Tomorrow is Mother's Day and I should be so happy that I am a mommy, the one thing I always prayed I would be. Don't get me wrong, I am ecstatic about having the day with my beautiful little boy, but my heart also feels a deep longing to call my mom and I can't. It has been five years since she died and some days it feels like it was yesterday. I fall asleep and I dream that she is holding me and telling me that everything is going to be ok and I wake up without her. I don't know what is harder to handle, the sadness or the pure anger I have that she is dead.
I remember that phone call in November 2007 telling me that my mom was just rushed to the hospital in critical condition, her liver and kidneys had shut down allowing toxins to reach her brain...she was in a coma. I didn't even know how to respond when I got the phone call, I just went numb. My friend and roommate took me to the hospital to see her the next day and I will never forget what I saw. The woman laying in that bed couldn't be my mom, I couldn't accept that she had done this to herself. She was so swollen from all the fluids building up under her skin, she had a tube down her throat, was strapped to the bed, and kept fighting the nurses. I didn't even know how to talk to her, all I could say was, "I ate dinner mommy" because my calorie intake was everyone's biggest concern at the time. I held her hand for a little while and kept myself together until it was time to go. I didn't think it would be the last time I saw her alive.
On December 8, 2007 I was awoken by a phone call from my grandma telling me that mom had died. I knew they had taken her off life support, but still couldn't believe that she would die. The next few days were a blur, I would cut and starve and put on a face for everyone who was around. I had to hold it together at the funeral, someone had to go up there and read the eulogy. I led my five year old little sister around the cemetery, she held my hand as I read the poem my grandmother had selected, and she clutched me tighter as we said goodbye to our mom. I think a part of me never left that cemetery.
The following days were filled with me going through her things, cleaning up their apartment, and pushing back all the memories and voices screaming that it was my fault she was gone. I kept it together, went back to Columbia and tried to keep moving forward. Then the sadness hit me and I remember having my cell phone in one hand and a razor in the other...I used the phone instead. I called my best friend and fell apart, spilled all the thoughts that were screaming in my head, how I could have prevented it, I could have done something, and I never should have left her. She didn't mean to hit me, it wasn't her it was the whiskey. She was hard on me and expected perfection because she thought that was how you make someone the best they can be. I cried and cried until I eventually fell asleep on my bedroom floor.
The sadness lasted for a little while, everyone tiptoed around me thinking one false move and I was going to slit my wrists or something. I was cutting myself every night even when my friends searched my room for razors and sharps to stop me. I couldn't feel it anymore, the pain had to come out somehow and it was the only thing I knew to do. Eventually, the sadness began to shift to anger and anger embeds itself deep inside of you and eats away at your mind. I've spent all these years trying to rid myself of that cold anger inside of me and just forgive and accept that she was sick and couldn't get better, but I can't.
I no longer have a mom to call on mother's Day, Damien never got to meet his grandma, I will get married in nine days and she won't be there to fluff my hair and annoy me about minute details like moms always do, and she isn't here for me to call when I'm scared and sick. All of this is because she couldn't put down the bottle, or wouldn't. The doctor's warned her the first time her pancreas gave her problems, they said she had to stop drinking or she would die. She told us she wasn't an alcoholic and for everyone to leave her alone. The only one she kept in on her problem was me, just a teenager trying to figure life out. She would bang on my bedroom door at midnight telling me I needed to listen for my baby sister because she had to go to the store. She would bring me back diet soda and junior mints to keep me quiet. It sickens me that I always kept quiet.
No one knew what it was like at home, she would drink and go from being our mom to something else. I would hear her getting frustrated with my one year old sister so I would go out and provoke her. That thing that replaced her when she was drunk was awful, telling me that I was a worthless person that no one would ever love besides her, I wasn't good enough, thin enough, and she just might send me away to school. I took it until it got too crazy, I would smart off which led to a swift smack to the face, push me against the wall, or whatever else. Eventually she would pass out and I would put the baby in her bed. The next morning I covered the bruises so she didn't have to see what she did. I loved my mom, I hated the thing she became when she was on the whiskey. I wanted to save her and protect her all at the same time and when I couldn't I started on myself...I quit eating because she always wanted a thin daughter and I would cut so I could keep that smile on my face all the time. I didn't want anyone to know what was happening because she was my mom and I loved her.
Five years later and I just get so mad at her, why couldn't she stop, why weren't my sister and I enough, and why didn't anyone do anything...why didn't I do anything? A month after he death my step dad agreed to take me to the cemetery to see her...it was appalling. There was no headstone or plaque yet, some fake yellow flower she would have hated stuck in the ground, and it was dirt. I had the urge to just start digging, maybe she wasn't there, maybe she was still with me, but I knew the truth...under that ground my mom was there. With my bear hands I began digging into the cold ground, I had to leave her something, she had to have better than that fucking flower. As my hands became more blue my step dad brought me over an ice scraper to dig with, never saying a word or questioning my actions. Finally, I accomplished the whole I was working for and I reached up and ripped the necklace off my neck with a simple cross on it, I kissed it and carefully placed it in the hole. Once the dirt was all in place I carved simply her name, the day she was born and the day she died. I laid on that spot of earth for awhile wanting to be in her arms again.
Tomorrow is suppose to be the day we show our mother's love and how thankful we are for what they've done for us. I want to yell, I want to know what I did wrong, what could I have done to save her. I feel like an orphan despite having a father and step mom, it isn't the same. People talk so badly about her in her death and it infuriates me. I have a right to be angry, to be mad at that thing inside of her that took her away from me, but others have no right whatsoever. My mom tried to make me the best person I could be, she bought me brand new clothes for school twice a year, she laughed with me, cuddled me, and loved me. It was that other person that left the bruises, that spewed venom at her own daughter often saying she was never meant to be a mom, and it was that other person that forced me to lie to everyone.
She was suppose to be here still, we should all be meeting up for mother's day tomorrow with her spoiling her grandson, she should be at my wedding telling me how she can't believe my dress is black, and she should still be on the other side of that phone when I need her. I don't know how to let this anger go, others who fall into a bottle find their way back out...why didn't she? Some days I believe I killed her, I never told anyone what she was doing, I took everything out on myself and eventually that meant me leaving her home. When I left she got worse, maybe if I had stayed she would still be here. I've been so scared lately and hurting so bad I think about her all the time. She was selfish and picked a bottle over me and my sister, and now my sister will grow up never really knowing who our mom was, not that other person she was all the time in the end, but the mom she was when she wasn't drinking. She nursed us through sicknesses and cleaned up our messes. I always thought she was strong, but why wasn't she strong enough to stop?
