I've had something on my heart lately, and I haven't been sure how to express it. I talk about this topic sometimes, but I haven't done a post strictly on it this deeply.
About six and a half years ago I can remember my world falling apart, I felt broken, dirty, ashamed, and so much more than I can put into words. I was 21 years old standing in the yard of a Women's Shelter hiding from the guy who at the time I thought took everything away from me. I was starved, bloody, and felt like I could never overcome this...never get over what happened to me. I was on the phone with probably my best friend and I remember him listening to me telling me that it wasn't my fault, but there is one thing that sticks out about that conversation. After I was raging and pouring out hatred on this man he told me, "Andrea, you have to learn how to forgive him".
Needless to say that conversation ended abruptly with me yelling back about not having to forgive this monster, he took from me what was mine to give away...he didn't deserve my forgiveness, he deserved horrible things, or so I thought at the time. I held a hate for that man so far down in my heart that it was poisoning me, feeding the thoughts that already raged inside me screaming I was worthless, pathetic, damaged, and now I was a whore because this was my fault...my no wasn't enough therefore I wasn't enough. I can say now that those are all lies...I was none of those things, but I couldn't believe it and I went on starving, bleeding, and eventually trying to take my own life. I would dream about him every night and wake up screaming, my solution to that was to take an obscene amount of medication that a doctor just kept on dishing out when it was clear that I was absolutely not okay.
When I went through everything the detectives asked me to do and he admitted to what he did I thought that I would have comfort, and yet I felt like that was ripped away when a prosecutor told us in a conference that he didn't think taking it to trial was a good idea because even with the phone call confession a jury could be hung. He went on to let me know that only three percent of forcible rape cases are prosecuted because when it is done by a boyfriend or a date rape situation most of the time it becomes his word against yours and the male members of the jury sympathize. I was devastated to say the least. This guy took from me what I never told him he could have, and despite years of showers there are times when I feel like I am still unable to get clean. I cry and beg for strength to realize that I am mended, you can see my cracks, but they are holding strong with the glue the Lord has given me.
Through all of this my friend would still tell me to forgive, and I would fight that as hard as possible. I allowed the hate to take over, and in the end I wasn't even hating him I was hating me. I had let this happen...I was in the wrong, if I hadn't let him be there then it wouldn't have happened, if I had been more assertive he would have stopped, and the "ifs" just added up and piled up on my chest more and more everyday. I was afraid all the time, I would dream he was coming back, and I would relive everything, all the time hating me because I figured they didn't punish him because I was in the wrong. I didn't want to be touched, I couldn't talk about it, and I couldn't let it go. All the while my friend is whispering to me, in a very supportive way that if I could find a way to forgive him I could start to heal.
Every year on April 8th I've fallen apart in the past, every year I remembered it was the day and my whole universe was bad even after I started to recover. I remember when the statute on limitations came up on the case and I was just devastated that he was allowed to walk around and not be punished for what he took from me, for destroying me. Then last year April 8, it came and went without me even realizing. In fact, I didn't even notice until Josh told me the next day how proud of me he was that I made it through the day without falling apart or refusing to sleep...my day was not another PTSD flashback, it was just another day with the man I love and the lil man I adore more than anything in this world. It was around that time that I realized what my friend had been saying all those years, and it was time for me to begin to let it go. By not remembering the day, that was what I needed to realize that I had made it through all of that. I no longer hold hate for him, in all honesty he barely crosses my mind when I am awake, and when the nightmares are back, once I am awake and reminded that I am safe and it was a dream there is still not hate. He did what he did and I've been called by the Lord to love him, despite his sin or wickedness it is not my job to judge him or hate him. I let it go and have felt a freedom that I can't explain, it is like the poison that I was spewing on myself became weaker. Believe me I still have my moments where I am feeling worthless and damaged, but the weight of that burden, that hate isn't there anymore. Forgiveness set me free, and I pray for him that he has found his way back on a path that doesn't involve hurting others.
