Today before I fell asleep, I had a flashback. I don’t get those very often but when I do, it brings back all the strange and uncertain feelings that I can’t pinpoint. It’s hard when you know your rapist. It’s even harder when you trusted your rapist. He raped me violently, but his words were gentle. I don’t think I can forget the sickeningly tender whispers in my ear as his forearm pressed heavy against my chest.
Somewhere along the road I grew up to fast. I remember the moment but for the sake of others I’ll hold back. I was forced into an over sexualized childhood. Eager for attention, for love, to be noticed. My candy was a little bit bitter, nothing was very sweet. Somewhere along the way I missed out on childhood, on the gentleness of being loved and protected, valued and cherished.
somewhere at sometime something went wrong. and that cycle will kill me if I don’t put an end to it.
For the past few months I’ve been feeling like I’ve been drowning. This year has come so hard and so unclear for me, and the past few months I’ve been battling self harm and depression.
And then I opened my mouth and sang. Singing always transforms something in me. It makes my night into day, depression into hope, emptiness to overflowing. That’s what happens when I open my mouth. I get to move past all the things that scare me and feel like they’re killing me and actually see the light at the the end of the tunnel.
Last night while sitting on the couch I tried to keep my mouth shut, for many reasons, feeling guilty about my action these past few months, and the fact that I haven’t tried to sing at all. But I couldn’t help myself and I opened my mouth and words began falling out. And suddenly I felt a pair of strong hands grasp my waist and lift me up and I was taken into a vision. I knew Jesus had picked me up from the ground and I could see above all of my situations and problems. He lifted me higher and even though I thought I had set up camp at the bottom of the mountain, having given up and quit, he showed me that I hadn’t and that even through the painful process I had continued to climb up the mountain. He showed me the places that I had already conquered. Then he gave me this verse..
He makes my feet like hinds’ feet, And sets me upon my high places. Psalm 18:33
This week I am exhausted. Not physically but mentally. I’ve been moving the chess pieces around in my life, hoping everything will turn out for the best when it’s not even something I can control. I like for everything to be planned out, consistent and not last minute. My week has been the exact opposite. Finances have run out. Emotionally riding a roller coaster and trying to plan a wedding.
Then my Aunt swoops in, saving the day. And the pressure is off just for a little while.
I’m used to doing, or at least trying to do everything by myself. I’m independent because I’ve seen peoples’ unstable reactions to my life events. Usually they want to hear, but then they freak out when you tell them what has happened. They back off, or they flip out in anger, or they give you examples of all the things they would do, “if” then back away if you don’t go with their suggestions. It scary, because these situations are so delicate for you. It’s your real life, but to them they can come and go as they please, like a summer breeze.
Independence and my own personal strength, of how much pain and heartache I can take have been my victory flag. I love testing my emotional strength. But not right now. I just want to be scooped up, and understood, nutured, and cared for. I’m not sure how to let that happen without letting someone in to do so.
My Aunt told me today that I have to make the decision to let God come in and save the day, to rescue me. I know that- in a far out distant, hands off sort of way. But I’ve never been brave enough to let it actually happen. Because strong people don’t need and or want rescuing. But I’ve just about had enough with pretending to be strong.
3 years ago I overdosed on a load of pills. It was my last attempt at committing suicide. It’s crazy because It didn’t work. LOL. I was inpatient at this hospital where my socks always got stolen and where people would wake up in the middle of the night screaming and yelling about how Obama was out to get them. There at the hospital, 2 hours away from where I live, I met my plug, the weed man, who just so happened to live 10 minutes from me.
When the dust settled, I found myself four years out, questioning who I am and what I want to be- where I wanna go and what I want to make for myself. Hope has never come easily for me. It’s not something that stirs inside of me. I wouldn’t call myself a dreamer. I don’t dream. I live realistically and aim for the best. If I hope anything I hope that my life doesn’t implode on me.
I’m learning to navigate my emotions like a ship in the storm. A lot of people would say don’t let your emotions effect you. That’s been my problem all along. I haven’t let my emotions affect me so much so that I can’t even figure out where they begin. But I’m figuring it’s worth a shot.
Four years ago, September 2012, was the first time I tried to commit suicide. I spent a few weeks in the hospital, only two leave for a day and come back. When I walked outside it was a crisp October day. Hurricane Irene was coming through. I hadn’t been outside into freedom for weeks. As my friend Ricky picked me up in his fancy camaro to take me home, I almost fell apart. Being outside was amazing for me. I saw the clouds and I felt the cool fresh air. And though it took some time for me to grasp, I found that the October Air brought me some much needed clarity. So here’s to October. And here’s to hope.
Anxiety and Depression.
Two almost catch phrase sorts of words used in society. Nearly everyone I know has said to have one or both of those. On social media or in daily conversation, someone is talking about the fact that people just need to understand that they have these. It makes it hard to have real conversations with people about these very real things, because most of these people are self diagnosing.
When I was young, I was diagnosed with MDD, PTSD, and an Anxiety Disorder. Now, though I don’t let those things define me, I’ve found it’s really hard to have real conversations with people about this. Because everyone has it. The words almost don’t mean anything to anyone anymore. People don’t understand what they mean. They have become trivial and meaningless.
I don’t talk about my difficulty with anxiety and mdd. It’s hard enough finding the words to explain it, let alone getting past the stigma and the overuse of the diagnoses. But it’s become harder with a self diagnosing society.
Jesus is and always will be a healer. And I believe He will always come through and set captives free of all and any mood and emotional disorders. But to be open and honest, it would be helpful if people didn’t talk about it so lightly, like it doesn’t mean anything, so people who truly do struggle with it could really get real help and healing.