The color of rage…

“You know I’ve never written about the really harmful and impactful things that have happened in my life.” I told my girlfriend as she folded and put away her laundry. “I’ve never written about when I tried to stab that girl –  when I got sent to the detention center, or the Abraxas program, or when I was sent to live with my grandparents. I’ve never even written about my rape.”

“I’m not surprised by any of this.” She replied.

I assume I haven’t written about these things because I’m a huge fan of repressing. I remember when I was young, I used to feel everything so intensely. I was sunshine and rage and thrashing inside my head. I let myself feel all the things I try so desperately to avoid these days. I used to feel empty or depressed or angry, I felt the madness of nearly a dozen hospitalizations over 8 years and the burning hatred of a thousand suns. There were days when I couldn’t see through the tears, or through the color of rage staining my world.

None of those feelings were particularly enjoyable. Over time I just slowly allowed myself to let go of the trauma of my youth. Although I must admit it is gone but not forgotten. Everyone is fighting an internal battle. Everyone has their deep dark secrets. I feel like I should really just get over it and move on. I thought I had, but the mere mention of those things long since passed, I fall into a depression, I curl up under the covers and suffer alone in silence.

I have sweet people in my life who care for me, and they want me to get help, they want me to talk about these things. They can see through my facade. They want me to work through it, my fears I guess lie with the fact that I’m terrified to become the pathetic emotive creature of my past again. If I let myself cry, will I ever stop?

 

 

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What leaves you broken…in the end…makes you better…

So one of the blogs on here, (on my blogroll papergirl) kills me a little to read it. This girl is cutting/starving/bipolar/sounds just like me at her age (I think she’s 14-15). She seems to really hate herself and it brings back not so fond memories. I started cutting at 13, self harm of other less obvious sorts at a younger age. I didn’t stop until I was 22 or 23. It took me a really long time to get over thinking I deserved this life I was putting myself through. I’m sure the meds and therapy helped, and I had friends. Amazing friends and a great boyfriend and supportive family members and even with all the support of a pdoc, tdoc, friends and family and bf, I was still so alone and still hating on myself. I can’t imagine how it is for anyone who has anything less. It must feel so overwhelming.

I guess it was difficult and a long time coming, the way I changed….because with mental illness you really are alone, even with all the others around you. You suffer your illness alone. Even if you are lucky enough to have someone holding  your hand through it all, it is IN YOUR HEAD and you can NOT ESCAPE YOURSELF. So at that point it’s a matter of changing yourself, your thoughts, your behaviors. Making your head a more comfortable place to be.  It’s hard work, but oh so worth it.

These days, I’ve cut once in I think the last 6 years (right before my last hospitalization almost 3 years ago). I don’t hate myself anymore, I don’t starve, but I’m fat, I’m dealing with that as best I can. But it’s not a good enough reason to hate myself. I am of course still bipolar, and after 11 years on meds I’m finally coming off, and fairly confident that I will know how to handle this illness in a way I never knew how to before.

I am so thankful, for all of it really, even the seemingly endless suffering of my youth, it has made me who I am, and I have come full circle. It really is true, even if cliche’, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger….if you can just get through all those moments of being broken, you will find in the end, it has made you stronger– if you’ve learned from  it. Those broken pieces can be fixed, welded together, and  made stronger  than they once were on their own….

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