Dipping Below the Norm

I have actually wanted to write for awhile. Crazy things keep happening and I want to tell someone about them, but I don’t know who to tell. So I think, “oh, I’ll write about it on my blog.” But then I just don’t.
I had one day at work that was absolutely insane. Well first of all, in the morning on this day, I had determined that I only had 3 shifts left to work with my favorite co-worker, (let’s call her Jen because I’m sick of writing out “my favorite co-worker”) She told me early that morning that she was not going anymore. She went to visit the city where her new job would be, and hated it. She said there is no way she could live there, so there was no way she could take that job. It was the happiest I had felt in almost a month. Later that morning, the telemetry (heart monitoring) machine alarmed at the nurse’s station. I was the first one to look at it, and it was showing v-fib for a patient. V-fib is absolutely not compatible with life. The memory trick they taught us in nursing school was “v-fib, defib” (like get the defibrillator and shock them). I reacted immediately. I ripped the strip off the printer before it was even done printing and grabbed Jen, (because it was her patient,) who happened to be at the nurses station, too. I rushed by her, holding the strip up for her to see and said “this is your patient.” We both went running into the room. The lady was sitting in her recliner chair with her eyes rolling back in her head and her dentures falling down in her mouth. The adrenaline surged and we did not stop to think about anything. I snatched the dentures out of her mouth (with no gloves on…) so she wouldn’t choke on them. Then the two of us somehow easily lifted this lady out of her recliner chair and back in bed. I’ve heard that adrenaline can give people strength that they don’t normally have, but I had never experienced it before. The lady was a lot bigger than me. I only weigh 103 lbs right now. Jen ran around to the other side of the bed and slammed the code blue button on the wall. We rolled her over and got the board under her. Jen started CPR and then everyone was showing up. The resource nurse, our charge nurse, the nursing supervisor, the intensivest, every other nurse from our unit, someone brought the crash cart… it got crazy. Eventually I wasn’t helping anymore, but I was trapped in a back corner of the room watching and trying to stay out of the way. After only a couple rounds of compressions, Jen holds up her hands and says “wait wait! Stop…. she’s DNR.”  And it was like someone letting the air out of a tire. They all took their hands off, everyone just sort of froze and watched. The lady was dead. People started leaving and just Jen and I and one other nurse remained. We turned the bright lights off and closed her eyes and fixed up her blankets over her so she looked like she was peacefully sleeping. Jen felt awful. “This is exactly what she didn’t want.”
Later that day, APS had to get involved for spousal abuse. A patient confided in her nurse about the things her husband did. It was a sad situation. The husband ended up visiting later and we had to call security.
Also that day, One of my patients was in his mid-twenties with a suspected eating disorder. It rattles me a lot to have patients with ED’s. It has only happened one other time, but I was really messed up about it for almost a month. Especially because both of the patients I have had with it have been my age within a couple months.
After all of those dramatic things going on in just one shift, we were all sitting at the nurses station 30 min before change of shift, so ready to leave, and one nurse asked another sweet, shy nurse how she got the scars on her chest. We had all seen them, but nobody had ever asked. You just don’t ask about stuff like that.  None of us were prepared for what she said: She was involved in a shooting at her school. Her ex-boyfriend shot and killed her best friend and then shot her in the leg, shoulder, and finally the face before killing himself. She said the bullet went in her mouth and came out her neck. Hearing her tell the story with all the details was amazing and unbelievable at the same time. What is more amazing is that she told it like it happened 20 years ago, when really it was only 2 years ago. I finally got home that night with my mind absolutely reeling after all of the events from the day.