I miss being a daughter and I miss having someone to call when my world is falling apart. After I was raped she was the one who would talk to me about it and never once made me feel like it was my fault unlike other people. I know he shouldn't have been there while they were at the lake, but did I deserve for him to do that to me? Everyone but my mom pretended it didn't happen. There are so many things I want her here for now, so many things I'm scared of and have no one to talk to. I can't talk to my grandma because she is already dealing with so much and the parent's I have left aren't interested in discussing feelings. I'm scared I'm going to die from this disease, I'm tired of surgery, tired of IV lines and tubes, and just exhausted. Josh has told me when I wake up crying in pain I often ask for my mom forgetting that she is gone.
It has been five years, why can't I let go of the anger and the pain? I don't even know if she heard my pathetic attempt at saying goodbye that day in the hospital. Maybe I'm so angry and bitter because I think that is my future. My body is fragile and we've been told by docs that I won't live to be old...it will be my son that is writing this angry about all the things his momma wasn't there to see him do or help him do. I hated that thing the whiskey brought out, but I loved and miss my momma so much it hurts to breathe sometimes. I wish she would have fought, fought her way out of that bottle like I fought my way out of that dark ditch. Why is it that I could beat my anorexia and cutting but she couldn't beat that bottle. It owned her and no matter how much we loved her she just couldn't let it go and I have to forgive her for that.
Well, it is after 12, so wherever you are momma..."Happy Mother's Day and I love you and I forgive you for the things that bottle made you do".
Sunday, May 12, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
We are coming up on Mother's Day this Sunday and though I find it a great day because I have the best little boy in the world hugging on me and loving me I also find it a little bittersweet. My whole life I wanted to be a mommy, I wanted to have a whole mess of babies at home to love, teach, and watch them grow up. They told me before I ever got pregnant with lil man that there was no way that I would ever be able to have a baby, my body was too sick to support a pregnancy. They told us if I did manage to conceive that the baby would miscarry and I would probably just assume it was a period. After they told me that news I spent a good two weeks in a pretty deep depression, I felt like they had taken everything away from me and just walked out of the room as I sat there shocked. Eventually, I just started pushing through everything, I still had Josh's kids to love and that was more than a lot of women had and I still left that little bit of hope inside that maybe I might have a baby of my own someday.
I was awakened early in the morning on Mother's Day 2010 by the Chief of Emergency Medicine calling to tell me that I needed to come in to the hospital that my port was infected. It didn't take long for them to explain the severity of the situation to me and get up into a room and make sure they had IV vanc running. They stopped my TPN so I was super weak and overly emotional as they tried to get the infection under control. They finally let me out of the hospital a week later on IV vanc three times a day and told me to take it easy and they were going to watch everything closely. It turned out that the infection we thought cleared had managed to form a sheath over my line so it needed to be taken out. They put in a PICC so I could run my TPN and planned to replace my line in a couple weeks.
The days passed and I got sicker and sicker, not with a fever or anything, but I couldn't stop throwing up and I was getting awful headaches. When I went to my doc appointment the first thought was the infection was back. When I told her I was more nauseous than usual she brushed it off as nothing, it took lots of pushing to get her to run a pregnancy test. Everyone knows the story, God gave us a miracle and I was eight weeks pregnant. They spent over an hour telling me to terminate the pregnancy because I would die, the baby would die, or we would both die. Obviously, we proved them wrong my over tired two year old is in his room now refusing to lay down. It was the most amazing moment of my life when they delivered him. He went from living inside me to all of a sudden I could hear that little cry and it hit me that I was a mommy...my dreams were coming true.
My joy was interrupted when my OB showed up by my head and asked if she could go ahead and tie my tubes while they were closing the c section. I was shocked and just looked for a minute like she was crazy. She started trying to rationalize with me that the pregnancy was so hard on my body and I would never fully recovery. I remember thinking, "is she really doing this to me now, after I just delivered my healthy miracle baby"? I was adamant that she do nothing but close the incision and drop the subject. Obviously, the next few days were pure bliss, this beautiful little blue eyed boy was mine. He would snuggle into my chest and go to sleep and on the second day of his beautiful life he smiled and from that moment on he owned my heart and I wanted nothing more than to have more little ones because they are absolutely blessings.
Everyone knows that lil man was a difficult baby when it came to sleep, but I still loved it. We often slept with him curled up in the crook of my arm. I felt so much love for him that sometimes I thought my heart would explode. The pregnancy and the birth took their toll on me, what food the pregnancy hormones had allowed me to tolerate no longer stayed down and tube feeds weren't going much better. I was weakening quickly from malnutrition and exhaustion, but it was still so beautiful to be a mommy and I refused to see what everyone else did. We went to the doc for my six week check up and she raved about out lil miracle, but also about how I looked, not like someone who had given birth such a short time ago. She immediately brought up birth control and refused to give me the pill because of my absorption problems. I tried the Implanon (goes in your arm and protects for three years) but the hormones caused bad things to happen. She gave the the choice of the patch or the ring and I went with the patch. According to Josh it made me a raging you know what come PMS time, but i was convinced that I would have another baby some day.
As the months passed and my lil man got bigger and I got to spend everyday with him I started to get that itch to give him a little brother or sister, in all honesty I wanted to try for my little girl. My health had been faltering to say the least, we were in the ER at least once a month and had surgery in November which caused some serious complications. Josh tried to be as supportive as possible, but I was depressed and wanted to have another baby, I'm a woman that is what we are suppose to do. Finally, my team sat me down and told me that there was no way I would ever carry another baby. I piped up that I had made it with lil man and they said they agreed that it was a miracle and that my labs after he was born were so low I could have died. They said that it was time for me to accept the gift I was given and for my own health we needed tie my tubes.
I went home and fell apart, I cried as my lil man lay in the crook of my arm sleeping. I thought I had failed as a woman, couldn't do the one thing that we are suppose to be able to do. I felt I had so much love to give and they were telling me that I could never have that moment where you feel the baby move in your tummy again, I would never snuggle a newborn baby again, and I could never give lil man a brother or sister. I was an only child until I was ten years old when my dad remarried and I got a new little sister and not too far off we were given a little brother. I thought being an only child was amazing, but it changes when you have a whole family Christmas morning or Easter morning. I liked not being the only child, I enjoyed having a real family and I was even more excited when my mom remarried and a few years later had my little sister. I feel like lil man is missing out on the joys of having a sibling. Sure we have fought like cats and dogs growing up, but I still love my sisters and brother with all my heart and wouldn't trade them for anything.
After a long debate I made the decision to let them tie my tubes secretly believing they could undo them whenever I asked. I wasn't in denial, I was going to get sicker, I'm sicker even now and it would have been unfair to bring another baby into this world only for me to not be around to mommy it and it would have been unfair to my miracle I already have. I cried as they wheeled me back to the OR and was given a hefty dose of meds to calm me down as they got me ready for the surgery. I fell asleep believing it could all be reversed. When I woke up I was informed that one of my Fallopian tubes had a cyst wrapped around it that would have burst if they didn't get it out, unfortunately it was wrapped around the whole tube so it had to be removed. She told me the chance of them ever being able to reverse the procedure along with only one Fallopian tube and nutrition problems of me ever conceiving again was pretty much impossible.
