Wired earbuds sit firmly in my ear. Mellow, indie folk music plays loudly, trying to muffle the sounds of the world beyond these white, plastic headphones. The taste of pineapple blankets my mouth. I can feel my blue jeans digging into my stomach. I want to go home. My hands are so cold, my head is thumping with pain -- I feel so anxious. My eyes keep darting to the top left corner of my computer screen, waiting for my mom to email me back. I wish I were at home with her.
It is dreary outside. Fog paints the sky, and the once brown leaves are left to semi-colored flowers. The spring will be here soon: new, fresh, a reminder that the fall doesn't last forever. I can still hear the murmurs of those around me, but too focused on my own emotion, I just stay to myself. Thursdays are hard days.
For the past 48 hours, I have become acutely aware of every single moment that has any resemblance to my hospital stay, the weeks before, and the weeks that would follow. I'm angry because it has been a significant amount of time since I have felt this way. This has not been an easy two months, but my seven-day stay at the hospital was the last thing on my mind. I thought I was healed.
My moisturizer smells like that first week home, trying to restore my skin back to life after I couldn't take care of it the way I desired. These gray socks, patterned with cherries, remind me of the linoleum floors of the day room and sanitized smell of my room. "Only One" by The Paper Kites represents the lowest of low, the inability to get up from my bed or leave my room. The sweet, blueberry muffin tastes like my ER room, fear, anger.
Going to school changed once the second semester had begun because I felt as if I could officially remove my mind from what was and focus on the reality of what is. I no longer have to sit at my table, closest to the window, right next to the teacher's desk, and reminisce on the blank stares plaguing my image when I came back to school on September 23rd, 2020. My second period goes by faster now that I don't spend the entire hour and a half tuning the teacher out and journaling how I remember that week. The fifth period, however, is the same. A warm vanilla smell and the stiff air is a reminder of sitting here, imagining life elsewhere. It represents the weeks first being back, aching to be at home. Some things I can't seem to flee in the manner I would like.
I am angry that I can't escape these things from juggling back and forth in my mind. I am angry that my first instinct is to submerge others and these memories with slow music. I am angry that I don't have the desire to socialize, yet feel so outcasted. I am angry at the change, the inability to stop my thoughts from snowballing, the lack of compassion I have for myself.
I had a dream last night that they were sending me back without any explanation. I know this to be the reason as to why my thoughts have been swirling all day, but what spurred on this surge of memories anyway? I don't look at pictures from this summer or that time because it all seems fake. I don't listen to certain songs or wear certain clothes because that feels like I am right back there. I have done my hardest to avoid all possible situations that would make me feel like I was living in September again. I don't understand.
But here's the thing: reminders are not reality. I love the part in Habakkuk 3 where God reminds Habakkuk that he was too focused on himself to see that the Lord was doing good work -- that his fig tree will still blossom even if he feels unlike himself. There are other reminders you can find throughout Scripture, like in Psalm 64 and throughout Luke where Jesus is tempted, tested, and yet seen through to the other side of this massive wave.
I know that much of what I write is the same pain and heartbreak, perhaps just worded a little different than the previous post. I don't express the same things purposely. I feel what I feel, I write it, and I hope that when you read it, you begin to understand more of me than before.
This season -- away from just being depressed -- has felt more like a lifetime. While my depression and anxiety do play into much of the same things I write about, this season of heartbreak, vulnerability, change, have been around for a long time now. I was angry at God for a really long time. My animosity outweighed my admiration. My questioning was more frequent than my praise. I just have never understood. I would talk to my mom, meet with my therapist, journal my thoughts and I could never see any reason underneath the weight of this pain.
My grip on this animosity was so tight that I could feel myself retreating back to who I was before I was hospitalized. I have never been so angry at God the way that I was for four months. I felt as if there was too much left unanswered for me to be OK with the results of my circumstances. A fallen world will breed a broken heart if we don't look to the Creator over the created.
I think I held even more animosity because it always seemed like everything was a reminder of what had happened. I hated driving down West King Street because I pass the Emergency Room. I hated the smell of my shampoo because it smelled like the tiny hospital shower. I couldn't listen to the song "Follow You to Virgie" by Tyler Childers because it sounded ike self-harm and bitterness about my feelings. All of this and so much more was labeled by the very thing I wanted to erase so desperately.
One day, I finally said that enough was enough. Sometimes I drive past the Emergency Room to remind myself that getting help is important. When I wash my hair, I remember laughing in the waiting room with my mom at the thought of not having hair products for a whole week. If "Follow You to Virigie" comes on, I turn it up, roll down the windows, and holdfast to the rememberance that someone loved me when I couldn't love myself.
Thursdays are hard. I don't think that I will forever associate so many little things with the hospital. It is now almost 10:30 p.m. and my warmed up hands are racing across my keyboard knowing that I have surived another hard day. When my brunette hair finally lays on my pillow tonight, and my eyeliner smudged eyes finally close, I know that what will flash in my mind will not be that scary September afternoon; it will not be the aching feeling of suicidalness or fear that maybe I will never get better.
I remember thinking that my cup would always be half-empty, that the only thing ever available in my drink would be depression and darkness. I am over six months sober of self-harm, almost seven months post recovery, and almost seven months medicated. I am seeing that this cup is now running over, and the drink available is a lot brighter than that of what was there before. If I had anything to say to anyone feeling the way I did: reach out, speak up, remember that you aren't alone, and please don't give up. It does get better.
I'm not angry at God anymore. I want to be here tomorrow. I have made it through the hardest days. I can separate dreaming from reality. I have gotten better. The first chapters are always the hardest. But there is a lot of story left to be written, and my Author is pretty cool.
- Emma