Maybe it was the patient with the eating disorder that triggered me like last time, but since that day I have had way more trouble with food. Taken in ~600 calories from food and drink every day the past 3 days (and burned 1500.) Way below my norm. I have a Fitbit with heart rate tracking. If you don’t know what it is, it is like an exercise watch that counts your steps, calories burned, stairs climbed, distance, and mine also does continuous heart rate monitoring. My resting heart rate is usually 70-72. But when I’m having issues it dips a little lower, usually bottoming around 62 before I recover. Well right now it is lower than it has ever been. Bradycardia is the term for slow heart rate, and the general definition is less than 60 beats per minute is bradycardia. Over 100 is tachycardia, or fast heart rate. When our patients are on the tele monitor, we keep an eye on heart rate. Mine got so low last night that if I were my own patient, I would have paged the doctor. I got down to 44 bpm. I felt hypoglycemic at bed time, and I was scared I would crash in my sleep and not wake up so I ate half a Hersheys bar before bed. I slept for almost 10 hours. Woke up feeling like I’m dying. I forced down some food, although I am at the point now where I am legitimately not hungry and food makes me nauseous. But I forced some down because my heart was pounding, my chest hurt, my head was spinning and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get up if I waited too long… I’m worried. But not because I’m at a dangerous crossroads here. I am worried that I’m not worried about what I am doing to myself. I’m worried that something will happen to me and my daughter will witness it and be scarred for life. As a nurse, I know exactly what I’m doing to myself, and I know that it is very dangerous. I keep counting calories, trying to take in as few as possible, and then thinking “what am I doing? What do I have to prove?” It makes no sense. While it has never been a body image issue, I am getting more and more obsessive about it. I never used to count calories. I never used to stand in the mirror like I did last night and try to see how skinny I look from every angle. Not because I am fat. Not because I think I am fat. Not because I want to lose weight per se, but there is satisfaction in seeing my bones through my skin. I ate about an hour ago, and also drank a nutrition shake with vitamins and stuff. I feel full, but my body doesn’t feel better. I am still in a fog, I get dizzy if I turn my head too fast or stand up, my muscles ache and my chest still hurts a little. At least, however, my heart rate is now 72. Where it should be.

I tried to make a doctor appointment to get back on meds. I did not want to say that it was urgent, though, so I just asked for “a physical” and they did not have any openings until a week into October. That is way too far away. If I can get my courage up I may call today to see if they have any cancellations for today or tomorrow. I need to do something. Since dying is absolutely not an option, I need to be functional. I need to be healthy. I have to stay here for my babygirl. On her first day of school, she came out to meet me and held up a picture she drew: two stick people with wild hair and big smiles on their faces. “It is me and you, mommy!”

I have to call the doctor again. I have to get better. I owe it to her. I have been dipping below my norm for way too long now. It’s time to fight back.

Meh

Have felt too crappy to write lately. Not sure yet if it even helps. 

I withdrew from the class I started 2 weeks ago. Thats basically $800 down the drain because I can’t function. I tried. I couldn’t do my homework. I just could not function.

I scraped someone’s car in the parking lot at work a couple days ago. I did the decent thing and left a note. My insurance company called me later to get details. I’ve never been in an accident before, even something that small. Ugh. Figures.

I haven’t been sleeping well. I have never had a problem sleeping before, even in my worst episodes. But this past week or 2 I have had a real problem. 

I have been getting dizzy a lot. Especially at work. Dizzy and heart palpitations and increased heart rate, sometimes sweating for no reason… That first day I assumed it was low blood sugar- its not. I’m convinced it is all psychosomatic. It got to the point where my closest coworker told me I needed to go to the doctor.

I have a counselor appointment this week. I haven’t been in months. But… I think it’s neccesary. I can’t remember the last time I felt this bad for this long.

Hypoglycemia

It was a strange day at work. I overslept a little this morning and was within a few minutes of being late to work. I felt a little “off” but that is nothing unusual. I was hungry by lunch time, so I went to the cafeteria and bought “real” food. Like chicken and rice, carrots, spinach. I ate maybe 1/3 of it, but it was still a lot. In the afternoon I started getting dizzy when I would get up too fast… also not unusual for me. But it didn’t go away. Eventually, I was dizzy just sitting in a chair at the nurse’s station. I got anxious and sweaty, and coworkers started asking if I was okay. My favorite coworker was there today. She took one look at me and said “your blood sugar is low.” And held out the container of grapes that she was snacking on. I thought for a second, and realized she was exactly right. Struggling with an eating disorder, I know that feeling well. It didn’t even click, though, since I had just had a good lunch a few hours before.  It made no sense for me to be hypoglycemic. I reluctantly nibbled some of her grapes.