Here we are a year later coming up on Mother's Day and though I feel tremendously blessed that I was able to have that little miracle in the other room and watch him grow up, but I grieve that I will never be able to have another baby. I hear about friends having babies and I'm so happy for them and at the same time I'm so incredibly sad. After my mom died I stopped acknowledging Mother's Day and I think my Momma Dee understood that it was just too hard to think about it and then I had lil man and everyday seems like Mother's Day. Everyday he does something that warms my heart and makes smile even when I think I don't have it in me. Though I think I will always grieve for the babies I can never have I will never forget the miracle that I was given. We weren't suppose to make it, they said there would never be a Mother's day for me let alone coming up on three and that is something. I think about those that haven't gotten the miracle I did, those women who do everything to try and have a baby and yet they can't do it
I was awakened early in the morning on Mother's Day 2010 by the Chief of Emergency Medicine calling to tell me that I needed to come in to the hospital that my port was infected. It didn't take long for them to explain the severity of the situation to me and get up into a room and make sure they had IV vanc running. They stopped my TPN so I was super weak and overly emotional as they tried to get the infection under control. They finally let me out of the hospital a week later on IV vanc three times a day and told me to take it easy and they were going to watch everything closely. It turned out that the infection we thought cleared had managed to form a sheath over my line so it needed to be taken out. They put in a PICC so I could run my TPN and planned to replace my line in a couple weeks.
The days passed and I got sicker and sicker, not with a fever or anything, but I couldn't stop throwing up and I was getting awful headaches. When I went to my doc appointment the first thought was the infection was back. When I told her I was more nauseous than usual she brushed it off as nothing, it took lots of pushing to get her to run a pregnancy test. Everyone knows the story, God gave us a miracle and I was eight weeks pregnant. They spent over an hour telling me to terminate the pregnancy because I would die, the baby would die, or we would both die. Obviously, we proved them wrong my over tired two year old is in his room now refusing to lay down. It was the most amazing moment of my life when they delivered him. He went from living inside me to all of a sudden I could hear that little cry and it hit me that I was a mommy...my dreams were coming true.
My joy was interrupted when my OB showed up by my head and asked if she could go ahead and tie my tubes while they were closing the c section. I was shocked and just looked for a minute like she was crazy. She started trying to rationalize with me that the pregnancy was so hard on my body and I would never fully recovery. I remember thinking, "is she really doing this to me now, after I just delivered my healthy miracle baby"? I was adamant that she do nothing but close the incision and drop the subject. Obviously, the next few days were pure bliss, this beautiful little blue eyed boy was mine. He would snuggle into my chest and go to sleep and on the second day of his beautiful life he smiled and from that moment on he owned my heart and I wanted nothing more than to have more little ones because they are absolutely blessings.
Everyone knows that lil man was a difficult baby when it came to sleep, but I still loved it. We often slept with him curled up in the crook of my arm. I felt so much love for him that sometimes I thought my heart would explode. The pregnancy and the birth took their toll on me, what food the pregnancy hormones had allowed me to tolerate no longer stayed down and tube feeds weren't going much better. I was weakening quickly from malnutrition and exhaustion, but it was still so beautiful to be a mommy and I refused to see what everyone else did. We went to the doc for my six week check up and she raved about out lil miracle, but also about how I looked, not like someone who had given birth such a short time ago. She immediately brought up birth control and refused to give me the pill because of my absorption problems. I tried the Implanon (goes in your arm and protects for three years) but the hormones caused bad things to happen. She gave the the choice of the patch or the ring and I went with the patch. According to Josh it made me a raging you know what come PMS time, but i was convinced that I would have another baby some day.
As the months passed and my lil man got bigger and I got to spend everyday with him I started to get that itch to give him a little brother or sister, in all honesty I wanted to try for my little girl. My health had been faltering to say the least, we were in the ER at least once a month and had surgery in November which caused some serious complications. Josh tried to be as supportive as possible, but I was depressed and wanted to have another baby, I'm a woman that is what we are suppose to do. Finally, my team sat me down and told me that there was no way I would ever carry another baby. I piped up that I had made it with lil man and they said they agreed that it was a miracle and that my labs after he was born were so low I could have died. They said that it was time for me to accept the gift I was given and for my own health we needed tie my tubes.
I went home and fell apart, I cried as my lil man lay in the crook of my arm sleeping. I thought I had failed as a woman, couldn't do the one thing that we are suppose to be able to do. I felt I had so much love to give and they were telling me that I could never have that moment where you feel the baby move in your tummy again, I would never snuggle a newborn baby again, and I could never give lil man a brother or sister. I was an only child until I was ten years old when my dad remarried and I got a new little sister and not too far off we were given a little brother. I thought being an only child was amazing, but it changes when you have a whole family Christmas morning or Easter morning. I liked not being the only child, I enjoyed having a real family and I was even more excited when my mom remarried and a few years later had my little sister. I feel like lil man is missing out on the joys of having a sibling. Sure we have fought like cats and dogs growing up, but I still love my sisters and brother with all my heart and wouldn't trade them for anything.
After a long debate I made the decision to let them tie my tubes secretly believing they could undo them whenever I asked. I wasn't in denial, I was going to get sicker, I'm sicker even now and it would have been unfair to bring another baby into this world only for me to not be around to mommy it and it would have been unfair to my miracle I already have. I cried as they wheeled me back to the OR and was given a hefty dose of meds to calm me down as they got me ready for the surgery. I fell asleep believing it could all be reversed. When I woke up I was informed that one of my Fallopian tubes had a cyst wrapped around it that would have burst if they didn't get it out, unfortunately it was wrapped around the whole tube so it had to be removed. She told me the chance of them ever being able to reverse the procedure along with only one Fallopian tube and nutrition problems of me ever conceiving again was pretty much impossible.
Here we are a year later coming up on Mother's Day and though I feel tremendously blessed that I was able to have that little miracle in the other room and watch him grow up, but I grieve that I will never be able to have another baby. I hear about friends having babies and I'm so happy for them and at the same time I'm so incredibly sad. After my mom died I stopped acknowledging Mother's Day and I think my Momma Dee understood that it was just too hard to think about it and then I had lil man and everyday seems like Mother's Day. Everyday he does something that warms my heart and makes smile even when I think I don't have it in me. Though I think I will always grieve for the babies I can never have I will never forget the miracle that I was given. We weren't suppose to make it, they said there would never be a Mother's day for me let alone coming up on three and that is something. I think about those that haven't gotten the miracle I did, those women who do everything to try and have a baby and yet they can't do it
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Spastic...but that's what is in my head
I've spent a lot of time lately writing about the past, mostly to avoid talking about the present so maybe I could hide the things that have been eating away at me lately. I figured I owe it to you that read this (if anyone still does) to let you know how I am right now at ten twenty at night on May eighth 2013. Here goes...
