Tag: essay

The Me I Know- pt. 2

leannaemgeeLeave a comment

There’s the me I try to be; the good friend, the kind daughter, the responsible sibling, the honest citizen.

Then there’s the me I know.

There’s the me inside my head. The me who doesn’t always want to live. The me who flakes on her friends. The me who drinks to escape. Bisexual me. The depressed me. The anxious me. The suicidal me. The introverted me. The self-harming me. The me who needs to be in control. The me who lives in the past. The incomplete me. The me who lies.

I live a different life than the me inside my head does. I see me when I can’t get out of bed, when I can’t make myself shower for a week; the me who can’t bear to wash the dishes. I see me when I pull away from my friends and avoid making plans. I see me when I isolate myself from people who care about me because I feel unworthy. I see me when I reach out to people because I feel like I’ll fade away without the attention. I see me when I skip meals and when I binge eat. I see me when I’m having a panic attack. I see me failing. I see me fading away. I see myself judging others. I see myself drowning.

I see the child me who just wanted to be loved. I see the kid me trying to compromise with divorced parents. I see the young me who raised her siblings. I see the teenage me who just wanted to fit in. I see the adult me who kept trying to die. I see the naïve me who was raped at 19. I see student me who failed classes because I couldn’t get out of bed. I see me now, still trying to referee my family and putting myself in the middle. I see the me who can’t fit into any of my clothes anymore.

I see the me who desperately wants to connect with others but who spends my life hiding from others.

The me who just wants somebody to see me, while hoping nobody actually sees me.

Nobody else sees the me that I know.

Hope this finds you well,

-L

What Self-Harm Was To Me

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*trigger warnings: self-harm, blood, graphic-ish description, depression, anxiety

 

 

I have come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter if I can never comfortably wear bikini bottoms or short shorts ever again. My right thigh is crisscrossed in thin white lines, yes, the cliché term applies to me. Some are pink and are quite prominent but most are fine and white; some have even almost disappeared but the more you look, the more you see.

I started self-harming when I started university and began my journey towards my nursing degree. It felt like my anxiety and depression were overwhelming me; like someone was sitting on my chest all the time. I was thinking of 60 thoughts per second but couldn’t hold onto one long enough to finish thinking it or to process it; much like I imagine a swarm of bees trapped in my head would feel like- just as busy and chaotic, and as loud.

I have been on Tumblr for a long time and have seen post after post of self-harm and cutting and all of which that entails. So I used my tweezers to take apart a disposable razor. Since I was in nursing school, I took alcohol swabs and cleaned the blade, washed my hands, and cleaned my leg as well. I put on some music that fit my mood, psyched myself up, and made the first cut.

The first slice was like taking a deep breath of fresh air. Finally. All my swirling thoughts went quiet and my focus narrowed down to just the task at hand. The cut was timid and shallow and ironically, I knew I could do better. I continued to make thin, precise, red lines in columns down my thigh.

The preparation and organization, the neat and clean end result, and the endorphins are what drew me to this to settle my mind. It felt like I had been searching for something to bring me calm and I finally found it, here, in my bedroom with bloody kleenexes and sad music. It provided me with a feeling of clarity like I had never felt before.

The subsequent days, when the marks were fresh, I did not have to make more because just pressing on them was enough to keep the buzz and the noise of my own thoughts at bay.

The feeling of being in complete control was intoxicating. I have had many instances of not being in control in my life and this felt like I could reclaim pieces of myself and like I could be an overcomer instead. Nothing else in the world mattered outside of these lines, my steady hand, clarity, and control.

I never self-harmed to try and end my life, those were different actions entirely. This was all about control for me. It was all about chasing the feeling of finally being able to breathe again. I was never angry, it was never an action of self-hatred, and I never went deeper than what would cause a small scar: one thin, inch-long mark at a time.

Some people drink, others use substances, some use sex, others use therapy, some can use avoidance. I used self-harm to cope. When I was restless or overwhelmed or stressed or any similar feeling, I knew I could find a moment all to myself and it would lead me to peace… as peaceful as deliberately cutting into your own skin for endorphins can be.

I suffered from insomnia and nightmares almost every night and rarely slept for more than 3-4 hours, usually from 3 or 4am to 7am; once I knew that dawn was coming soon and there was a chance for me to be safe when I woke up. The nights after self-harming I was also able to sleep, to truly rest. It was an escape in more ways than one.

The morning after self-harming, I always did it at night, I did feel guilty and shameful. Obviously, as a healthcare provider and as an adult, I knew better. I knew all about alternate coping methods. I knew behaviours that could replace self-harm. I could tell you all about self-care and harm reduction. The guilt and shame and the knowledge were never strong enough to outweigh the freedom and peace I was finding.

Gradually, it went from days between each column, then to weeks, soon to months. Now it has been close to a year since I last made any cuts. I went to therapy every week for months, and then every other week. It has been one year and five months since I started going to free counselling offered at my university. I found a family doctor I trusted and a medication that works for me. I have a best friend who will do anything for me and I for her. For the first time that I can remember I feel in control of my own life, my own choices, and my own thoughts. My mental health has actually done a complete 180 degree turn and has stayed that way. There are consistently more good days than bad days. It has been more than a year since I last attempted suicide. It gets better. I never thought I’d be able to say those words and I find myself planning for a future that I never planned on having.