I love that feeling. It is awful, and not pleasant at all. You get dizzy and shaky, your head pounds and heart pounds, you breathe faster, your brain goes into panic mode and you start sweating. Eventually getting tingly and numb and crying from the anxiety. It is awful, but for whatever reason, I enjoy it.

My friend gave me the rest of her grapes and kept checking up on me the rest of the evening. I had gotten pretty bad before I got some sugar in me, so, pretty much all the other nurses knew I was not feeling right.

I have thought about hypoglycemia before, like in a suicidal sense. Not all that recently, but I definitely realized one day how easy it would be to go that way. Draw up some insulin from the med room and inject it into myself. A little shaky and sweaty and anxious, then, lights out. It’s awful, I know. I feel awkward even admitting that it has crossed my mind. Thankfully, ever since my daughter has been alive, I have never thought about suicide like that, because no matter what happens, I’m not leaving her. If anything ever happened to her, though… I don’t think I’d recover. But I’m not going to think about that!

I have been doing well with eating lately. But after that crash today, it makes me want to crash again. It is strange, too…. I have tried to research it a little bit: why did I get hypoglycemic when I had just eaten? That has definitely never happened to me before. I wonder if the back and forth eating patterns I have are damaging my pancreas or something. Meh.

Anyways. Just felt the need to write about my day. Strangely, I’m still dizzy, even though I just had dinner 10 minutes ago. Maybe something else is going on. I guess we’ll see. 

Oh life.

Friends and how they deal with mental issues

It’s funny how anxiety and depression go so… “nicely”… together. Like one is the perfect compliment to the other. I was doing fine today and then hit an anxiety wall, and now I feel crappy. 

My favorite co-worker told me that she got a job at another hospital and is putting in her notice tomorrow. I am happy for her, I really am. But I’m really sad for me. I’m a people person. I find my person or my people and I get attached. I get really attached. I can’t help it!! I know because I’ve tried not to. I eventually realized that it was too miserable keeping my distance from everyone, and it allows my issues to fester and consume me. But then there is this other side of things. This side where I get so attached to another that it feels like breathing to be with them. Days I work with this friend are good days. Even if they’re bad, she makes me happy. She gives me pep talks and hugs if I need them. She knows about these issues I have. And now she’s leaving. And I find I’m very very upset about it.

There is something crazy about me- something that other people find apalling. Maybe it is the way my attachments turn needy when I’m not feeling well. Or maybe it is just the knowledge that I am attached and it scares them. Or maybe it is something else entirley. Among the last 3 people I’ve felt attached to: one told me recently that she “doesn’t care for that side of me” and tries to stay distant when I’m struggling. Ouch. One blatantly said that she does not want me discussing food, weight, calories, or cutting with her in any capacity, because that would be crossing a boundary. Ouch again. And, my personal favorite, the friend who shut me out, unfriended me on Facebook, and blocked my phone number and email address. That was 1.5 years ago and I’m still “ouching” from it. Because she was my best friend at the time, and I still care about her a lot.

These are not awful or mean people! They are good people, they are nice people. So it leaves me with: what the hell is wrong with me?! How could I possibly be that awful to cause these things? I know that I can be annoying, and I can be hard to deal with when I’m in a depressed puddle on the floor whining about something dumb. I guess it makes sense…. it is exhausting taking care of someone like that. Especially all the time. And I would definitely rather them be honest with me than just ignoring it to spare my feelings. But it still sucks. A lot. 