I've been pouring so much of my energy into being ok, I make jokes and I smile while the whole time I feel like I'm slipping away. The substitute doctor the other day said I seemed to be doing okay because I was talking and not falling apart or screaming about the horrible pain that never goes away. I wanted to scream at her at the top of my lungs that I am far from fine, that the pain is so bad most of the time now that I feel like I just want to disappear or find a way to be numb so I don't have to hurt anymore and just maybe I could get some sleep. I live every single day at an eight and when you deal with it everyday you don't go screaming like a damn banshee at the doc's office or anything like that. I want to look strong, like this thing that is eating me from the inside out isn't breaking me when it is.
I spend so much time putting on this front afraid of what people might think if I say what is going on, or admitting that I am terrified. I feel my body screaming at me that it can't handle much more, it is running on almost nothing and I don't know how to fix it. It isn't like it was years ago when I craved that empty feeling, when I didn't care if I never saw the next morning. I don't want to die, I am a believer but I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not terrified of what comes next. Even worse I'm so scared of leaving my baby without his momma to be there for him as he grows. I pray every night for sleep, sleep without the nightmares, the fear, or the pain that often has me waking up in tears. Everyone tells me how strong I am and I can promise you I am not, I am scared and some days I feel hopeless.
I try so hard to keep smiling, to focus on the blessings in my life, that beautiful little boy in the next room. It seems like every time we think things are going to be great this disease rears it's ugly head and we are faced with more bad news and more problems. I feel so useless most of the time, I can't walk very far without the help of a wheelchair or walker. I'm twenty seven years old, I'm still suppose to be young, in the beginning of my life and I feel like I'm at the end of it. I blame myself for all of this, I treated this body, this gift that God gave me like it was nothing...I starved it, pushed it past the limits on exercise equipment, cut deep slashes into the pure flesh the Lord gave me, and when I thought I couldn't get out I tried to kill the body that was fighting so hard to keep me breathing.
I watched my mother slip away, years of drinking took their toll and for some reason she didn't have it in her to stop. On November 5, 2007 the body she had done so much damage to waived that white flag to surrender. She fought for a month in intensive care, but there were no livers being offered and because I was so trapped in my eating disorder I wasn't even allowed to be tested for donation.12 days before my 22 birthday she died and we celebrated our first Christmas without her seventeen days after she died. She died alone in that hospital in the early hours of the morning with no one there holding her hand and helping her go...why wasn't I there. Now, I find myself following in her footsteps, one day I will slip away and the world will move on. I wanted to mean something, I've wanted nothing more than to help people which is one of the reasons I started this blog so maybe one person could see that they don't have to live with an eating disorder, they don't have to cut themselves, and they don't have to believe dying is the only way out.
I am worn down despite the smile or joke I manage to pull out. Everyone around me wants to know "why" nothing is getting better and I have no answers. I pray every night for answers, for more strength to take on another day of the pain and exhaustion, the unbearable nausea, vomiting, and dumping. I pray for a normal day that I don't have to take so many rests just to keep on my feet. I'm suppose to be chasing my son at the park, looking forward to summer trips to the zoo and the pool. Everyday I get my hopes up about going somewhere and then I am too weak to get out of the house. I spend every ounce of life I have in me pouring it into my son because he is a piece of me that will carry on when I am no longer here anymore. Every night I ask God for more time, I feel like it is a selfish request because people's lives are being ripped away from them everyday, what right do I have to think that I somehow deserve more time, and I know in my heart that there will never be enough time for everything I want to see and teach my son...there is never enough time for any of us when you think about it. Our time here is merely a blink in the scheme of things which is why would should fight so hard to make it matter, to forgive and not let petty things keeps us bogged down.
I have never been good at sharing my feelings, mainly I've never felt safe enough to share my weaknesses. These doctors mistake the mask I put on for reality. In reality, I am a terrified, screaming twenty seven year old girl who wants to live. I don't want to live like this though, I don't want to be so weak and in so much pain all the time that I can't enjoy life. I would rather have three years on this Earth with my family feeling strong and not doubled over in pain than ten years the way I'm living now. I never understood when people would talk about wanting a quality of life, I couldn't understand them just giving up, foregoing more surgeries or treatments to have a few good months or years without pain. I always thought you just keep fighting and you take whatever painful thing they throw at you, but now I understand first hand why people make the choice to have a better quality of life. I have a deep desire to live, but I want to live not just exist on the sidelines watching everyone else live life.
I feel lost right now and those old demons are screaming as loud as they can in my head telling me how easy it is to go back and give them those numbers they want. I know all too well how to make the scale tank faster than it is, but the fact is I swore I wouldn't do that again, I would never give those voices a foothold on me again because I know in my heart if I let it back I would be dead faster than I ever imagine and it isn't worth it to suffice some ignorant resident doc's idea of what my number should be...who care if my labs are in the tank and I can't walk or shower without Josh right there. Everyone thinks this mask is real, but it isn't. I have always survived that way, I have always been the strong one...I was raped and lived with it for almost two weeks before I fell apart to a friend, I stood and read the eulogy at my mother's funeral, I held my five year old sister at the grave site, I yelled at the Pastor who told her not to tough the flowers, and I went through her stuff all without letting anyone see the pain. I was raised that we don't wear our pain out for everyone to see, so I bear it and because I do it that way it must not be that bad, I must be fine.
They bring up trying therapy again and helping me to learn how to be sick because they think I will magically open up and I won't. I write...that is my coping skill and I also sing and love music and playing with my son. I have been in and out of therapy for years and never accomplished a damn thing because I can't trust anyone like that. I recovered from my anorexia, bulimia, self harm and suicidal ideations without therapy...I did it with people I cared about and I focused on God. If anything I would rather talk to someone from the Church because my biggest issue with being sick is my fear. I want so badly for people to see the real me and stop making assumptions...I hid the fact that I was starving and cutting myself for almost two years before anyone found out nor did anyone know what was happening in my house every night. I came to school and I smiled, and I practiced my craft. I am coping with all of this without reverting to older behaviors. Am I ok...not really, but I know I'm not okay and I know when I need to stop and breathe. I am scared and I feel so alone all the time because I feel like no one understands, which I don't know why I would because we all have our own bodies and we can't understand how another one feels.
I'm sure this entry has been spastic and not the usual Butterfly Den that you usually find and I promise I won't do this often. Things have just been overwhelming lately and I had to post something in the present.
