Well, the truth as I know it. If you're looking for something hopeful, look away... I doubt this will be that kind of post. I was doing better, you know. I really was. I was starting to engage in life again. I tried a new tea today. Started planning what the next few years might look like. I even sat down to write a draft of my story for a project a friend of mine has invited me to write for. It was good. It really was. It just meant I had to think about things I can't think about if I'm going to maintain the pretense that I'm fine.
I was going to skip this step, you know. Get straight to the whole "things are starting to look up" stage, but today has reminded me that doing that would be very, very dishonest. And I promised I would always be honest. Besides, maybe it'll help. Help me feel less alone. Help you feel less alone if you ever feel the way I sometimes do.
But please, please, please, tread carefully. This isn't going to be pretty. And if you feel it bringing things up for you, please, please, please speak to someone. If you don't know who to speak to, I'd recommend calling Lifeline. The number is 13 11 14. Everyone is trained to listen to you, to support you where you are at.
I really didn't. But less than half an hour ago, I found myself sitting on the edge of my bed, razor pressed against my wrist. The battle was raging inside of me - cut or don't cut. I didn't. I wish I could say it was for noble reasons. I can't. I was just being cowardly. So far, I've managed to avoid breaking skin. But there have been evenings when I've had scratches half way up my forearm.
I never thought I'd self harm. But I have been. And I've been wanting to do worse.
I was going to put in a slightly prettier, more poetic way of saying this (note, I didn't write either), but it wouldn't have been honest. And, again, the spirit of total honesty. It kind of sucks.
But yeah... this basically what it's been like for me. I was thirteen the first time I articulated this to myself. It was only last year that I accepted that this is also feeling suicidal... it's a passive kind of suicidality. The kind that just gives up on oneself. My psychologist said that when I described it to her. "You've given up on yourself". In many ways, I have.
Sometimes, the only thing stopping me from stepping out in front of a speeding car is the thought of how it would screw up the driver's life.
My psych, she asked me about it. Asked what lies under it. I whispered "I feel worthless". Then, louder, "but that doesn't make sense."
She smiled at me. A little sadly. "No one wants to die if they think they are of worth."
I guess she's right. Certainly, my reasons for staying alive aren't because I value myself. They are because I know it would hurt my family and my friends too much. And because I still believe God will make something good out of this mess. But that is so, so, so hard to hold onto.
And, at the end of the day, maybe it doesn't matter that I've never broken skin and haven't actively tried to kill myself. After all, I've mentally killed myself a thousand times. My first step when I make a mistake is to start berating myself as a failure, a worthless piece of filthy, rotten manure. It's surprised me to realise, in recent times, how much I hate myself.
Not my appearance. I've reached a point where I've accepted that I am passably pretty. But is that vaniety when I know that I hate who I am far more intensely than I could ever like the way I look?
And sure, there are times when I like who I am... but it's so fleeting, so fragile... every small gain in self acceptance is so easily lost. And I've heard people say that we need to stop worrying about self esteem so much - what matters is what God thinks of us. But let me tell you right now: what God thinks of me is the only reason I am alive. And self esteem may not matter when you're confident and secure, but when you've got none, when you only mildly approve of yourself on a good day, it matters. It matters because your view of yourself colours how you think everyone views you. Even God. I'm only going because my head keeps telling me "but God loves you". My heart doesn't quite believe it.
And you know what the worst of it is? That comment there is so true. So, so often, I can't articulate it. Or it isn't acceptable to share it. Or I just have no energy to deal with anything. So I just sort of half smile and say I'm tired. And everyone nods and says they understand and starts giving me advice about sleep and food and pretty much no one ever asks "what kind of tired is that?".
Everyone's an expert and no one asks, because "tired" can be categorised and packed away, but who knows how to respond to "I want to die".
And that leaves me alone. Alone with my hurt, my pain, my hatred. And that's the worst of it.
And yeah, I'm writing this now because I can't do it any more. I can't keep pretending I'm fine when "fine" is an act I've practiced so long and hard that sometimes even I can't tell where the reality ends and the act begins. I'm doing this now because as much as I want to die, I want to live. Not just survive, but live. Really live. And enjoy it. I want to be able to feel grateful and to praise God. I don't want my life to be a lament. But it is. And I just can't. I can't do it anymore.
And so, I promise you, I will go out tonight. I'll give a friend a hug. I'll tell someone I'm struggling today. I'll be back in a couple of days with another post. And I'll keep doing one of the hardest things God has ever asked me to do: Live.
Love,
Laura Dee
xox