Anyways. So after my coworker told me she will be leaving, I got online to skim through job postings for the hospital I want to work at. My current commute is 35-50 minutes each way. There is a hospital 3 minutes from my house. That is where I’ve had my sights set since before I became a nurse. I found they have an opening in the department and for the hours I want. I wrestled with it for awhile. Should I? No… everyone is leaving my unit, I should wait awhile. But it isn’t about them, I need to do it! But I’m not ready for another big change right now… But this is what I’ve always wanted! Finally, after a pep talk from my coworker, I put in the application. It took all afternoon because I didn’t have an updated resume and stuff. And when I clicked submit, a wave of nausea washed over me, like, what am I doing?! I woke up like it was any other day and by afternoon I had submitted a job application. I’ve felt weird ever since. Can’t focus. Anxious. Nauseous. I want to hurt myself, too. Been wrestling with that now for an hour or so. I’m so on edge and I’m not sure what else would help… Besides maybe a Xanax or some Ativan, neither of which I happen to have.

Here is the other kicker: the friend who shut me out of her life? She works at the hospital I applied to. And my application has nothing to do with her. We both used to talk about wanting to work there after we graduated. She just got there before I did. (No surprise there, she was always one step ahead of the rest of us.) I’m wondering if some of this anxiety is because of that. Like, it is not a huge hospital. I’m sure I’ll run into her. What will she say or do when it happens? Will she think I’m following her? Will she think I’m that crazy? It doesn’t matter. And I’m sure it will be civilized, but knowing me, seeing her again would make me fall apart. We shared everything- we were best friends for almost 2 years. And it was mutual- I swear it was mutual! She invited me over to hang out, we studied together, watched movies, ate together, our kids played together, she told me little known things about her, I knew her struggles like she knew mine… we did everything together for awhile. Then she snapped because I was too clingy. I didn’t even see it coming! Just, boom, “I do not have the time for the kind of friendship you are looking for…” 

I keep telling myself how stupid this is!! Who cares?! It is just some person who I don’t need in my life! Some person who really wasn’t all that good for me in the first place. Some person flawed and scarred and struggling like the rest of us…. but damn I loved her. Or, love her. Present tense. It kills me that I don’t know how she is doing. I so badly want to tell her that I’m different now, that I’m better. Which is partly true.  But really, I can act, and I can be whoever I need to be. I would be whoever I need to be to have her back in my life. I could easily never talk about my issues and just go with the flow and we could still be friends. I mean, that is how it goes with my favorite coworker who is leaving. She is the one who said we can’t discuss my issues. I was having a really awful day at work several weeks ago, was not eating, and was obviously upset, and she obviously picked up on it. But she didn’t ask and I didn’t tell. It bothered me a little. But I respected the line she drew and in a couple days I was okay again, without talking to her.

So I guess this blog is my new soundboard for the craziness since I don’t feel like I can talk to my best friends about it directly anymore. I like being anonymous, but even if I get found out and a ton of people who know me read this… oh well. This is who I am. Maybe it would just be better to get it all out there. Take it or leave it. I am taking steps all the time to make myself healthier. I have frequent episodes of depression lulls and anxiety, but ultimately I am heading in the healthier direction. 

Does anyone else have similar stories of close friends who can’t deal or are frustrated with your mental issues? What did you do about it? Did you find a mutual agreement of some kind?

Fleeting

Life is fleeting. I know that is really cliche and poetic or whatever. But, really. Life is fleeting.

My best friend texted me tonight and said “when you have a minute, I really need to tell you something.” Great. That is the kind of message that makes awful scenarios scroll through your brain rapidfire.

At work recently, I had a tough situation unfold: I was about to get report on a new patient from the offgoing nurse. Literally about 3 minutes before starting report… the patient died. The heart monitor showed the final heart beats followed by the flat line. The patient was old, but it was still fairly unexpected for the family. A family member had just arrived shortly before the death. I had to go into the room with the nurse who was leaving to introduce myself as the nurse who was coming on. Imagine your family member has just died about 10 minutes ago, and then a new nurse comes on. Really really bad timing. And awkward. “Nice to meet you… I’m sorry for your loss….” err…. meanwhile it now falls on me to finish the death paperwork, tag the body, bag the body, and take it to the morgue once the family member had some time in the room. Awesome. I just love that part of my job.

