.

I wondered, then, if reparations could help? If I were to tell him that he had effectively emotionally abused me, and if he were to own up to it and apologise, could it inspire change in him so he could improve upon himself? If that were the case, would I finally feel better and be able to forgive him?

....Going back to that one night in Chicago with Kate. I once brought it up to her, maybe last year, about how much it meant to me when she cried over my sadness. She said she couldn't remember ever doing that.

Would John ever be able to own up to his past actions? Somehow I think that, much like past talks, I would not be able to explain it in a way where he could understand. It would either sound like I was throwing yet another angry accusation or baseless insult, over exaggeration or otherwise heedless point; or it would go over their heads. They would understand I am upset, but not why--has anything happened recently to create this??---and try to connect it to current times (and thus, find no fault, and not understand my side). Then, they would force me to say I had forgiven everything, regardless of whether I actually had time to. This is why I stopped trying to explain myself and why I felt bothered. This is why I had told myself I would stop trying.

So no, I don't think reparations are effective for this situation--at least, not in a way where I could ever forgive him. Same goes for Kate's comment. Even if I told her about what she had said, even if she apologized for it, would I be able to forget? Could I forgive her? I doubt it. This, and the trauma brought by the emotional abuse, will probably stay with me forever without being given proper conclusion. I just need to wait for them to get weaker with time and fade.

Since I need to give John some belated birthday wishes today, I hope I get over it soon. There is only so long I can give noncommittal answers to "you two are good, right?" before Mom begins to get upset.

Life is good.

-------
EDIT:
I apparently write about this exact thing in my post from 2013, Panic Attack. I guess I don't change my thinking much.
But I feel like realizing that is kind of important somehow????
I'm not sure yet. I still have a lot to think about.

Secondary Self Loathing

 I am beginning to understand Rachel and her previous need for abusive relationships. This strange fixation with pain has taught me many things, one of which being that there is more than one way to look at hurting yourself. I still fantasize of burning, biting, and tearing, but I am learning that when one doesn't like themselves, they may very well wish for someone else to burning, biting, and tearing. This is especially true if you are trying incredibly hard not to hurt yourself anymore, but need some form of release.

Still, self-harm fantasies are a far more common occurrence for me, but occasionally I will imagine having someone else pull my hair, bite my legs, and call me disgusting. And, strangely enough, there is some sort of satisfaction in the scenario. Just like there is a sick satisfaction in taking a deep breath full of cigarette smoke in the city--No, I might not be the one smoking, yet I can find ways to do myself in. Everything in life is capable of hurting you, if you can manipulate it right.

My mental health has improved dramatically since last year---I know longer interact with the world in the same way I did then. I no longer have the need to 'baby-proof my air'; I can live comfortably and safely in my own skin again. I can breathe easy around most sharp objects, be left alone with only occasional repercussions, and look at the world through the eyes of a healthy and mentally stable person, albeit with a few exceptions. That being said, I still have my ups and downs--a panic attack I had six days ago had me seeing things again that I hadn't seen since I wore gloves, and even now nearly a week later I am unsteady on my feet and with my eyes. It takes a while to forget that mindset--it worms its way into your head. But I'll be okay. I'm in a fun, exciting environment, living with someone that keeps me taking care of myself, and I have my partner or even Rachel for whenever it gets too overwhelming.

I made the mistake last week of getting cocky, believing I had already fully recovered and that I was perfectly healthy. Recovery doesn't happen in less than a year. It may never fully heal me--I can never forget the things I've seen and thought. I still wear gloves to sleep, and I still have fantasies in various forms. But I'm improving. I just need to remember that I am a bit more fragile and a bit more sensitive than others, and keep myself at this slow and steady pace. I'll do my best to keep myself safe and not take risks. I don't want to break anymore--by my hand, nor anyone else's.

Life is good.

I can finally believe my motto again

 I think I'm finally getting better.

Therapy has been going well. But while the vast majority of it was me improving, there were times I slipped into bouts of biting. Anxiety sometimes crept up on me, bad thoughts sometimes took my breath, and I begged for death under my breath. I still haven't completely weaned myself off my gloves---I still need them when I'm sleeping. But most of my symptoms now feel very far away for me. I rarely if ever feel that bad anymore. I don't have self harm thoughts about the objects around me. I recovered far, far quicker than I was expecting, to the point where I may cancel therapy. And today, I really felt it. Safety.

