I wonder if anyone notices my left hand is bruised from where they drew blood many days ago. I don't think people notice the underground tunnels in my eyes, the scars from digging too deep in order to understand. But when I meet others' eyes, I look for more then what I want to see. Our stories aren't always laced with pride, more often they're scribbled in our veins and between our nightmares.
I didn't go by ambulance, but my feet gracelessly reached the ER, hand holding mother's. Father two steps behind. Give name, why I'm here, listen to instructions. Wait, and wait, and stare at tiled ceilings while they undress me and give me a paper thin hospital gown that barely covers the acne on my back. They poked skin, again and again with nurses reminding me there's nothing to be ashamed of, that no judgment is passed. I remember one nurse named Tyler, how he nodded his head in empathy when I told him I didn't want my parents watching.
It was a blessing that the levels weren't toxic.
But, that was only the beginning. I'm the one who signed the form, not my parents. I could have said no to being transferred, but I needed help. My thoughts were screaming, confusing my well-being. I was angry that I had scared myself into calling. I still wanted vengeance upon myself.
Now, it feels like four days of my life trekked on a voyage and never gave me notice. Obliterated by the might of the Atlantic. I can't forget the days so easily though. I can't dismiss the people I met, the way they humbled me by sharing, the way a simple "good luck" warmed my heart, the hymns I shyly played, the anxiety I overcame by realizing how unsafe I really am. That these secrets openly destroy me. I've been ignoring that fact for too long.
I've never been the receiver of a diagnosis, before.
Tonight, I'm gripping the papers tighter, placing them between my teeth, trying to breathe peacefully.
Mother says, "it will take time." She says that everyday after asking if I'm alright.
I promise I will try to fight, try to work through a difficult state of mind. This will be a journey. Learning how to love myself once more and accept the love Christ offered and continuously gives. Freely.
I've read multiple times before that we are not labeled with what the doctors categorize us with. Who knows if I will ever comprehend it? It frightens me, reading, trying to process what my mind tries to convince me is true. There is so much of myself to learn. And it's good to be aware, yes, but I won't let it drag my self-worth down,
down to the roots of a world without hope.
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Written 10/03/14 @ 10:44 PM
Freewrite while listening to "Rain" by Breaking Benjamin.