That same day, my co-worker was up for the next admission. A fairly young person with pancreatitis (aka alcohol withdrawal.) We get that fairly often on my floor, although any time we get a patient less that 60 years old, it is a surprise. The patient got to the floor and my coworker immediately paged the doctor. She told me “this patient is not appropriate for this floor, they are too sick.” She called a rapid response on the recommendation of the doctor, so that the team could come quickly and evaluate the situation. The patient was transferred to the ICU shortly after that.

My co-worker told me the next day that the patient had died. The young person who drank too much. Died. It is common, you hear about these things on the news and stuff: Car accidents, alcohol or drug induced comas or death, shootings and stabbings and abuse…..But it is a lot different when you’re seeing it firsthand.

My best friend texted me that she really needed to tell me something, and I started worrying. Is someone hurt? Is someone dead? Are you okay?!

She finally called me. One of her other best friends’ mother was hit by a car as a pedestrian coming home from work. She did not make it. Our friend is only 20. It was just a normal day for her, but then her mom went to work…. and never came home. She lost her mom in an instant. 

As a nurse, it is not uncommon for me to deal with death. I mean, these were pretty vague stories, and I have many similar ones. They could be anyone. I have had patients die. I have had young patients who were very sick or very hurt and who I knew would never be the same. I have had patients with amputated limbs or paralysis from a stroke. I take care of abuse victims and trauma victims. I see a lot. 

Sometimes, (and I wish this were the case more often,) it really makes me take a freeze-frame of my life and step back a little bit. I have a good life. I know that. It makes me feel unworthy of my depression sometimes, like, I have nothing to be depressed about. (And believe me, I have heard that one a lot…) But what I wish more people understood is that depression is a physical thing. You aren’t exempt from diabetes because you have a “good life,” and the same is true for depression, or any mental illness for that matter.

But sometimes these situations really make me think about all of that. When I’m 75, if I live that long, and my kidneys are failing becase I spent my youth being chronically dehydrated and malnourished, what will that be like? If I’m 60 and have skin cancer from the repetetive damage I’ve done to my skin, what will that be like? When my body begins failing me earlier than it should because of things I’ve done to myself, how much more awful will that be? I wish I could be healthy right now so that I could be healthier when I’m older. The body remembers.

So… protect what you have been given. Even when you don’t want to. Put down that cigarette. Put down the booze. Stop eating fast food 5 times a week. Get more sleep. Find a cause that you’re passionate about, and chase it. Find out how you can help, and then dive in. It will make you stronger, and it will make you healthier. I am passionate about donating blood and helping people with mental illnesses. Those are my two big things. And chasing those things are helping to make me healthier and stronger. Don’t just be anybody, be somebody.

I hope this is an encouragement to someone out there. These things are important, because, to quote To Write Love On Her Arms:

 “no one can play your part.”

Count your Blessings

Now that I am 2 days into this and learning a little more about this whole new world that is the blogosphere, I have come to some conclusions:

I thought this would be a great place to get out my feelings, which it is. But, I am realizing it is a LOT more than that. This is a place where I have a voice and can actually tell people something worth reading. So, I feel obligated to make it something worth reading. Sure, I know that reading about other people’s struggles can be helpful, but sometimes it is more important to read about the good- to hear something happy. And, I think it is also really important to talk about the good and the happy. I don’t really do that. Not on here, and not with my friends… I’m just not a happy person. I complain too much. I have made the decision that, no matter how long and awful and depressed my posts need to be, no matter how terrible I feel, I will end my posts with something happy. I will count my blessings. It will serve to remind me that even when I didn’t care about him at all, God has ALWAYS been looking out for me.

I’m writing this after a piña colada, so if I sound a little wonky, well, that’s probably why. It is so rare that I drink, and being 105 lbs, it doesn’t take much to make me wonky. I think the last time was about 2 months ago, and I just poured some wine in my apple juice after work. I’m so exciting, guys. Anyways…

I went to work today. I woke up feeling awful, like I do almost every morning. When I have to get up for work at 5:00 I just want to cry. Every time. Sometimes I do. I know not wanting to get up that early is pretty normal, but sometimes it is really bad. I was actually almost late to work today because I left at 6:17am instead of 6:00, which is a HUGE no-no as far as getting stuck in traffic. Somehow, the traffic wasn’t that bad today despite it being a Wednesday. Counting my blessings. I parked at work at 6:53 with 7 minutes left to walk into the hospital and get to my floor on time.

