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.