Standing

I was on the couch, half-way between lying down and sitting up. I didn't even have the strength to hug my knees to try to protect myself against this unwelcome bombardment of memories. My whole body was tense, and I willed it move.
My room.
I tried to move, but this request to get up and walk ten feet to my room was too large to squeeze through the suffocating mass of flash backs.
I didn't move. I felt paralyzed. Even my lungs didn't cooperate. I couldn't breathe. The only thing that could move at all was my head, and only barely. My jaw was tight, but my mouth managed to open, and I tried to scream...but my lungs...
I couldn't breathe. My vocal chords were clenched together, and refused to move. So my mouth was left wrenched open, and I couldn't make myself close it despite the apparent lack of noise.
Still, the air seemed disquieted. I could almost see the shockwaves my pain had caused.
My room. I tried the request again. If someone walked into my apartment right now...what would they think? Insane. Unstable. Dangerous. Crazy. Run.
I'd seen these conclusions drawn too many times to think that anything else would happen.
My room! I wanted to scream. I could close the door in my room. I just had to get past the threshold...but I couldn't even get off the couch.
My lungs burned. If I had just inhaled smoke for three hours I would have been able to breathe better. At least my lungs would have attempted to contract.
I finally managed to inhale a short gasp of air, and a sob escaped from my vocal chords. I started to retch, and my stomach heaved with an emptiness that I didn't find very different than my life.
I collapsed further into the couch, and my fist went into my mouth to stop the sounds. I didn't want to scare any of my neighbors. I didn't want them to hear me scream.
I felt my teeth graze a knuckle on my right hand, and my mind registered pain and small release of blood.
I froze again, a now-natural response to my own blood. I couldn't afford let any more out. I couldn't start that addictive cycle again.
My hand and arm shook as I slowly forced my hand away from my teeth. The tremor moved down my right side and spread to the rest of my body, and I shook on the couch. I tried to curl up into the fetal position, to get some comfort from my own body, but my agony ripped my body apart from itself. I felt too exposed, and even though I was fully clothed, I felt naked. Anyone could hurt me while I was this incapacitated.
I looked at my right hand and saw a small pool of blood.
Danger.
Unstable.
Insane.
I wrenched my neck and buried my head into the couch. I let the upholstery absorb the sound of my sobs and screams. Tears chased each other down my cheeks as memory after memory rushed into my mind.
My mind isn't safe. 
Walls. 
Get her out...
Strapped down, paralyzed, electrocuted...
It's okay.
He loved me once. 
Why did he lie?
Swallow the pills
No, doesn't matter
Why did he do that
She isn't real anymore, she can't
You're okay
Mind is safe
Block her out
Get away
Blood on my hand
Wire in my hand
More blood
Get out
Sick
They have her, they're tackling her, she's screaming
Crazy
Why did he
Insane
STOP
What happened 
How could he try to 
He didn't ever care
STOP
But the way he used to look at me
STOP
I don't want to hurt anymore, make it
STOP

I closed my eyes against the agony and let the tears run their course. I screamed into the couch and tried to make my mind retreat somewhere else.
But my delusional mind had other ideas, and I found my path of escape blocked by myself.
I tried to move past this strange vision of me, and I felt anger erupt inside of me, and the anger turned into more pain. I felt all the walls of protection I ever created crumble, and I cried out.
"It's okay to cry," the blockade-self said to me, and she seemed sad and resigned.
I looked up, but she was gone. I looked down and saw smoking ruins. Some old rocks smoldered, orange and red embers still engulfing whatever it was.
I looked closer, and recognized the ruins.
My life. Crumbled into this.
The vision shifted and I saw myself standing in the middle of my wrecked life, and I felt a strange sense of hope.
I saw that I was still standing.

My eyes opened, and my sobs slowed, stopped. I felt my body start to relax, and I didn't fight the tears that kept up their race.
"It's okay to cry." My voice was hoarse.
I leaned back against the couch, and marveled at how wet it was from my tears.
I didn't want to move any more. So tired.
I stayed on the couch, exhausted and vulnerable, for several minutes.
The Iron Man theme music started playing from my phone, and I glanced down at the floor by the couch, and saw my brother's picture bouncing on the screen.
I saw his face, and saw how happy he was. His profile picture was of him and his new wife.
I somehow found the strength to move, and I picked up my phone.
"Are you alright?" my brother asked.
He reminded me of his love, and I remembered that I was standing.
I was standing.

image from damiensfingerpost.blogspot.com

Not Alone

My left side presses heavily against the floor, and my arms clasp my legs to my chest. Everything is falling apart, and I feel I should be able to fix things. I should be well enough to stand up and continue my life. Instead, my face contorts as my jaw stretches open, and I finally let out a hoarse scream. I hurt too much to keep all the pain inside, and the scream echoes my agony. My voice is nearly gone when the screaming dies, and as I bury my face into the coarse brown carpet, I whisper.

“Please.”

When no other sound comes, my thoughts plead to the heavens, let it stop.