I tried hard to do my weekly homework last night and had zero motivation and could not concentrate, so I gave up. It isn’t due until Thursday at midnight, but I knew that I had to work today and tomorrow, so I knew it was a poor decision to put it off because then I would have to do it after a 12-hr shift. Well, thankfully it was my turn to be cancelled today and since another nurse came in at 3, I got to go home. It is amazing the difference working a 9-hr day instead of a 12 makes. I had time to get gas, go to the grocery store, take a shower, eat dinner, and finish my homework before 9, which is usually about when I’m getting out of the shower straight from work. Nice. Definitely a blessing today. Some days it is a blessing to even accomplish those every day tasks. I’m so thankful that today they were not mountains to climb, but just everyday tasks.

My final blessing for the day is simply this: I’m okay. I feel like I got through that last episode. The thought of eating doesn’t make me anxious anymore, and I have no desire to hurt myself. I am okay. I am okay. And I pray that all of you are okay today, too. Find something good, anything. Something tiny, and remind yourself that there is good. There will be better days.

Also, I want to thank all of you for the likes, comments, and followers that I’ve gotten over the past 2 days. I think it is really cool to be able to share my life with you. There is something beautiful in the anonymity of all this, knowing that no matter who we are, we all share the common threads of humanity, and we can all be supportive to each other. 🙂

A history of my self-injury and eating disorer

Today has been a pretty low-key day for me, which is always welcome because it does NOT happen very often. My best friend spent the night at my house last night. And, as always, we accidentally stayed up until 4am talking and laughing. We did some cleaning and laundry around my house in the morning, and then we went out shopping with her mom. At one point, we were standing in line for Chipotle and her mom says: “I know you have always been thin, but have you lost MORE weight??” I just kind of blinked at her for a second, unsure how to answer. (Yes. but I don’t want to freak you out. But I don’t want to lie, either…) So I said something like “Oh, um, I don’t know. Oh actually yes, I think I have, because I don’t drink the Amish market chocolate milk anymore.” She looked at me funny. I didn’t lie, though. When I lived with my parents, my mom would go to the Amish market every week and get me several pint-sized chocolate milks. They were something like 420 calories in each pint. I moved into my own place in June, (which has been quite an adjustment for me,) and I don’t shop at the Amish market anymore- it is a little too far out of my way. I have been trying to find a suitable chocolate milk to replace what I have been missing, but nothing is the same. And nothing is anywhere near as many calories. There were some days that would be my sustenance for the whole day.

In high school I was 110 lbs. In college and nursing school, when the patterns of my eating disorder got worse, I was hardly ever more than 107, and sometimes got as low as 100 if I had an especially long “episode.” I feel I should define my “eating disorder” a little bit: I have done a lot of research on depression, self-injury, and eating disorders. And I discovered that there really isn’t a name for mine. (For you psychology people, I would have an ED NOS). For you non-psychology people, that means eating disorder not otherwise specified. It means it doesn’t fit into any mold. It is not anorexia. It is not bulimia. It is not any of the other lesser known disorders. The best conclusion that I have come up with is that it is a control mechanism. My mother was very controlling and dictating when I was a child. I had no control over anything, and eating was never exactly a happy thing. I was forced to sit at the table until I finished everything on my plate. I had to have some of everything that was cooked, although I could put less on my plate if it was something I didn’t like. But there was absolutely NO wasting food. And there was no leaving the table until it was gone. Control. I remember days sitting at the table alone as the sun set outside the window, making up silent games to play by myself without leaving the table. Eventually I got brave and started sneaking to the trashcan with my plate and moving some stuff aside to dump the rest of my food into the trash, then put the other trash back on top so that I wouldn’t get found out.

