Why didn't you call someone?!

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 enough to distract me from my obsessive thoughts repeating over and over. I'm shocked into a calmed state, and brought back to the present moment.

The last two weeks have been a constant battle for me. In between laughing and enjoying my time with friends and family, my thoughts have been dark. My skin has tingled and itched in the places I want to harm.

I gave in yesterday. Minutes before leaving to meet with friends, I gave in. Each mark strategically placed so as not to harm my tattoo. "I am not afraid to keep on living" has been permanently etched into my skin. It is now ironically surrounded by the inflamed reminders of my very real fear of life.

This is what's funny about crisis mode to me. After it has passed and I am once again thinking clearly, I know exactly what I should have done. I know I should have talked to someone about it. I know I should have engaged in healthy distractions. I know all of this. In the moment, however, I don't think this way. In the moment, I turn to the oldest crutch I've known. Because that moment doesn't feel like a crisis. That moment feels so normal and familiar to me.

A crisis sounds like a semi in flames on the highway after colliding with 3 other cars and the divider. A crisis sounds like the path of devastation after a tornado decimates a small town. It does not sound like one person, frozen in fear, struggling to control their own mind.

After the crisis moment, friends or family inevitably ask the question, "Why didn't you call me?" And the answer is simple: It didn't feel that important.

I'm fully aware of the distortion in that thought. I know it's important. I know that my safety and my behaviors matter. I know that I can call someone and talk in these moments. I've grown accustomed to these thoughts and urges, and it doesn't occur to me that they're dangerous.

This isn't some pity party where I try to convince everyone that I've been soooo sad for sooooo long that I'm just used to it. It's just the honest truth. It's how I've learned to handle it and function in the world. It's how I've grown my good reputation at work and ensured I've met my own performance standards in life. I am "high-functioning" because I've conditioned myself to be this way.

I'm slowly learning to change my habits and thought processes. It's the hardest task I've ever set myself to. I know I'm going to struggle. I am struggling. But it will get easier with time.