I've been pouring so much of my energy into being ok, I make jokes and I smile while the whole time I feel like I'm slipping away. The substitute doctor the other day said I seemed to be doing okay because I was talking and not falling apart or screaming about the horrible pain that never goes away. I wanted to scream at her at the top of my lungs that I am far from fine, that the pain is so bad most of the time now that I feel like I just want to disappear or find a way to be numb so I don't have to hurt anymore and just maybe I could get some sleep. I live every single day at an eight and when you deal with it everyday you don't go screaming like a damn banshee at the doc's office or anything like that. I want to look strong, like this thing that is eating me from the inside out isn't breaking me when it is.
I spend so much time putting on this front afraid of what people might think if I say what is going on, or admitting that I am terrified. I feel my body screaming at me that it can't handle much more, it is running on almost nothing and I don't know how to fix it. It isn't like it was years ago when I craved that empty feeling, when I didn't care if I never saw the next morning. I don't want to die, I am a believer but I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not terrified of what comes next. Even worse I'm so scared of leaving my baby without his momma to be there for him as he grows. I pray every night for sleep, sleep without the nightmares, the fear, or the pain that often has me waking up in tears. Everyone tells me how strong I am and I can promise you I am not, I am scared and some days I feel hopeless.
I try so hard to keep smiling, to focus on the blessings in my life, that beautiful little boy in the next room. It seems like every time we think things are going to be great this disease rears it's ugly head and we are faced with more bad news and more problems. I feel so useless most of the time, I can't walk very far without the help of a wheelchair or walker. I'm twenty seven years old, I'm still suppose to be young, in the beginning of my life and I feel like I'm at the end of it. I blame myself for all of this, I treated this body, this gift that God gave me like it was nothing...I starved it, pushed it past the limits on exercise equipment, cut deep slashes into the pure flesh the Lord gave me, and when I thought I couldn't get out I tried to kill the body that was fighting so hard to keep me breathing.
I watched my mother slip away, years of drinking took their toll and for some reason she didn't have it in her to stop. On November 5, 2007 the body she had done so much damage to waived that white flag to surrender. She fought for a month in intensive care, but there were no livers being offered and because I was so trapped in my eating disorder I wasn't even allowed to be tested for donation.12 days before my 22 birthday she died and we celebrated our first Christmas without her seventeen days after she died. She died alone in that hospital in the early hours of the morning with no one there holding her hand and helping her go...why wasn't I there. Now, I find myself following in her footsteps, one day I will slip away and the world will move on. I wanted to mean something, I've wanted nothing more than to help people which is one of the reasons I started this blog so maybe one person could see that they don't have to live with an eating disorder, they don't have to cut themselves, and they don't have to believe dying is the only way out.
I am worn down despite the smile or joke I manage to pull out. Everyone around me wants to know "why" nothing is getting better and I have no answers. I pray every night for answers, for more strength to take on another day of the pain and exhaustion, the unbearable nausea, vomiting, and dumping. I pray for a normal day that I don't have to take so many rests just to keep on my feet. I'm suppose to be chasing my son at the park, looking forward to summer trips to the zoo and the pool. Everyday I get my hopes up about going somewhere and then I am too weak to get out of the house. I spend every ounce of life I have in me pouring it into my son because he is a piece of me that will carry on when I am no longer here anymore. Every night I ask God for more time, I feel like it is a selfish request because people's lives are being ripped away from them everyday, what right do I have to think that I somehow deserve more time, and I know in my heart that there will never be enough time for everything I want to see and teach my son...there is never enough time for any of us when you think about it. Our time here is merely a blink in the scheme of things which is why would should fight so hard to make it matter, to forgive and not let petty things keeps us bogged down.
I have never been good at sharing my feelings, mainly I've never felt safe enough to share my weaknesses. These doctors mistake the mask I put on for reality. In reality, I am a terrified, screaming twenty seven year old girl who wants to live. I don't want to live like this though, I don't want to be so weak and in so much pain all the time that I can't enjoy life. I would rather have three years on this Earth with my family feeling strong and not doubled over in pain than ten years the way I'm living now. I never understood when people would talk about wanting a quality of life, I couldn't understand them just giving up, foregoing more surgeries or treatments to have a few good months or years without pain. I always thought you just keep fighting and you take whatever painful thing they throw at you, but now I understand first hand why people make the choice to have a better quality of life. I have a deep desire to live, but I want to live not just exist on the sidelines watching everyone else live life.
I feel lost right now and those old demons are screaming as loud as they can in my head telling me how easy it is to go back and give them those numbers they want. I know all too well how to make the scale tank faster than it is, but the fact is I swore I wouldn't do that again, I would never give those voices a foothold on me again because I know in my heart if I let it back I would be dead faster than I ever imagine and it isn't worth it to suffice some ignorant resident doc's idea of what my number should be...who care if my labs are in the tank and I can't walk or shower without Josh right there. Everyone thinks this mask is real, but it isn't. I have always survived that way, I have always been the strong one...I was raped and lived with it for almost two weeks before I fell apart to a friend, I stood and read the eulogy at my mother's funeral, I held my five year old sister at the grave site, I yelled at the Pastor who told her not to tough the flowers, and I went through her stuff all without letting anyone see the pain. I was raised that we don't wear our pain out for everyone to see, so I bear it and because I do it that way it must not be that bad, I must be fine.
They bring up trying therapy again and helping me to learn how to be sick because they think I will magically open up and I won't. I write...that is my coping skill and I also sing and love music and playing with my son. I have been in and out of therapy for years and never accomplished a damn thing because I can't trust anyone like that. I recovered from my anorexia, bulimia, self harm and suicidal ideations without therapy...I did it with people I cared about and I focused on God. If anything I would rather talk to someone from the Church because my biggest issue with being sick is my fear. I want so badly for people to see the real me and stop making assumptions...I hid the fact that I was starving and cutting myself for almost two years before anyone found out nor did anyone know what was happening in my house every night. I came to school and I smiled, and I practiced my craft. I am coping with all of this without reverting to older behaviors. Am I ok...not really, but I know I'm not okay and I know when I need to stop and breathe. I am scared and I feel so alone all the time because I feel like no one understands, which I don't know why I would because we all have our own bodies and we can't understand how another one feels.