I never had a body image issue growing up. I have been small my entire life- short and skinny. The eating disorder began to arise in high school, and I’m not sure what caused it other than a combination of lack of appetite and the need to control SOMETHING in my life. My mom stopped packing my school lunches in about 5th grade, expecting that I was old enough to make my own sandwiches and stuff, which I was. But I loved sleep too much and hated to get up. I would never get up early enough to pack lunch. So, starting in 6th grade, I would often skip lunch. I would eat a quick bowl of cereal before school and a snack when I got home and then dinner, which I may or may not have liked and may have had to sit at the table all night to finish. When I was in 7th grade is really when the depression started, although I had no idea at the time. It was very mild for several years, not really interrupting my daily life. Then in high school, I wouldn’t regularly eat breakfast or lunch. I would snack at school sometimes and again when I got home. Most of the friends I had made in middle school had chosen to go to a different high school than me, and I didn’t have many friends. I was shy anyways, and then add on being a self-conscious 14 year old in a crown of other young teenagers who already knew each other, and making friends was a little more difficult. I would spend my lunch time in my favorite teacher’s room. I considered her my best friend. As the year went on and the depression road got a little more worn-in, I would start sleeping at lunch. The summer between 9th and 10th grade is when I cut for the first time. July 27th, 2005. I was very aware of that fact several weeks ago on July 27th, because it marked a decade since that struggle began. I have made well over 1000 cuts all over my body since then, from my neck to my ankles. When I first started, I would only cut my wrists.  I only have a handful of pictures of any cuts, mainly because I was always terrified that if I took them, someone would discover them. But I do have this one from the summer of 2013- which was only 2 years ago. These scars were several weeks old at this point, and hardly visible, but then I went to the beach, and after tanning for awhile, they really stood out. Right there on my thigh for anyone to see. It seemed so striking to me like a neon sign saying “HEY LOOK AT ME, I CUT MYSELF” that I just had to take a picture to see if looking at it from a different viewpoint would make it less noticeable. It didn’t.

After the summer between 9th and 10th grade, I went back to school having the new heavy burden that is the secret of self-injury. The depression got a lot worse. Hiding, withdrawing, covering up, and lying became more commonplace because of the cutting. I had no friends. And I was unapproachable. I had my head down on my backpack either crying or sleeping every chance I got, and I didn’t speak to anyone unless I had to. I remember in class one time having to talk to someone and the person sitting next to them looked at me with wide eyes and said “you CAN talk!” For awhile, I cut every night. I didn’t eat very much, but only because I had no appetite and I was already in the habit of skipping meals. There is a long story involving my teacher friend finding out about the cutting, getting the guidance counselor involved, who got my mom involved. I’m not getting into that story tonight (maybe in another post,) but the outcome of that story was that nobody trusted me and my mom was disgusted by what I was doing. But then nobody ever followed up after completely rocking my world exposing my secret. Nobody asked how I was, the counselor didn’t call me back to the office to check my body for scars. My mom made no other mention of it. It was ignored by everyone who had found out. Nothing. Not that I wanted them to say or so anything, but it still made me furious. Probably because part of me knew I needed help, and they were supposed to be helping me, not ignoring me. If my guidance counselor and my mom wouldn’t help me, how would I ever get help. I had gone on a cutting fast for about a week for fear of someone checking up, but I still remember that moment that it hit me like a lightning bolt: they weren’t going to check up. Nobody was going to check on me. Not the counselor, not my mom.  Nobody. That night I bypassed my wrists and slashed a 2-3 inch cut across the front of my shoulder out spite. And I remember it feeling so good. From then on I went after my shoulders, hips, and thighs. I started cutting more because I wasn’t so scared of someone seeing them on my arms anymore. I could make them longer and deeper, so I did. I made sure they were always in discreet places, because I wasn’t one of those people doing it for attention. I was doing it for me. I was doing it for my mental sanity.