I know forgiveness is hard and believe me I can still catch myself holding onto things that have happened that I should let go and forgive the parties involved, and I know that it is going to take time. It has taken six years for me to get to the point to say that I have no hate in my heart towards that man, for what he took from me. I am back together now, and maybe you can see my cracks, but I feel whole. I know what it is like to want to hold onto hate, I have struggled with it recently with events in my life, but the more I clutch onto that hate and anger the more I find myself slipping away, being drowned by all of it again. I have not faced the guy during this time, and I'm not sure if I will ever see him again, but in my heart I have forgiven him for raping me physically and emotionally. I don't define myself as a victim of rape rather a survivor, I have made it to the other side and learned how to give grace so I can receive it. The situation can still sting at times, but it no longer defines me...I am no longer angry. I pray I can learn to forgive all the wrongs of my life including myself...it is a process that doesn't happen overnight, but it means something to set all of that darkness free...it takes one tear in the dark for a small ray of light to shine through and it is my intention to tear it apart one piece at a time.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Strength
What does it mean to be strong? I use to think strong meant never showing weakness, never showing pain, and never reaching out for help. Before people found out about my anorexia or self harm I thought I had this enormous amount of strength because I had found a way to handle all of my pain so that no one would ever see me cry, never see me broken, and most of all I had found a way to protect myself against the feelings of worthlessness, failure, weak, and pathetic. I was the thing that held everything together, I could stop the world from finding out about my mom's alcoholism and the bruises left on the nights when the bottle was empty, and I could be my parent's confidant, holding all of their secrets. The fact is that I was spinning out of control and I was headed for a hard crash...a crash that almost killed me.
Your senior year of high school is suppose to be awesome, the last year with your friends and favorite teachers before you are going off on different roads. I didn't make it through a month before everyone started realizing that something was wrong, I never ate, and the excuses for the cuts on my arms were obvious lies. When my secret came out people thought that it was the time I would get better, I would be strong again, but I just got better at lying. I couldn't let food inside me, I couldn't handle all the feelings I had, and I couldn't stop the bleeding no matter how much I tried I wasn't strong enough to ask for help. I thought if I smiled no one would see how much I was hurting on the inside, I couldn't be me because the real me was pathetic and worthless, deserving of all the punishment I was inflicting in the dark. I literally couldn't cry, I couldn't breathe, and the only relief was seeing my own blood hit the floor. I HATED everything about myself and I believed the lies screaming in my head that everyone else hated me too, and I had to starve and bleed because pain is the only way to perfection. Years of hospitals, tubes, IVs, heart monitors, and babysitters couldn't breakthrough the screaming in my head.
Between 2004 and 2006 I lost pretty much all of my friends, my family didn't trust me, and no one even tried to stop me from destroying myself anymore besides my doctor who had to constantly put me in the hospital and force feed me and hydrate me because even taking a drink of water was something I didn't deserve. Then in 2007 I was raped, he took from me what was suppose to be mine to give. I was ashamed and couldn't tell anyone because I knew it was my fault, at least that is what I thought. It was two weeks before I told a friend what had happened, my world was shattered, and I didn't want to live anymore. I learned while living at a Women's Shelter that only three percent of rapes are prosecuted, mine would not be one of them. The nightmares still breakthrough even now, and I think of him out there just living his life with no regard for what he did and I know that I have to forgive him, but I've yet to fully grasp how. It was only a few months after that my mom died from her alcoholism. I still couldn't cry, I still felt it was my place to be strong, to read the eulogy without tears, to hold my five year old sister's hand as they placed our mother in the ground, and to protect my grandma from my pain and secrets. All the therapy and medicine in the world wasn't saving me, just bringing more addictions. After cutting I could swallow a few pills and fall into a dreamless coma for hours and repeat the process when I needed. I don't remember most of 2008 and the first part of 2009 except for waking up in the intensive care unit after a nearly successful suicide attempt. I was nothing in my eyes, worthless and deserving of everything that happened to me. I thought by killing myself I was making it easier for everyone, and they could finally move on. That was my rock bottom, that was the moment that I learned what true strength and courage was.