I wait, and eventually my arms relax their grip on my legs. I inch out of the fetal position and my breathing begins to slow. My mind grows weary, and I welcome the respite. I lie on the floor a while longer, grateful that the pain is, at last, beginning to fade.

In this world, many people believe that depression is an illusion of the mind and can be cured through willpower. Not many understand that depression is real, and not a matter of choice.

I didn’t choose to be abused by a “friend” in elementary school; I didn’t want to start medication for my diseased mind in sixth grade; I didn’t want to be so suicidal that I had to be restrained and locked up in a hospital four times; I didn’t choose to writhe in fear as I tried to keep track of my hallucinations. I didn’t plan on trying 32 different, unhelpful medications. I never wanted my temple marriage destroyed by a husband with transgender issues and pornography problems. I didn’t want to be strapped down, knocked out and paralyzed for Electric Convulsive Therapy. I didn’t want one of the best psychiatrists in the nation to drop my case after I attempted suicide. I didn’t choose to be sick. No diabetic wants to prick their finger and give up carbs. I don’t want to give up happiness, but that is what my illness forces me to do.
Those who have never suffered from depression can't fathom the never-ending pit of despair with which I have constantly struggled. While most people fear death, and have not seriously considered it an escape from pain, I have tried to act on suicidal ideations. I've cut myself. I thought that maybe I could "bleed out" my sickness. Maybe my blood would make the pain go away. Then my mother told me something I've treasured ever since.

“Jill,” she said. “Jesus already bled for you.”

This important truth changed my life. I can’t choose how I feel, but I can choose to rely on the Lord. It hasn’t been easy. Part of this mental illness is feeling alone. While I’ve always known that God lives, it’s often hard to reach out to Him when I feel stranded, wading through this dark abyss called chronic depression. But I know that Christ has been here. He bled from each pore and trembled in unimaginable agony so He could carry me through my personal Gethsemane. Relying on the arms of Jehovah has brought me more relief than anything else. Sometimes, just living day-by-day is overwhelming, yet with everything I have gone through, I’m grateful that God loves me enough to keep me alive.

So I turn to the Lord. Nightly scripture study,  constant prayer, asking worthy priesthood holders for blessings, and attending the temple helps me stay strong. People are surprised that I get up each day. Those who see past my walls and catch glimpses of the awful pain I somehow endure are amazed that I work, attend college, go to church, and participate in choir and service activities.

How can you keep going, they ask, when you are so miserable? I say it is because of the Lord. They say it’s because I’m strong, and they think I have courage.

Still I am plagued by doubt. I have frequently thought that I must have done something wrong to be going through this. Maybe, I think, If I was not depressed, I would be a horrible person. Maybe I am just bad.

But if I allow myself to listen to the voice of my Savior, I am reminded of these words:

Behold, I am Jesus Christ, the Son of God…I am the light that shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not. Verily, verily, I say unto you…cast your mind upon the night that you cried unto me in your heart... Did I not speak peace to your mind concerning the matter? What greater witness can you have than from God?(Doctrine & Covenants, 6:21-23)

My eyes are blurry from the tears that have streamed down my face. I am so very tired, but I’m glad that, for now, the pain has finally stopped. Slowly, I lift my head from the floor. My body complains about moving; I have been tense and still for too long. Eventually, I manage to sit up. Exhausted from the emotional attack I just survived, I lean against the table. While I’m grateful no one saw me break down, I don’t feel ashamed about what I just endured. Despite the intense pain, I’ve learned a great lesson. My God has just reminded me that He loves me enough to send His Son to bleed for me. I close my eyes, and a small smile flickers across my face.

            I am not alone.