I'm sure this entry has been spastic and not the usual Butterfly Den that you usually find and I promise I won't do this often. Things have just been overwhelming lately and I had to post something in the present.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Waking Up
*For a long time I wondered if I would share this on an open social media site because I know that parts of it may be triggering, but suicide rates are heartbreakingly high, and I needed to share my story to show that there is hope, hope even after you've attempted suicide.I have been in that darkest hour and I am here to say that I am so blessed and happy to have lived through my suicide attempt, and my heart hurts for those who were successful. If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or any thoughts of hurting yourself there is help out there. Please feel free to reach out to me and I will help guide you into finding suicide help lines and even doctors who can help you. I promise you there is no shame in surviving, not shame in getting help*
I was twenty three years old, when I looked in the mirror I saw a broken girl who could never be fixed. My arms were covered in cuts, each time deeper and deeper gathering the courage to make the pain stop. I had been trapped in my anorexia and self harm since I was fifteen with no hope that I could ever break free, my life had gone from bad to rock bottom in a matter of two years. I lost my innocence to a guy I thought I could trust and a few months later my mom died. My life had become nothing but starving, cutting, and swallowing pills that some crack pot psychiatrist wrote for me. I was done, to be honest I didn't just think I was broken, you can put broken back together, when I looked at me I was shattered and when something shatters you simply throw it away.
Now let me tell you that I tried with everything in me to reach out for help before I turned to ending my life. I went to the psych ER at our local hospital and some doctor sat me down in a room and began asking me questions. I told him that I had lost my mom to alcoholism, I was raped, and I couldn't beat the anorexia, couldn't put down the razor blades. He asked me what my plan was, and in no bs words I told him that I was going to crush up my many meds, put them down my tube, and then I was going to take a blade to my wrists. I thought for sure he would help me, they would keep me from harming myself, but he looked at my paperwork and then at me. He had the nerve to ask me about the tube in my abdomen, the tube that was the only way I could get nutrition because of the gastroparesis, and he told me that I couldn't come into mental health services because with a tube the other residents might try to pull it out and hurt me thinking I was some sort of robot or something. Here I was telling this man that I was going to hurt myself and the only thing he could tell me was to come back if the feelings got worse. In my mind I wasn't even good enough to get help from the hospital so I went home.
I got home and it was like I was walking around out of my body, I knew I had to get the pain to stop. I wasn't trying to hurt the people who still cared about me, to be honest I thought I was doing them a favor. They would no longer have to worry about me, stress over why I didn't eat, why I cut, why I wouldn't leave the house...they could finally move on with their lives. I wasn't trying to be selfish, in my sick brain I was being selfless. It was almost like an outer body experience as I watched my own hands empty pill after pill until warm water. I watched as they melted into nothing, ready for a syringe that I used to pull up all those meds. I opened the tube, and I remember seeing the blood on my wrist from where I had cut trying to gather up the courage to finish what I had started. Almost like watching someone else gather up all those meds in that syringe I watched as I placed the syringe into the port of my tube that would send these meds into my small intestine where they would absorb in a matter of minutes with no way of getting them out. I was scared, but I thought this is what I had deserved after all the pain I caused my family and friends, after letting down my God.
My mind raced as the meds began to take hold, I was scared and yet convinced that I somehow deserved what I was doing, I would face God and whatever punishment he gave me I knew that I wholeheartedly deserved...I was dirty, cut up, starved, wasting every talent, every gift He had ever given me. I was throwing it all away. As the fog began to take hold I felt myself drifting to sleep never expecting to see another sunrise or disappoint anyone ever again. But, I forget something through all of this...God is a powerful being and He knew that my time wasn't over, that shattered girl I thought I was was a lie. I had been sinful, I had been hurt, I had lost, but I wasn't shattered there was a purpose for this girl slipping away alone in her room.
As I felt myself drift off I knew I would never see the sun shine again...I was wrong. A wonderful friend txted me at some point through all of this and I guess I just wasn't able to return a coherent sentence and she became increasingly worried. She rushed home and burst through my apartment, she has told me later what she found. I was laying in bed cold and immoible, whatever incoherent things I managed to get out as she smacked me and screamed at me to wake up showed that I was pretty much gone at that point. She did what any friend or decent person would have done despite knowing I might be angry at her, she dialed 911 and with in ten minutes I had a room full of EMTs and Firemen. I vaguely remember anything about that, they were yelling at me and at each other saying they had to hurry.
I came to a little bit in the ambulance when the EMT flat out smacked me in the face. He was stern and yelling and only now I understand he was trying to save my life. My blood pressure was dangerously low and my lack of veins was making it impossible for them to get a good line in me. When I would pass back out I would stop breathing, one of the only clear memories I have of that night is the EMT grabbing my face and screaming at me. I heard him, a man who had never met me and had no reason to care whether I lived or die scream, "BREATHE ANDREA! I am going to put a tube down your throat if you don't look at me, if you close your eyes one more time that is it...you are not meant to go out this way kid"!
The next time I manage to open my eyes I'm in a trauma room with docs and nurses everywhere discussing what they were going to do. I had put the meds in my tube and they weren't sure what to do at that point. I had somehow clear headed enough to tell them they couldn't put an NG down my nose because of the partial gastrectomy. The doctor that saved my life was late to the trauma room party, he was an ICU doc and when he walked in that room everything went quite. He walked up to me laying there barely able to follow the conversation or keep my eyes open and got in my face and his words somehow cut through the fog and the drugs that were trying to keep me out of it. He grabbed my head until I was able to look at his face and began to speak, "Andrea, you are going to stop breathing, I can promise you that. We are going up to the ICU right now and I am going to be there when it happens. I will not let you go even if it means I have to breathe for you...you are waking up in the morning"! My moment of clarity was gone and I honestly can't tell you much about what happened after that.
I opened my eyes the next morning laying in the intensive care unit listening to the beeping of all the monitors and noticing the oxygen mask on my face which I immediately tried to pull off and a nurse immediately put back on. It was my first day of a ten day hospital stay where I fought the docs and nurses tooth and nail who were trying to help me. I was refusing to let them tube feed me because I wasn't tolerating feeds. I was moved to a sitter room where I wasn't even allowed to get out of bed the first two days to walk to the bathroom. They fought with me and took the toxic level of meds that the crazy psychiatrist had given me. Since I was already very sick with gastroparesis and couldn't eat food I was not allowed in any of the mental health units or programs to help me so they worked with me in the hospital.
I left the hospital not much changed than I had when I took all those meds, the seed had been planted in my heart and my head that maybe I had something to fight for. Don't think I'm saying things changed overnight because they didn't. It was the beginning of a very long battle that at some points I thought I wouldn't win and didn't want to win. I was still running to cutting every night, it was the only way to quiet the screaming in my head, the only way I could get all those feelings that were consuming me to disappear for awhile. It was around that time that I meant Josh and he immediately did what so many had done in the past...he cared, he wanted to help, and I couldn't let myself trust him to be different than the ones before.
