healing on the inside

One time I used a Pampered Chef paring knife, maybe I used it twice. The knife wasn't even mine, it was my roommate's. I don't think she noticed that I threw it away shortly after. It
had been kind of dull and hadn't worked all that well anyway.

From then on it was mostly the thin blades in disposable razors. The flimsy plastic could be broken easily enough and inside were three perfectly sharp objects. They split the skin on my delicate wrists just enough that the bleeding was profuse but there wouldn't be much evidence by way of scarring. It only took one and the other two could be quickly hidden away. Hidden from the rare observant visitor, hidden from myself until I reached for them again in panicked desperation.

It was calming, the thin lines appearing as I carefully drew them with the razor. Watching the blood flow before I furtively slipped into the bathroom to stick my wrists under cool running water. Only then did I start questioning the sanity of these actions, as the two liquids mingled into a lighter red and ran down the drain. That's when I would cry because it wasn't right, it wasn't good, and it wasn't really helping.

I'd silently find the short distance back to my room, lock the door, and pull out the red bandanna that served it's main purpose to be wrapped around the cuts, and soak up blood and tears. I'd curl up under the covers and either cry or stare up at the ceiling until my exhausted body, exhausted mind, exhausted heart drifted into deep, wonderful sleep. Some of those nights I awoke the next morning more rested and refreshed than I had ever experienced. Because most other nights I wasn't sleeping. Those mornings I woke up and put myself together for class, beautifully.

Adorable outfit: check

Perfect hair and make-up: check

Huge white watch with all the little buckles, strategically covering main cutting surface: check

Sweet smile and ready laugh: check

No one noticed.

No one that didn't automatically accept a feeble excuse. Micah noticed as we all got ourselves ready for homecoming. My watch wasn't on yet.

"What happened to your wrist?"

"Oh, I slipped on the cement bleachers over on the football field the other day. It got scratched up when I tried to stop myself."

"Ah, I hate those bleachers."

None of them had been exposed to such a thing before. I had never been exposed to such a thing before. Cutting, panic attacks, bipolar disorder -- how do you talk about that? If I didn't even know what was going on, how could I explain it? I was used to dealing with my father's erratic behaviour, but this was beyond me.

And then I met someone who knew the ins and outs of bipolar disorder. The transfer student that I fell in love with on first sighting when I stepped in front of him in the cafeteria line for the drink fountain. Talking late one night we found someone else that knew what kind of wars we were fighting in our heads. He didn't cut himself, but he knew what the medications felt like and all about the crushing dark places. I wouldn't have to explain when one day I could only sleep and couldn't get off the couch and then want to go do crazy things on another shortly after. Knowing the fact that some days I would be introverted and unable to move outside a small circle one day and then completely outgoing and energetically chatting up person after person would go unquestioned.

Naturally we were too much drama for each other. It was explosive and strange and our upswings and downswings never matched up. We chose to deal with things in different ways. He self medicated with all sorts of substances while I let my friends inside my strange world even more, asking them to help me climb my way out. He would be cold and distant, harsh and often zombie-like because of various things found in his bloodstream. I would open up to people, let them hold me, and pray. But I would still confide to him things others wouldn't hear from me at that time.

Until the last straw. I did it one more time and hated myself. He was the one I called to come fix it. He saw my wrist and pulled me into his arms, holding me so tight because I was shaking. Shaking because I was still panicked, still crying, and it was cold outside. We talked and talked, me playing the role of a frightened little girl who has too many thoughts and needs to be told what to do. He took my phone and programmed my mom's number into his.

"If you don't call your parents tomorrow and tell them what's going on, I will."

Because he knew if I didn't tell them, no one could get me the help I needed. They had all the insurance information, and they were my parents. It was their job.

So I called them. My father yelled at me, my mother tried to listen to find out what we needed to do. They couldn't understand because I was telling them I wanted to try an approach they were unsure of.

I quit taking the medication, it wasn't helping and the side effects were just too much to deal with. I went to the elders at my church with the man that was like a second father to me, he was the professor of my favourite class, I worked for him under the work-study program, and I could trust him. My best friend that is like my sister was there, along with her husband (then boyfriend) who is like a brother. I whole group there, like family but better. The elders anointed me with oil and prayed over me for healing, for peace.

Peace came. Immediately. I felt better. I saw so many things more clearly and was getting better at making decisions. I had this strength that wasn't mine.

I hit road blocks and they made me stumble. A few were really big, and are stories for another time. I have moments of weakness, doesn't everyone? Now I know how to handle it, where to reach for the strength.

I think that God gives us tools to help us heal. If you had cancer, you would take the medicines and treatments the doctors gave you. Well, maybe you wouldn't, but I would. You'd also lean on your family, friends, and maybe you would pray. I did the same thing for my illness. At the time, medication wasn't doing anything but forcing painful side effects on me and causing significant weight gain. I was taking maximum doses and even with all the side effects, it wasn't helping me get better. Since that time I went through one major period where I was having a panic attack close to every day. I wasn't hurting myself, but I couldn't get past the things in my life that were causing the attacks. So I talked to a counselor (a Christian counselor that didn't treat me the way others had, insulting me for my faith) and we decided trying medication again would not be a bad idea. My wonderful doctor put me on Effexor, and it was a match made in heaven. It was a low dose and I wasn't experiencing any bad effects (and it didn't hurt myself esteem by causing weight gain and actually helped me lose some depression weight). I will probably go back on it once my issue with insurance gets taken care of because it keeps my moods for swinging out of control and my mind clear.

All of these things are part of who I am. They define me, etch the designs that beautify my spirit. When I knew I was healed I had "The One who heals" tattooed in Hebrew on my wrist over the spot I used to cut. It's a beautiful tattoo. And these things that I am are amazing, though a work in progress.

I still won't touch Pampered Chef paring knives though.
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A spiritual wound, one that comes from a laceration of the spirit, is much like a physical wound; after it has healed and knitted together on the outside, strange as it may seem, a spiritual wound behaves like a physical injury in continuing the healing process on the inside under pressure from the life force pushing up from within. -- Tolstoy, "War and Peace"