I met the man who is now my husband during the darkest period of my life, and for some reason when he looked at me he didn't see this worthless, nothing I thought I was. He would tell me I was beautiful, he didn't judge the scars all over me, and he reached out for me. My whole life I had believed that reaching out to people made you weak and pathetic, and once you didn't get better immediately they gave up on you like a failed science experiment. I was tired of my life, ready to give up or get better because staying in the darkness wasn't working anymore. I very carefully took his hand and began that slow climb into the light. Everyday was a struggle and everyday I learned what true strength was. Strength isn't being perfect and never showing weakness...no one is perfect and we all have weaknesses. Strength is pulling yourself back up after you've fallen into a million different pieces. Strength is saying no to the lies in your head telling you that you aren't good enough, thin enough, or you deserve to bleed. Strength is realizing that it is okay to ask for help, and it is okay to talk about all the things you've kept pushed down so far and tried to bleed and starve away. Strength is finding your voice and using it for good. And, strength is being able to admit when we are weak.
Everyday I fight, I fight for the physical disease that is trying to destroy me, I fight back against those lies trying to breakthrough me again, and everyday I fight to help another person know that they can beat this, that they are beautiful and worthy of love and friendship, and that no one deserves to bleed, starve, purge, drink, or swallow their pain away. It isn't easy, and I won't lie and say it is because I will always fight this. I've heard others say that they are in a complete recovery and they never have any thoughts of old behaviors, well, I'm honest when I say that isn't me. I make the choice everyday to not cut and to get my nutrition, and there are days that I fall short. I've learned that that is okay and I have a new day coming. I am not ashamed of it anymore, I am not a victim, I am a survivor, and I will continue to survive whatever is thrown my way. God gave me this life, and it isn't easy, but He gave it to me because He knew I was strong enough to push through it. Believe me when I say I've doubted Him, there are days I feel like I can't make it, but minute by minute I make it through.
It is your choice...you can be strong and fight or you can fall farther into the darkness. It took me years to start fighting, to start living. When you are living your life hurting yourself and hiding who you are from the world you aren't really living, you are merely existing. Life is a gift that can be taken at any second and I want to live it no matter how much pain I have to feel because there is joy that comes with truly living. When I am facing the end of my life I want to be able to say that I fought hard and lived every moment whether they be good or bad. I promise you that you have the strength to fight, it is there you just have to stop listening to the lies in your head. Don't let anyone tell you that you are worthless because you aren't, we all have a purpose, and we are all loved by someone.
Your senior year of high school is suppose to be awesome, the last year with your friends and favorite teachers before you are going off on different roads. I didn't make it through a month before everyone started realizing that something was wrong, I never ate, and the excuses for the cuts on my arms were obvious lies. When my secret came out people thought that it was the time I would get better, I would be strong again, but I just got better at lying. I couldn't let food inside me, I couldn't handle all the feelings I had, and I couldn't stop the bleeding no matter how much I tried I wasn't strong enough to ask for help. I thought if I smiled no one would see how much I was hurting on the inside, I couldn't be me because the real me was pathetic and worthless, deserving of all the punishment I was inflicting in the dark. I literally couldn't cry, I couldn't breathe, and the only relief was seeing my own blood hit the floor. I HATED everything about myself and I believed the lies screaming in my head that everyone else hated me too, and I had to starve and bleed because pain is the only way to perfection. Years of hospitals, tubes, IVs, heart monitors, and babysitters couldn't breakthrough the screaming in my head.
