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A letter to the church

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I'm sorry. I wrote the church off for years. Not without valid reasons, but looking back I can now place the resentment aside as I realize something important... Growing up in an abusive dynamic, I faced fear, pain, and anger on a daily basis. It was obvious to me that something was wrong, and that I and my family were in a bad situation. Because this is something I experienced daily, it felt obvious what was going on. If the situation is so obvious to me, a child, then surely other people know what's going on! The people myself and my family were most involved with was our church family. We were there for both services on Sundays, Wednesday prayer meetings, choir practice, every youth group outing... all of it. Being as isolated as we were in our home school setting, church was the most engagement we had in the outside world. I felt that if these people saw us so much and shared so much of our lives, then they must have noticed that something wasn't quite right. Whe...
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What's it like up there?

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What happens when you die and meet God? I've always wondered. Do you suddenly appear in heaven, surrounded by saints and angels, and all you do is worship? Do you have to walk through those pearly gates, and approach the throne fully knowing you don't deserve to be there? Does God show you everything you did that nailed His Son to that cross? Does He show you all beautiful the moments in which He worked through you? I wonder now if you realize every little way in which you hurt me. In heaven, are you able to finally face the wrongs you did? Are you able to finally ask for the forgiveness you don't have a right to request? Even if that forgiveness is something you need from people that haven't made it up there yet? I wonder if you know how much I just wanted you to be my dad. Not my father. Not "sir". Not the cruel and mocking act your ego wouldn't let you drop. Do you know I love you? Do you know that I forgive you? Do you know that I just wanted you ...
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Tap tap tap

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Bad news from the zones, tumbleweeds. It turns out that I don't respond to meds like I'm supposed to. I guess it's really just "news", since what you do with that information determines if it's bad/good. Really, it's just another piece of information helping me focus my efforts more effectively. Knowing that medications aren't doing what they should for me lets me know that I need to follow another avenue to supplement them. My psychiatrist had me start TMS treatment this week. TMS stands for transcranial magnetic stimulation. It takes 36 total sessions, but essentially helps connect the neural pathways in your brain so they're communicating like they should. In my first session, they had me take off my glasses and take out my earrings, since you can't have any metal pieces on or in your head during the treatments. Then they put this skull cap on me, and measured out various parts of my head to figure out where exactly they would place th...
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Another day, another diagnosis

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On Monday, I was discharged from inpatient care. Again. This time, to get me off of a new medication that just didn't react well for me. Topamax is a great medication, I'm sure. But for me, I noticed my anxiety levels spike, and I began to have severe panic attacks daily. On my last day of IOP (intensive outpatient program) at the hospital, I was taken to an intake assessment room and admitted to inpatient care involuntarily. I was a mess. I had been up since 3:30AM checking my stove obsessively to be sure that it was off. I had to call my boyfriend while I was driving to stay distracted and avoid a panic attack on the way to IOP that morning. I felt like I was completely out of control, and I couldn't think straight. My thoughts were a million miles an hour, and none of them made sense. I met some truly amazing people over the 5 days I spent there, though. I wasn't happy about being "trapped" and "controlled" so close to my return to work date, bu...
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Why didn't you call someone?!

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There's a funny thing about being "in crisis" when you have a mental illness. At least for me, anyways. I've spent most of the last 10 years dipping in and out of this life-or-death scenario, and it feels almost normal. I've dealt with these suicidal thoughts and urges in a multitude of ways over the years. Many of these turned into habits. The nastiest of them has been self-harm. Many people in my life have no idea that I struggle with this. A very few know about it. I think for most people, we jump to the image of deep gashes and monstrous scars when we approach this topic. I know plenty of people whose experience has been exactly that. This has not been my experience, though. My self-harm has never left a lasting scar. And this fact has typically made me feel as if my experience is now invalid. My thin yet precise razor marks heal within a week, never once landing me in a hospital or requiring stitches. They have always had a specific purpose for me: just enou...
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Processing...

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Thirty-three days ago I was at a crossroads. My hands full of pills, shaking under the weight of knowing there weren't enough to make the pain stop. As I sobbed into the steering wheel, I knew I had two options. 1. I could continue to struggle and silently plot my own death. Save my note for another day, another miserable night of my thoughts endlessly bouncing through my head, gaining momentum the more I shout at them to just stop . 2. I can ask for help. For whatever it may turn out to be worth, I owe my roommate my life. He sat with me and knew exactly what to say. What miraculous words did he utter to change my distressed mind? None. He sat by me in silence, waiting with me for the panic to subside. "It's alright. Let's just go upstairs." Okay. After what felt like hours of chain smoking in the frigid January cold, I finally found my words. "I think I need to go to the hospital." "Right now?" "Yeah... if I don...
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