It gets better.

 

If you or someone you know needs support right now, there is help available.

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Crisis Services Canada

 

Hope this finds you well,

-L

 

We Don’t Know Each Other Anymore

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I fell in love when I was sixteen. It wasn’t the fleeting, teenage romance as depicted in novels and biopics, but the love of two souls who found contentment with each other; the deep, forever kind of love.

He was a hardworking farmboy- blonde hair, blue eyes, dimples, and enduring kindness. He was strong and steady but a worrier at the same time; somehow spontaneous but organized. A walking contradiction of sorts, if you will.

He made me feel as though the stars in his sky shone only for me. The first time we watched a movie together, he cried when he was leaving because he didn’t want to go. Our connection was instantaneous and it swept us away.

We spent all the minutes together that we possibly could. We talked, laughed, and cried together. We felt we could only be our true selves when we were together, and still to this day, I maintain that there’s nobody who knows me better even though many years have passed.

We grew up together but sooner than we wanted, the growing led to hurdles that turned into us growing apart. Distance played a part in this; I went to university and he stayed home to work. The difference in trajectories was our downfall.

Tenacious and stubborn as we were, we kept being drawn back together as if we couldn’t help ourselves. We didn’t know how to be apart. Though technically not together, we talked every day and spent time together every chance we had.

We shared our exciting news with each other first. We held each other and cried thinking of the other loving someone else. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other or that we weren’t together, we just weren’t in love with each other anymore.

We didn’t date. We didn’t put the effort in. We just expected it to be how it always was. We relied on magic and circumstances. We pretended as long as we could. The spark wasn’t there. The care was, the passion was, the butterflies weren’t.

We finally dated other people. We asked each other for opinions and advice the entire time and the day we were single, we got together again. It was as if we were magnets.

Every time we were together, we entered this bubble that made it seem as if time stood still. We were still sixteen or seventeen, life hadn’t gotten in the way, and we were still invincible. We knew how the other would react, we knew what would get a reaction, we knew how to make each other laugh.

Deeper than that, we knew what the other needed to hear, we knew how to comfort and how to hold each other, we knew when to lighten the mood, and when to get the sparks flying. We calmed that piece inside of us that was unsettled everytime we were apart.

That bubble had a reverent kind of stillness in it, as if we could be two puzzle pieces that when coming together, shut out the rest of the world. With each other, we were no longer cynical young adults, we weren’t broke, we weren’t hurting, we weren’t worried. Together we could feel safe, loved, free, and relaxed.

Even after we no longer spent time together, receiving a text from him would bring a sense that all was right in the world. Every time a text was answered with what I knew he would say and with what he knew I needed to hear, that bubble surrounded my heart. I could hear the same thing from someone ten times over, or from ten different people, and it still wouldn’t resonate the same as it did when he said it.

Now that we’re living two very different stories after having promised each other forever, I can’t help but miss the timeless feeling I had when we were together. That feeling alone is enough to make me miss him, but do I miss him? Do I miss the bubble? Or do I miss the him that was in our bubble?

We aren’t the same people anymore and that has been one of the hardest truths to realize. We didn’t get to grow into the people we are today together. We don’t know each other anymore, and that phrase will never get any easier to say.

He’s married now and I’ve switched careers. I’m outspoken now in a way I never used to be. I’ve travelled across the country, and he’s travelled across the world. I drive the same car but I don’t wear his ring anymore. Some things remain unchanged, and some things will never be how they were.

We were never perfect, no matter how we might have thought we were. Rose-coloured glasses do exist and through them is how I see much of our tumultuous relationship. We didn’t have it all figured out and we weren’t as invincible as love had led us to believe.

He knows me in that immortal bubble, from 16-year-old me to 21-year-old me. I know that 16-year-old him loved the colour red and that 18-year-old him had a scar on his back from where his brother threw fencing pliers at him and that 21-year-old him worried about the debt he went into to buy farm machinery.

The challenge was getting to know me and getting to be content outside of that bubble, knowing I couldn’t step back inside to put all the pieces of me together again. I needed to find new glue and to find other things that soothe those pieces of my soul.

I’m blonde now, and my favourite colour is no longer blue. I don’t wear the same kind of deodorant and I’ve moved away from my sheltered and naive life. I’ve lost myself and found myself again.

The timing wasn’t right, we were too young, or the fates had other futures planned for us. Whichever reason you’d like to use is probably true. Now, I doubt we’d even find that same contentment if we were together. If we sat down to have a real conversation, I doubt we’d come away with that same sense of timelessness.

That bubble still exits somewhere, and in it, my stars still shine for him. I do believe that we still love each other, even if it is a different kind of love than the one we needed to be together. It’s more of a fondness for what we had together and an eternal wish that the other is happy and that their family stays healthy. We don’t know each other anymore, but now we don’t need to.

 

Hope this finds you well,

-L