Between 2004 and 2006 I lost pretty much all of my friends, my family didn't trust me, and no one even tried to stop me from destroying myself anymore besides my doctor who had to constantly put me in the hospital and force feed me and hydrate me because even taking a drink of water was something I didn't deserve. Then in 2007 I was raped, he took from me what was suppose to be mine to give. I was ashamed and couldn't tell anyone because I knew it was my fault, at least that is what I thought. It was two weeks before I told a friend what had happened, my world was shattered, and I didn't want to live anymore. I learned while living at a Women's Shelter that only three percent of rapes are prosecuted, mine would not be one of them. The nightmares still breakthrough even now, and I think of him out there just living his life with no regard for what he did and I know that I have to forgive him, but I've yet to fully grasp how. It was only a few months after that my mom died from her alcoholism. I still couldn't cry, I still felt it was my place to be strong, to read the eulogy without tears, to hold my five year old sister's hand as they placed our mother in the ground, and to protect my grandma from my pain and secrets. All the therapy and medicine in the world wasn't saving me, just bringing more addictions. After cutting I could swallow a few pills and fall into a dreamless coma for hours and repeat the process when I needed. I don't remember most of 2008 and the first part of 2009 except for waking up in the intensive care unit after a nearly successful suicide attempt. I was nothing in my eyes, worthless and deserving of everything that happened to me. I thought by killing myself I was making it easier for everyone, and they could finally move on. That was my rock bottom, that was the moment that I learned what true strength and courage was.
I met the man who is now my husband during the darkest period of my life, and for some reason when he looked at me he didn't see this worthless, nothing I thought I was. He would tell me I was beautiful, he didn't judge the scars all over me, and he reached out for me. My whole life I had believed that reaching out to people made you weak and pathetic, and once you didn't get better immediately they gave up on you like a failed science experiment. I was tired of my life, ready to give up or get better because staying in the darkness wasn't working anymore. I very carefully took his hand and began that slow climb into the light. Everyday was a struggle and everyday I learned what true strength was. Strength isn't being perfect and never showing weakness...no one is perfect and we all have weaknesses. Strength is pulling yourself back up after you've fallen into a million different pieces. Strength is saying no to the lies in your head telling you that you aren't good enough, thin enough, or you deserve to bleed. Strength is realizing that it is okay to ask for help, and it is okay to talk about all the things you've kept pushed down so far and tried to bleed and starve away. Strength is finding your voice and using it for good. And, strength is being able to admit when we are weak.
Everyday I fight, I fight for the physical disease that is trying to destroy me, I fight back against those lies trying to breakthrough me again, and everyday I fight to help another person know that they can beat this, that they are beautiful and worthy of love and friendship, and that no one deserves to bleed, starve, purge, drink, or swallow their pain away. It isn't easy, and I won't lie and say it is because I will always fight this. I've heard others say that they are in a complete recovery and they never have any thoughts of old behaviors, well, I'm honest when I say that isn't me. I make the choice everyday to not cut and to get my nutrition, and there are days that I fall short. I've learned that that is okay and I have a new day coming. I am not ashamed of it anymore, I am not a victim, I am a survivor, and I will continue to survive whatever is thrown my way. God gave me this life, and it isn't easy, but He gave it to me because He knew I was strong enough to push through it. Believe me when I say I've doubted Him, there are days I feel like I can't make it, but minute by minute I make it through.
It is your choice...you can be strong and fight or you can fall farther into the darkness. It took me years to start fighting, to start living. When you are living your life hurting yourself and hiding who you are from the world you aren't really living, you are merely existing. Life is a gift that can be taken at any second and I want to live it no matter how much pain I have to feel because there is joy that comes with truly living. When I am facing the end of my life I want to be able to say that I fought hard and lived every moment whether they be good or bad. I promise you that you have the strength to fight, it is there you just have to stop listening to the lies in your head. Don't let anyone tell you that you are worthless because you aren't, we all have a purpose, and we are all loved by someone.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
I lay here in this hospital bed feeling chained down by all the tubes and the wires watching the white fluid that will be my savior and possibly my killer drip into my chest, and though I smile I want to cry and run out of this hospital never looking back. I do my best to focus on the fight, telling myself to smile, keep my sense of humor, and stay positive. There is no point living in fear or throwing pity parties crying, "Why me" into my puke bucket, not to say I haven't had those moments because there have been plenty. I have just learned that focusing on the fight is way more productive than focusing on dying and the fears that come along with it.