The eating didn’t become more of an issue until 11th grade. That was the first time I starved myself on purpose. January 10-12th. It is interesting the things you remember. I didn’t eat or drink anything for almost two days. As I neared the 2-day mark, I could hardly stand. I was so thirsty. A little hungry, but mostly just so thirsty. There was part of me that liked that feeling. Like finally my body was reflecting how my mind always felt: like giving up. Eventually I gave in and guzzled some water. But that started what slowly evolved into a strange, uncommon form of eating disorder.
I struggled with cutting every day until some time in college. I had made a new friend who I became very close to. She took care of me in a way nobody else ever did. She was not angry or disgusted when I cut. She did not shame me or turn away or avoid the topic. I would come to her and she would clean and bandage my wounds. I stopped cutting for her. And I stopped for months. It has always been a struggle, but ever since making that friend, it has never been a daily struggle again. The food issues got worse in college, though. I would go a whole day or two without eating anything, sometimes a week on only a handful of foods and my chocolate milks. I came minutes from passing out from hypoglycemia on a friend’s floor when we were in nursing school. I came to love and crave the crash- that dizzy feeling that I was going to collapse. The dull headache, heart pounding, palms sweating, breath quickening, hands and feet tingling… I still crave it sometimes. It sounds so crazy, and I know that many people think it is crazy. But anyone who has been there understands. There are a lot of reasons and there are a lot of theories, and there are a lot of people who can’t explain it, even when they are part of it. I can’t explain it, either.
Sometimes I wonder if this will be something I deal with for the rest of my life. I know that I have come so far and I have become so healthy compared to how I used to be. My eating habits need some work, and once every couple months, I may make a few desperate cuts on my thigh if things get too overwhelming. But that is a far cry from cutting every night and falling apart on a friend’s floor after starving for days. A lot of that I owe to my daughter. She needs me. She saves my life all of the time. Where suicide used to feel like a feasible option, now it is just a fleeting, occasional thought. Because I could never leave her. She is my world. She needs me. And she is the only person who thinks I am the greatest person in the world. There is a lot to be said for that.
Well, that is a decent summary I guess. I didn’t know what I was even going to write about tonight, but I really wanted to write something. I’m feeling a little down tonight since I have to work the next 3 days in a row (12-hr shifts and I live 45 min from my job.) Also, I felt there wasn’t a good description of who I am and what I deal with since I only briefly mentioned it on the “about me” page. I really wish that I could make all this public on Facebook. Like that I could just put it out there to everyone I know: this is who I was, this is who I am, this is what I deal with. Every day that goes by makes me feel more strongly that it is an important thing to do. I am strongly against the stigma associated with mental illnesses, knowing that the best way to break down the walls is to talk about them, and I can’t even be honest with everyone about myself. I keep feeling like, oh, when I can beat these issues and when I’m over cutting and starving myself, I will talk about it more openly. But… no. What good is that? That leaves me to suffer silently for the entire time I am trying to beat it, if I ever do. And it may prevent me from connecting with someone else who is struggling with the same thing who may not be as ready as I am to make it public. I really feel like God wants me to talk about this, and not anonymously like I am now. I wouldn’t have any of the things that I do if it weren’t for God’s provision. Even though I was not seeking or spending time with Him for most of the past decade, He is still so involved. I am still His child, and nothing can change that. Not even myself.

Thank you for reading.

First post

Hey there.

So, I’ve never had a blog before. Actually, I have sort of scoffed at the idea of blogging. I have spent many years journaling on my own, though. Like with pen-and-paper. I’ve filled up 17 notebooks since I was a teenager, but fell away from it in nursing school because frankly I didn’t have the time or desire to do more writing than I was already doing. However, around that time I started composing long emails to my closest friends, especially when I was struggling. It achieved the same purpose, really. I stopped journaling, so I needed to get out my thoughts in another way. I have caused a lot of stress on friends and even caused some friendships to be completely broken by becoming too attached and writing too much.

I have decided to start blogging partly based on a recommendation from my counselor several months ago, and partly because I know that for my own mental health I need to talk some things out. Since I hate causing an undue burden on my friends and I still don’t have much of a desire to journal anymore, this is my next adventure. I’m hoping to attract people who are similar to me in their thoughts or experiences. I hope to serve as an encouragement to other people struggling with the things I struggle with, to remind them- you- that we are not alone in how we feel, and that there is hope.