Forgiveness

I am not a very forgiving person. Really. I'm working to overcome my tendencies to hold grudges, but for now, I am not very forgiving. Everything you say/do/think can and will probably be used against you in some way or form whenever I end up being angry at you. You might find that unfair, and I absolutely agree with that finding. Why do I do that? The past is the past, right? We've already gotten over this, haven't we?
You would hope so, wouldn't you.
About a month ago, I was speaking with someone (let's call him Bob, just for fun) about forgiveness. The conversation was about one individual: me.
I told Bob that, despite all the horrible things other people have done to me, I hate myself more than anyone else. Bob asked me why. I explained that I just feel weak and stupid. I know better than all these things. How could I allow myself to be so moronic? I feel evil. I feel bad. I hate myself.
I told Bob about the things I had done. I told him that I blame myself for leaving my marriage. If I had tried harder, maybe my ex-husband wouldn't have wanted the things he wanted any more, and maybe he would've gotten better and wouldn't still be lost in sin. If I had been stronger, maybe my "friend" from years and years ago would have gotten better and would have stopped abusing me, and I could've gotten her some help. If I was not so lazy, maybe I would do better at work. If I was not so weak, maybe I could overcome the anxiety. If I was not so angry, maybe I would be better and I wouldn't snap at people. If I was good, perhaps God wouldn't have to punish me with the crippling darkness of depression.
Bob sat in silent thought for a moment, and then told me to keep thinking about all the things I hated about myself. He told me to think of all the things I have done wrong. Then he said, "If someone else, a friend, maybe, came up to you and told you all of these things, would you hate them? Or would you try to convince them that they aren't as bad as they think they are?"
All the fiery rage I felt toward myself blew out into a smokey fog of thought.
"I wouldn't hate them," I admitted.
"Then why do you hate yourself so much?" Bob asked.
I had no good answer to that.
Since that conversation, I've still been struggling with myself. It's a constant wrestling match, just without the crowds and ridiculous outfits. I fight against my hate and my anger, and I can never seem to gain an advantage.
Then I was at my parents' house for a weekend, and while I sat in my old room, I saw a picture of me, when I was four, on the dresser. I was a cute kid. It's really a shame that I grew out of being adorable. But anyway. I looked at the little girl in the picture. Soon after this was taken, she would be abused by a cousin, then she would start to hallucinate, and she would have a "friend" who would threaten to kill her...so much would happen to this child. And I began to feel that anger ignite within me again, and instead of thinking that my four-year-old self was adorable, I started to hate her. Surely, signs of my stupidity and general lack of goodness were already manifest at this age. I was disgusted with her...I was disgusted with me.
I started to dwell on the things that I experienced as a child, a teenager, and then a young adult. And I realized that I had become what I never wanted to become...I had taken on the role of the abuser. I wasn't hurting anyone else, but I was maiming myself. I let my "friend" go, and then continued to torture the little girl who had already been through so much. Why could I offer her no comfort? Why couldn't I grant myself any forgiveness?
Since this realization, I have been trying to look at myself differently, with less bias. I despise many things about me, but the disgust is not as strong. I no longer believe that I am evil. I am not always good, but I am not an instrument of destruction (that would be giving myself way too much credit, anyway). I am not bad.
I'm still working on it, of course. To say that I no longer hate myself would be a lie. I'm still struggling with how I view myself. But I think, I hope, that wanting to like myself and desiring to forgive myself is a step in the right direction.

Fate

I was watching the preview for Disney's Brave while I was in the theatre with my family, waiting for The Avengers to begin. One of the lines in the trailer is, "If you had the chance to change your fate, would you?" My mother leaned over to me and asked, "Would you?" I think she expected me to say yes. Instead, I honestly answered, "I don't know."
I've been thinking about it for a few days now. Would I change my path, my course, if I could? Would I banish my trials and my afflictions if a magic spell could do it for me? Would I change my past to become someone else?
For those of you who do not know me, there are good reasons that my mom thought I would immediately acquiesce to a chance at changing my fate. My life has been uneasy, dark, hellish. Several events in my life, along with a serious illness, have brought me pain, torture, and almost to death as I tried to commit suicide. Why wouldn't I change my fate?
First, I would not change my fate because I do not believe in fate. I believe we each have choices. Some things are out of our control. Sometimes, life sucks. Sometimes we lose things or people for no reason; it's not for our personal growth. Sometimes things are just gone. Pieces of our soul die and leave when bad things in life transpire, and we are often left desolate and broken. But that is not the end. Defeat is not our fate, because fate does not exist. We can not always choose the roads that life gives us, but we can choose how we walk on the paths. We can not always choose where we go, but we can choose how we get there. We can not always choose to be happy with our lot in life, but we can choose to keep going. There is no fate that leaves us broken and bloody on a path filled with loose gravel and sharp glass. We can choose to get up and walk, or even to crawl if we must.
So I could not change my fate because I do not believe in it. I would not change my past, though. I have recently realized why some things in my life occurred. I hate those experiences. The memories of those trials still harrow up my soul, often until I am left breathless from pain and I am curled up in the fetal position, wishing that the pain would just stop. I have often and still often hate my past. But I would not change it, because I am beginning to realize where I would be without the experiences I have had. I would not be happy. I am not always happy now, but I would be worse off without going through what I have.
I certainly have not always been this way. It's taken me about ten years to draw the conclusion that, maybe, my experiences have actually been for my good. I fought against this realization for a decade. I hate that these things were necessary, but I am beginning to learn, and I find myself humbled that I was allowed to be hurt so that I could avoid greater agonies.
And yet, I still hate all that has transpired. Let me be clear: I am not grateful for my experiences, but I am grateful that I could grow from them. I am glad that I have continued to crawl down the road of life upon which I find myself. Though I am often bruised and cut and bleeding from my broken life, I am still going.
Would I change my past? No. Would I repeat it? No way. But I will learn and continue forward. I know where I've been. I've memorized that path. I will focus on my future, on the road before me. I'll get through the broken glass and scalding asphalt, and I won't change my course. To change my course, or my "fate," would be to change my past, which would change who I am. I'm not often pleased with myself, but I want to change that. But I don't need a spell to do it.

Welcome

Here is my cliche "welcome to the blog" post. Since I typically dislike most cliche things, this post will be short. So, here we go...
1. Welcome to the blog
2. Thanks for coming
3. I hope you find it useful
4. This blog is for writing some "deeper thoughts," most of which will probably not be serious or relevant, but some that you might find useful
5. Come again
6. Bye now