I can't hide it tonight though, I am not as strong as people give me credit for, and this is one of those times it has all come to a point. I keep smiling at the doctors and nurses all the while my thoughts are racing, despite a very high dose of dilaudid sleep comes in short spurts. I should be relieved that I am finally getting TPN, that I will no longer be starving, I will slowly get my strength back, the doctors have opened their eyes to the severity of the situation, and in all honesty, I'm terrified. I know the risks of having a central line, how dangerous infections can be, the risk of blood clots, and many more risks that are neatly listen in a little pamphlet you get when they place the line, and TPN causes all of these risks to increase. I am not naïve to the fact that infection is the downfall of many who have lost their lives with this disease...central line infections, and I've already had five.
GI has declared me surgical, there is nothing they can do from their side anymore. We attempted a last shot medication last night that didn't even make it to a second dose after making me very sick and causing my blood pressure to bottom out. It isn't as if I expected the medication to be that helpful, it was a long shot from the beginning, but hearing GI service declare they had no recommendations hit me harder than I thought. I am now dependent on IV nutrition until transplant time comes.
From now on we will be on heightened alert for infection, we watched closely before as we were instructed to do when dealing with a central line, but now the danger goes up. TPN is like food for the bacteria once it enters the blood stream and often causes it to back up in the heart, which can cause endocarditis (can be fatal). Sepsis can turn fatal at any point for anyone, especially someone who is already in a weakened state. I can still picture the doctors back in May standing at the end of my bed telling me that my fever was still there and my blood pressure was beginning to fall. They informed me that if things didn't get better I would be taken to the intensive care unit where there was a possibility I could stop breathing or worse. I was blessed that the medicine started to work, I remained on the step down unit where ICU patients generally go after they improve, the unit makes sure nurses have a smaller patient volume...more attention to give to their patients. After two weeks I wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair that was to become mine since my strength was pretty much gone, I had a brand new line, and had to continue to run IV antibiotics and antifungal medicine at home. I have friends that have never left the hospital after the kind of infection I had, they lost their battle, and it scares the hell out of me.
I know that I probably won't live to see my son get married and have grandchildren to love on, but I won't give up the fight to see as much of his life as possible. I'm lucky to have each day, but I'm scared. I am twenty seven years old and I would be lying if I said that I am at peace with dying because I have every intention to fight for my life...if the Lord wants me He is going to have me kicking and screaming the whole way. People think I'm strong, but I wrote this to say that I'm really not. I am doing my best to survive and I'm a fighter, but I have my weak moments. When you are fighting a disease like this it isn't about doing things that you want to do, I do it because I have to so I can survive and increase my quality of life. I pray everyday for my friends who deal with the same stuff I do everyday while fighting this monstrous illness, praying we find a cure.
When I started this blog I was not having an easy time, struggling not to fall into the fear, and then the door opened with my nurse bouncing into the room. I decided to take a break, which turned out to be very revealing and helpful. She asked me questions not only about my past of anorexia but also about the gastroparesis and intestinal failure. She admitted that she knew very little about gastroparesis and was more than interested in hearing me explain my experiences along with talking about my fellow GP sisters and brothers. It was that conversation that renewed my fight, not only my own fight, but a fight to raise awareness so no more of my friends die because of this disease and lack of treatment options. There is so much research done when it comes to cancer and other well known diseases, and with the research comes the awareness...cancer walks, fundraisers, and much more done in the name of raising money for research. Do you the colors we use for Awareness of Digestive Tract Paralysis? Everyone knows what the color pink stands for along with red...breast cancer and AIDS awareness. We have to do better, we have to work together to get the word out. Research means a chance for us, a chance for young mothers to see their babies grow up, kids and teens who suffer from DTP to enjoy school, go to college, and for all of us to live a life free of hospital beds and pain. I won't give up, I won't let this disease win, I will smile when I want to cry, when they tell me I can't I will show them I can, and I will fight for those who can no longer fight for themselves. This blog started with me feeling depressed and defeated, and it will end with my spark being renewed, refusing to give up.