I was destroying myself, had a whole new batch of meds from that wonderful psychiatrist and was overusing the to escape my life. On July Fourth I locked myself in the bedroom, the screaming wouldn't stop I had to do it and before I knew it there was blood all over the bed and instead of freaking out I simply just lay there staring at this. I guess Josh had come home at some point during all of this and the person who was living there was just sitting at the computer doing whatever. Josh's first thought was me and why I was missing from the equation. The other one looked at Josh and said, "the door was locked I guess she wanted to be alone". That didn't sit well with Josh so he broke in and found me laying there with blood all over the bed that showed little signs of stopping on its own anytime soon. He made sure I went to the ER to get stitched up and the proper infection protocols and from that moment on he became my bodyguard, my caregiver, and the man I loved.
It was a long rocky way to pull myself out of where I had ended up. I still wouldn't eat if left to my own choice, razor blades and all sharp objects were kept away from my reach, and the death cocktail I was on was locked in a box to which Josh had the key. Each day I would have a meltdown and want to quit, beg for more meds, for a razor, anything to make it stop. He helped me, never saying he was done or walking away with his hands up. Slowly my head began to clear and I began to see what I had done, what I had almost succeeded in doing. I tried to give up on my life before I even began to try to live, i believed the lies in my head that said no one could ever love me, God couldn't want me like this. I was so incredibly wrong about so many things.
I tried to commit suicide, for a long time I tried to hide behind the accidental overdose more for my own naivety than others. But, I can say it now...I tried to kill myself, I thought there was no way I could face another day of this pain, that there was no way out, I was shattered and doing the world a favor and I was wrong. I survived for a reason...I survived to recovery from my demons, to meet the man that will be my husband, to be come a mommy to a beautiful little boy, and to help others who feel like they have no way out, who are lost in eating disorders, self harm, depression, addiction, and feel like this world would be better off without them because no one really cares.
Suicide is no the way out, giving up is never the way to go because there isn't a thing that you can't overcome. You are not damaged no matter what has happened to you. A man took from me what I refused to give him and that doesn't make me shameful or dirty it makes me a survivor and not willing to let him have that control over me, that fear that he hoped to plant inside me forever, it was not my fault and that has taken a long time to accept. We all have it in us to survive and when you think you are alone and there is no one that could possibly understand you or what you've been through I promise you there is. I fall on my knees and I thank God for saving this soul that I was so willing to throw away. I know you are probably thinking I'm going to go on a Jesus freak rant, but I'm not. I know for a fact deep in my heart that He was there that night because I woke up the next morning.
There is nothing we can't face if we aren't forced to stand alone. I know people have hurt you and most of the time they haven't meant to. It is hard to watch someone fall further and further away and you can't bring them back. I promise you help is there, and there are people ready to open their arms to you and love you no matter how damaged or shattered you think you are. We are losing so many young people everyday because they feel so alone, people make them feel worthless and say things that crack them even more, but I promise you that you are the worthless they say you are, you are so much more and you have purpose. Please reach out because not everyone has the luck to wake up that next morning and it breaks my heart to think that was the only solution they could find to the problem.
Please don't give up, I've been rock bottom and I've climbed out of it and it wasn't easy by any means but it is so very worth it. My demons still live in my head and some days they try to find their way to the surface and I've learned that I am stronger than them, I am a survivor and you can be to...don't give up because you are never too damaged to be repaired and you deserve the chance to see what life has in store for you if you just keep fighting the clouds will part and it will get easy to see the sun.
Today I am a survivor, and I work very hard in my recovery. There are days that I want to starve, days I want to cut, but I know where those things get me, and it just isn't worth it anymore. You are worth so much more than your addictions, and your life is precious no matter what you have been through God loves you and there are people out there that will love you, please don't give up.
I was twenty three years old, when I looked in the mirror I saw a broken girl who could never be fixed. My arms were covered in cuts, each time deeper and deeper gathering the courage to make the pain stop. I had been trapped in my anorexia and self harm since I was fifteen with no hope that I could ever break free, my life had gone from bad to rock bottom in a matter of two years. I lost my innocence to a guy I thought I could trust and a few months later my mom died. My life had become nothing but starving, cutting, and swallowing pills that some crack pot psychiatrist wrote for me. I was done, to be honest I didn't just think I was broken, you can put broken back together, when I looked at me I was shattered and when something shatters you simply throw it away.
Now let me tell you that I tried with everything in me to reach out for help before I turned to ending my life. I went to the psych ER at our local hospital and some doctor sat me down in a room and began asking me questions. I told him that I had lost my mom to alcoholism, I was raped, and I couldn't beat the anorexia, couldn't put down the razor blades. He asked me what my plan was, and in no bs words I told him that I was going to crush up my many meds, put them down my tube, and then I was going to take a blade to my wrists. I thought for sure he would help me, they would keep me from harming myself, but he looked at my paperwork and then at me. He had the nerve to ask me about the tube in my abdomen, the tube that was the only way I could get nutrition because of the gastroparesis, and he told me that I couldn't come into mental health services because with a tube the other residents might try to pull it out and hurt me thinking I was some sort of robot or something. Here I was telling this man that I was going to hurt myself and the only thing he could tell me was to come back if the feelings got worse. In my mind I wasn't even good enough to get help from the hospital so I went home.
I got home and it was like I was walking around out of my body, I knew I had to get the pain to stop. I wasn't trying to hurt the people who still cared about me, to be honest I thought I was doing them a favor. They would no longer have to worry about me, stress over why I didn't eat, why I cut, why I wouldn't leave the house...they could finally move on with their lives. I wasn't trying to be selfish, in my sick brain I was being selfless. It was almost like an outer body experience as I watched my own hands empty pill after pill until warm water. I watched as they melted into nothing, ready for a syringe that I used to pull up all those meds. I opened the tube, and I remember seeing the blood on my wrist from where I had cut trying to gather up the courage to finish what I had started. Almost like watching someone else gather up all those meds in that syringe I watched as I placed the syringe into the port of my tube that would send these meds into my small intestine where they would absorb in a matter of minutes with no way of getting them out. I was scared, but I thought this is what I had deserved after all the pain I caused my family and friends, after letting down my God.
My mind raced as the meds began to take hold, I was scared and yet convinced that I somehow deserved what I was doing, I would face God and whatever punishment he gave me I knew that I wholeheartedly deserved...I was dirty, cut up, starved, wasting every talent, every gift He had ever given me. I was throwing it all away. As the fog began to take hold I felt myself drifting to sleep never expecting to see another sunrise or disappoint anyone ever again. But, I forget something through all of this...God is a powerful being and He knew that my time wasn't over, that shattered girl I thought I was was a lie. I had been sinful, I had been hurt, I had lost, but I wasn't shattered there was a purpose for this girl slipping away alone in her room.