Before, I was obsessed with reading stories--hours upon hours of stories each day---and it overwhelmed me with emotions. It was almost like the tears again; an addiction, a way for me to feel strong sensations and chemical releases that  couldn't otherwise. Maybe that's exactly what it was. But from the comfort of my bed, for hours on end, I could put myself through powerful waves of emotions and thrills that sent me on the edge of tears, and never have a moment of calm. It was overwhelming.

And I quickly realized that, like when I was in paramount stress, being overwhelmed with emotion made me want to hurt myself. It was nearly every time. Be it overwhelmed with euphoria or sorrow, I would always end up gnawing on my hands, or scratching at my face. When I was stressed, it was the same. I think that's why it began to carry over into everything else--I was so scared of being labeled and suffering self-harm, so scared of being a freak, and so anxious over my feelings over Rebbie, that I was always in a state of stress. The only relief was escape in my stories.

The therapist said that I felt emotions too strongly. That's true, I guess, though I hate to think it. I've always been like that. The smallest thing can fling me over the edge, into impossible hysterics. I feel every emotion so intensely. I guess it was my downfall. Hurting myself was always the conclusion.

Therapy has been attempting to teach me to distance myself from my emotions a bit, to a healthy level. 'Separate your thoughts from your emotions', he said. It never sat right with me. But by the third visit, I had talked over my feelings with Rebbie and we had found our love to be mutual. And since then, though not much changed, I felt incredibly less anxious. Bad thoughts plagued me less and less, and self-harm has been at an all time low. Now, it rarely happens. I guess that anxiety over them was really eating away at me and I was trying to hide it from myself. I can finally interact with my environment healthily again.

But I continued therapy, because I knew all of my dips had been because of my complete and utter inability to deal with stress. But today, I went back to the stories. And they crashed over me just like before, an amazing amount of intensity and inspiration. And at first, I felt a stronger urge to hurt again. I gritted my teeth until they were sore and bit down on a wound in my lip. But then, that faded. I was just desiring the urge to paint.

When did I get to the point where I could deal with stress at a healthy level? When was I able to sort through my feelings through harmless and progressive means? What was the tipping point where I stopped solving stress with pain and started using art? I don't know. But it's amazing. I'm far but perfectly emulating mental health, but I finally feel healthy. I feel like I'm free, a bit. Distanced from mental illness. I've recovered, I'm becoming a good person again. I can breathe.

I can finally say it again and mean it:

Life is good.

Brain Plasticity

 I just finished my second date with my therapist, and we are actually getting somewhere. I always assumed therapy was just talking about your dark secrets and inner fears until the quack tells me what is making my thoughts dark, but apparently there might be more (or even less) to it. My psychologist has an interest in neurology as well as simple empathy stuff, and brought up that topic of brain plasticity as a hypothesis for my self harming habits.

And when he mentioned it, it seemed to make almost too much sense. It would explain how I can constantly think about hurting myself while not being depressed. It explains how I recovered from my depression in ninth grade when I became fixated on Julie and forgot everything else. It explains why being alone with my thoughts was so hard, why I never felt quite as dramatic as I thought I should have been, how it was never quite consistent and how I sometimes didn't feel as mentally ill as I saw in my past self and in others with serious problems. It's friggin brain plasticity.

Basically, it's not that I'm really sad, but that during my depression I kept thinking of that mental self harm, and then Rachel told me what i was doing, and I started thinking about it constantly. The self harm got worse because it became all I could think about; and the more I dwelled on it, the more that that line of thinking became further ground into my brain. Suddenly all lines of thought led inevitably to self harm. But there is a way to get around it, just how I managed to get out of my depression--distraction. That fills the rut.

There is a chance that I could interact with the world in a healthy way again. I could look at the world and not see ways to hurt myself. I could handle sharp objects without panicking. I could feel noprmal around lighters again. I could finally feel like a normal, functioning human being again.

I am so overjoyed and filled with hope. Overcoming my thoughts is going to take time, but I am so incredibly enthusiastic for the results.

Life is good.