It was 1:45 p.m. My arm was interlocked tightly with my mom's. We walked slowly, our feet in sync with each other. My heart was about to pound out of my chest. The sliding doors of the ER opened and we stepped forward for the security guard to check our temperatures. It was truly the end of the weight I had held strong on to for so long.
I have replayed that night in the ER over and over again in my head for the past year. I have relived the day I was escorted to Raleigh more times than I can remember. September 3rd has plagued my mind for 365 days now. It was the start line of my journey -- of my marathon. Part of me has expected to be able to remove or erase those moments from my memory. Thinking about it makes me feel almost physically sick because I do not know who she was. I cried for a while last night, feeling more afraid of what today would be than I was intending to.
Since last year, this date was the infamous moment in which I had hit a breaking point. I did not spend my Labor Day Weekend on the lake. My family did not move hell and half of Georgia to be here because they were able to get a few days off of work. I did not sleep in on Monday because I had a day off of school. I do not know much about the month of September beyond beige scrubs, linoleum floors, and blue and green walls. Tears are welling up in my eyes as I type because these days feel like pain deep down -- they taste like angry cries and insurmountable fear.
For me to say that it has been easy would be a flat-out lie. I thought for a long time that my journey was a one-stop-shop and that pure healing would be right around the corner. Almost humorously, it has been, but more in a few laps around the block and a GPS re-routing. I remember the first week after I was home, and I was so confused as to why the weight of depression was still lurking in the depths of my life. The idea of actually having to live with depression seemed almost foreign to me because although it had always been there, I was better at throwing it in the backseat than addressing the hard days.
Furthermore, my journey with faith hasn't been an easy one. I found such comfort in the Psalms while I was in treatment. Something about knowing that David felt the same way I did was proof to me that God was not targeting me. It became a beacon of hope and promise that even within these pits of despair, the Lord of Jacob, and the God of sinners would not leave me there to wither away with the demons I seemed to know all too well. God took David and allowed him to see through to the other side. God carried Joseph through the pain of betrayal and rewarded him with rich mercy. God met Sarah when she was at the end of her rope, granting her more life than she was seemingly worthy of. God saw Paul in his transgressions and pursued his healing regardless. The Lord held Jeremiah's hand as he cried out from the bottom of his pain, He met the Samaritan woman where she was, He traded His crown for the cross that I deserve. He saw my pain and morphed it into power. He granted me the strength to speak when I am afraid, and the courage to exist when my brain tells me I am unworthy of the very breath I breathe. He has loved me and taken care of me even when anger plagued my praise.
I remember thinking that I would never have the chance to be "OK" again. Truth be told, I have learned that being just "OK" all of the time is alright. It is part of life when mentally ill. It does not make me or you any less worthy of life. It does not mean that we won't have good times or joy in our lives. It does not mean that I am completely broken or incapable of being happy. The journey of accepting that living takes more effort some days is not easy. I would be lying to you if I said that I don't still fight self-harm and battle with suicidal ideation. It is not because I want to actively participate with either. That season in my life, where succumbing was the only choice, that season is over. Sometimes being "OK" is just enough to keep you going. I'm okay with just being "OK" because I am living to see the days in which I will feel much more than OK.
If I could tell Emma of September 2020 anything, I would reassure her that we find the light. I've sat in the middle of this tunnel for a long time now, waiting to understand why I have been granted this journey. I still hold pain from that day in the ER. I still hurt for the day I shuffled into the North Wing of the hospital and fear gripped my heart with so much strength. I still see their faces, and I remember their names. I can smell the smell of the Day Room and I can hear their voices. I still recall the day I walked down the hall and through the brown doors to see my parent's crying faces because I was coming home. I remember the songs we listened to riding down 85, going at least 90 because Kings Mountain seemed so far away. I still remember how hard my sister hugged me when I came through our front door. I can still feel the way my throat was clogged with anxiety and I couldn't eat normal meals for a few weeks. I still remember every 24 hour day of September 2020.
The Lord has proven Himself ever faithful over the last 12 months. He has shown me the very reasons I stayed and why I still choose to. My life has not turned into a cakewalk like I was hoping. Instead, it has become a journey in which I don't want to let go of.
"I know that my Emma Katherine is there somewhere," said my mom as Good Will Hunting played on the small hospital TV and she ran her fingers through my curly hair. "Please don't stop fighting for her. I know she is in there," she said.
I found her, mama.
- Emma