As I felt myself drift off I knew I would never see the sun shine again...I was wrong. A wonderful friend txted me at some point through all of this and I guess I just wasn't able to return a coherent sentence and she became increasingly worried. She rushed home and burst through my apartment, she has told me later what she found. I was laying in bed cold and immoible, whatever incoherent things I managed to get out as she smacked me and screamed at me to wake up showed that I was pretty much gone at that point. She did what any friend or decent person would have done despite knowing I might be angry at her, she dialed 911 and with in ten minutes I had a room full of EMTs and Firemen. I vaguely remember anything about that, they were yelling at me and at each other saying they had to hurry.
I came to a little bit in the ambulance when the EMT flat out smacked me in the face. He was stern and yelling and only now I understand he was trying to save my life. My blood pressure was dangerously low and my lack of veins was making it impossible for them to get a good line in me. When I would pass back out I would stop breathing, one of the only clear memories I have of that night is the EMT grabbing my face and screaming at me. I heard him, a man who had never met me and had no reason to care whether I lived or die scream, "BREATHE ANDREA! I am going to put a tube down your throat if you don't look at me, if you close your eyes one more time that is it...you are not meant to go out this way kid"!
The next time I manage to open my eyes I'm in a trauma room with docs and nurses everywhere discussing what they were going to do. I had put the meds in my tube and they weren't sure what to do at that point. I had somehow clear headed enough to tell them they couldn't put an NG down my nose because of the partial gastrectomy. The doctor that saved my life was late to the trauma room party, he was an ICU doc and when he walked in that room everything went quite. He walked up to me laying there barely able to follow the conversation or keep my eyes open and got in my face and his words somehow cut through the fog and the drugs that were trying to keep me out of it. He grabbed my head until I was able to look at his face and began to speak, "Andrea, you are going to stop breathing, I can promise you that. We are going up to the ICU right now and I am going to be there when it happens. I will not let you go even if it means I have to breathe for you...you are waking up in the morning"! My moment of clarity was gone and I honestly can't tell you much about what happened after that.
I opened my eyes the next morning laying in the intensive care unit listening to the beeping of all the monitors and noticing the oxygen mask on my face which I immediately tried to pull off and a nurse immediately put back on. It was my first day of a ten day hospital stay where I fought the docs and nurses tooth and nail who were trying to help me. I was refusing to let them tube feed me because I wasn't tolerating feeds. I was moved to a sitter room where I wasn't even allowed to get out of bed the first two days to walk to the bathroom. They fought with me and took the toxic level of meds that the crazy psychiatrist had given me. Since I was already very sick with gastroparesis and couldn't eat food I was not allowed in any of the mental health units or programs to help me so they worked with me in the hospital.
I left the hospital not much changed than I had when I took all those meds, the seed had been planted in my heart and my head that maybe I had something to fight for. Don't think I'm saying things changed overnight because they didn't. It was the beginning of a very long battle that at some points I thought I wouldn't win and didn't want to win. I was still running to cutting every night, it was the only way to quiet the screaming in my head, the only way I could get all those feelings that were consuming me to disappear for awhile. It was around that time that I meant Josh and he immediately did what so many had done in the past...he cared, he wanted to help, and I couldn't let myself trust him to be different than the ones before.
I was destroying myself, had a whole new batch of meds from that wonderful psychiatrist and was overusing the to escape my life. On July Fourth I locked myself in the bedroom, the screaming wouldn't stop I had to do it and before I knew it there was blood all over the bed and instead of freaking out I simply just lay there staring at this. I guess Josh had come home at some point during all of this and the person who was living there was just sitting at the computer doing whatever. Josh's first thought was me and why I was missing from the equation. The other one looked at Josh and said, "the door was locked I guess she wanted to be alone". That didn't sit well with Josh so he broke in and found me laying there with blood all over the bed that showed little signs of stopping on its own anytime soon. He made sure I went to the ER to get stitched up and the proper infection protocols and from that moment on he became my bodyguard, my caregiver, and the man I loved.
It was a long rocky way to pull myself out of where I had ended up. I still wouldn't eat if left to my own choice, razor blades and all sharp objects were kept away from my reach, and the death cocktail I was on was locked in a box to which Josh had the key. Each day I would have a meltdown and want to quit, beg for more meds, for a razor, anything to make it stop. He helped me, never saying he was done or walking away with his hands up. Slowly my head began to clear and I began to see what I had done, what I had almost succeeded in doing. I tried to give up on my life before I even began to try to live, i believed the lies in my head that said no one could ever love me, God couldn't want me like this. I was so incredibly wrong about so many things.
I tried to commit suicide, for a long time I tried to hide behind the accidental overdose more for my own naivety than others. But, I can say it now...I tried to kill myself, I thought there was no way I could face another day of this pain, that there was no way out, I was shattered and doing the world a favor and I was wrong. I survived for a reason...I survived to recovery from my demons, to meet the man that will be my husband, to be come a mommy to a beautiful little boy, and to help others who feel like they have no way out, who are lost in eating disorders, self harm, depression, addiction, and feel like this world would be better off without them because no one really cares.
Suicide is no the way out, giving up is never the way to go because there isn't a thing that you can't overcome. You are not damaged no matter what has happened to you. A man took from me what I refused to give him and that doesn't make me shameful or dirty it makes me a survivor and not willing to let him have that control over me, that fear that he hoped to plant inside me forever, it was not my fault and that has taken a long time to accept. We all have it in us to survive and when you think you are alone and there is no one that could possibly understand you or what you've been through I promise you there is. I fall on my knees and I thank God for saving this soul that I was so willing to throw away. I know you are probably thinking I'm going to go on a Jesus freak rant, but I'm not. I know for a fact deep in my heart that He was there that night because I woke up the next morning.
There is nothing we can't face if we aren't forced to stand alone. I know people have hurt you and most of the time they haven't meant to. It is hard to watch someone fall further and further away and you can't bring them back. I promise you help is there, and there are people ready to open their arms to you and love you no matter how damaged or shattered you think you are. We are losing so many young people everyday because they feel so alone, people make them feel worthless and say things that crack them even more, but I promise you that you are the worthless they say you are, you are so much more and you have purpose. Please reach out because not everyone has the luck to wake up that next morning and it breaks my heart to think that was the only solution they could find to the problem.
Please don't give up, I've been rock bottom and I've climbed out of it and it wasn't easy by any means but it is so very worth it. My demons still live in my head and some days they try to find their way to the surface and I've learned that I am stronger than them, I am a survivor and you can be to...don't give up because you are never too damaged to be repaired and you deserve the chance to see what life has in store for you if you just keep fighting the clouds will part and it will get easy to see the sun.
Today I am a survivor, and I work very hard in my recovery. There are days that I want to starve, days I want to cut, but I know where those things get me, and it just isn't worth it anymore. You are worth so much more than your addictions, and your life is precious no matter what you have been through God loves you and there are people out there that will love you, please don't give up.
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