I can't hide it tonight though, I am not as strong as people give me credit for, and this is one of those times it has all come to a point. I keep smiling at the doctors and nurses all the while my thoughts are racing, despite a very high dose of dilaudid sleep comes in short spurts. I should be relieved that I am finally getting TPN, that I will no longer be starving, I will slowly get my strength back, the doctors have opened their eyes to the severity of the situation, and in all honesty, I'm terrified. I know the risks of having a central line, how dangerous infections can be, the risk of blood clots, and many more risks that are neatly listen in a little pamphlet you get when they place the line, and TPN causes all of these risks to increase. I am not naïve to the fact that infection is the downfall of many who have lost their lives with this disease...central line infections, and I've already had five.
GI has declared me surgical, there is nothing they can do from their side anymore. We attempted a last shot medication last night that didn't even make it to a second dose after making me very sick and causing my blood pressure to bottom out. It isn't as if I expected the medication to be that helpful, it was a long shot from the beginning, but hearing GI service declare they had no recommendations hit me harder than I thought. I am now dependent on IV nutrition until transplant time comes.
From now on we will be on heightened alert for infection, we watched closely before as we were instructed to do when dealing with a central line, but now the danger goes up. TPN is like food for the bacteria once it enters the blood stream and often causes it to back up in the heart, which can cause endocarditis (can be fatal). Sepsis can turn fatal at any point for anyone, especially someone who is already in a weakened state. I can still picture the doctors back in May standing at the end of my bed telling me that my fever was still there and my blood pressure was beginning to fall. They informed me that if things didn't get better I would be taken to the intensive care unit where there was a possibility I could stop breathing or worse. I was blessed that the medicine started to work, I remained on the step down unit where ICU patients generally go after they improve, the unit makes sure nurses have a smaller patient volume...more attention to give to their patients. After two weeks I wheeled out of the hospital in a wheelchair that was to become mine since my strength was pretty much gone, I had a brand new line, and had to continue to run IV antibiotics and antifungal medicine at home. I have friends that have never left the hospital after the kind of infection I had, they lost their battle, and it scares the hell out of me.
I know that I probably won't live to see my son get married and have grandchildren to love on, but I won't give up the fight to see as much of his life as possible. I'm lucky to have each day, but I'm scared. I am twenty seven years old and I would be lying if I said that I am at peace with dying because I have every intention to fight for my life...if the Lord wants me He is going to have me kicking and screaming the whole way. People think I'm strong, but I wrote this to say that I'm really not. I am doing my best to survive and I'm a fighter, but I have my weak moments. When you are fighting a disease like this it isn't about doing things that you want to do, I do it because I have to so I can survive and increase my quality of life. I pray everyday for my friends who deal with the same stuff I do everyday while fighting this monstrous illness, praying we find a cure.
When I started this blog I was not having an easy time, struggling not to fall into the fear, and then the door opened with my nurse bouncing into the room. I decided to take a break, which turned out to be very revealing and helpful. She asked me questions not only about my past of anorexia but also about the gastroparesis and intestinal failure. She admitted that she knew very little about gastroparesis and was more than interested in hearing me explain my experiences along with talking about my fellow GP sisters and brothers. It was that conversation that renewed my fight, not only my own fight, but a fight to raise awareness so no more of my friends die because of this disease and lack of treatment options. There is so much research done when it comes to cancer and other well known diseases, and with the research comes the awareness...cancer walks, fundraisers, and much more done in the name of raising money for research. Do you the colors we use for Awareness of Digestive Tract Paralysis? Everyone knows what the color pink stands for along with red...breast cancer and AIDS awareness. We have to do better, we have to work together to get the word out. Research means a chance for us, a chance for young mothers to see their babies grow up, kids and teens who suffer from DTP to enjoy school, go to college, and for all of us to live a life free of hospital beds and pain. I won't give up, I won't let this disease win, I will smile when I want to cry, when they tell me I can't I will show them I can, and I will fight for those who can no longer fight for themselves. This blog started with me feeling depressed and defeated, and it will end with my spark being renewed, refusing to give up.
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