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  • Writer's pictureemma

The Truth

I have teetered on the fence about how I was going to share what happened & how I got here. I find myself to be a very honest and transparent person. I don‘t mind sharing what happened or what I have been through. Truthfully, I don’t really know how to put it into words. I have typed and un-typed the gory details. I have journaled every ounce of my feelings onto notebook paper & long paragraphs on my notes app. No words really do it justice and I think that is the Lord’s way of letting me know that not everything we experience must be public knowledge. While I am not ashamed of what happened, nor do I look away in fear of telling others, it‘s just that I haven’t quite mastered the art of making it seem a lot less terrifying than it was. But you have to know the dark before you are aware of the light. So here is just a glimpse into who I am, what I am becoming, and really the very thing that led me to beginning “Mentally Ill Christianity.”


***I would like to preface this by saying: I am talking about suicide and self-harm and I don‘t want anyone to be alarmed or taken aback by what I am speaking on.***


It was the first week of September. I felt what I thought was normal, and was going about my daily life while knowing that I was feeling a little blue. School was in full-swing, I was going to be doing our first week of real youth group worship, and my sister was going to be home soon while her husband was in academy for state police. I had had the thoughts before, knowing that I wasn’t going to do anything to hurt myself, yet unaware of most of the decisions I had been making because of this cloudiness in my brain that never seemed to leave. While doing my math homework at the kitchen counter, the only thing that was swirling around my mind was the thought to harm my forearms as a way to release some sort of peace or assurance that my sadness wasn’t real. My arms would throb for hours on end, while my brain made obscure objects appealing because maybe using them wouldn’t really leave any evidence that I was harming myself. In those moments, I wanted to inflict pain, but I refused to do so because I have never wanted others to know that I was hurting on the inside.


I called my mom in a panic, drove to her school, and was able to get calmed down. These thoughts would intrude my entire being for the next two days. I wore the same black leggings, navy blue shirt, and Birkenstocks for two whole days before I was forced to change in order for church. I really only saw these times as maybe a tough week, because by the time Wednesday came, I was feeling what I thought was fine. I had coffee with friends, I was happy & eating, I went to church, my older brother was home for the night — there was little for me to have much sadness over. Thursday came. I was wearing an overall dress, green shirt, pink clips, white shoes, white earrings, and my hair was just as I had wanted it to be. Cooper brought me coffee before school, I was eager to go, and I was feeling a lot more like myself as compared to the beginning of the week. First and second period trudged by & while in second period, I made a plan to speak to my third period teacher and let her know that we were all struggling and needed some grace in terms of the deadlines.


We made it to third period. I raised my hand, my heart was beating, and in what felt like the most polite way, I asked for grace and help on the deadlines because the work was overwhelming. Unbeknownst to me, this was not allowed and I was in fact breaking the rules. Between embarrassment and anxiety, I heard a voice in my head say “You should just kill yourself.” Fear encapsulated my body, pain shot through my forearms, my head clouded with visions of my body in a lifeless form. I emailed my mom in a frenzy, explaining to her that I needed to leave because I felt unsafe. In an effort to dwindle the pain on my forearms, I took a Papermate Flair Pen and scribbled a light blue across my wrist. We went to lunch, they called me home, and I drove over to my mom’s school. Through a few exchanges, lots of tears, and my mom’s instincts to consult someone with much more knowledge about this, it was decided that I was to be sent to the ER immediately. I remember the face my mom made at me when she told me this. I often see it in my dreams, or when it feels like I can’t escape my past. I vividly remember the fear that covered me, the anxiousness that wouldn’t leave. All I could do was cry.


At 1:41 p.m., I was admitted into the hospital as a behavioral health patient & was seen as a threat to myself after expressing suicidal thoughts more than once within a 48 hour span. They stripped me of everything. I was to wear paper brown scrubs, and could not be alone. I was administered to have 24 hr surveillance. No cellphone, no jewelry, no real underwear or bra. All I did was cry. I boohooed. My mom held my hand, rubbed my head, cried with me. I have never felt as broken as I did in that very moment. I longed to be in my bed, under my covers. I wanted to hug my dad, I wanted to hangout with Gabe. It all felt surreal. I surfed the music channels on the TV. I tossed and turned in the bed. I cried, I ached, I wanted to be alone...I wanted to be dead.


After much evaluation, meetings with nurses and psychiatrists, and bad hospital food, I was admitted into a mental health hospital in Raleigh, NC. I had had enough. I pounded the bed with my fists, I screamed and cried, I wondered why it was me who had to go through all of this pain. Why did I put my parents through this? Why did I feel this way? Why can‘t I go home? Shortly following this outburst, I was given valium and advil, and quickly fell asleep. I remember dreaming of being home and being happy. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, hoping that when I would open my eyes that I would be at home and that this was all a dream. I didn’t want any of it to be a reality. Friday, September 4th, arrived and I was to change into travel scrubs and tell my mother goodbye. I trotted out to the ambulance, my mom two steps behind me. She hugged me as I sobbed into her shoulder. She reminded me that she would not be leaving Raleigh without me, and I knew this to be true when she arrived a week later to discharge me from the hospital.


Four hours in the back of an ambulance, in and out of sleep, wishing that I was in the car with my mom and not these strangers. I arrived four hours later, filled out the paperwork, was sent back to be evaluated for what felt like the millionth time, and waited anxiously for my mom to arrive. When she showed up, we were both sent back to be asked more questions. They gave me an Uncrustable and Goldfish. Mom and I talked for a little; I think I may have laughed. She reached for my hand across the table, and with tears in her eyes she told me that I was going to be OK, that I was not alone, and that they were going to advocate for mental health awareness on behalf of me. This was another moment that felt absolutely surreal. Shortly after my mom said this, they told me it was time for me to go. The hug with my mom felt like an eternity. I didn’t want her to leave. I didn’t want to do this by myself, and I know that she felt the same way too. I sobbed into her small shoulders. We walked out of the room and I refused to look back.


They sent me to the North wing, with kids around middle school age. I was there for three days before they moved me to the South wing that had kids my own age. I preferred the South wing compared to the North, because these kids were much more mature and like me. Although I was devastated to leave what had been “home“ for almost four days, I was thankful to be around people who were much more like me in nature. Each night I was allowed a 15 minute phone call with my mom and dad. It was the part of the day I looked forward to most. I spent most days finding things and remembering little details so I could fill-in mom and dad while they stayed less than 5 miles down the road. I won’t bore you with the monotony of my seven day stay at the hospital because honestly, our everyday routine was the same the entire time. We had bland food, bad mattresses, and a lot of eye opening experiences that I would never change for the world. I was discharged on September 11th, exactly a week since when I had arrived. While there, I was diagnosed with major depression and severe anxiety. I was prescribed medicine, and given a lot of recommendations on how to continue to better take care of myself.


There are many days that I miss being there. It isn’t because I wish to feel that way again, but because I had been around people so drastically different from me, yet we were all the same under the surface. I miss the comrade, the community, the sense of belonging that we had all ached so desperately to feel. I miss the inside jokes & the transparent love these people had for one another. Sure, we all had bad days. We were all hurting. But I didn’t feel like I had to hide behind this wall when it came to being around these people. Being there taught me to be unique and comfortable in my own skin. They taught me that being knocked down is a part of the treacherous climb. I learned how to play a lot of card games. I learned a lot of riddles and dad jokes. But I also learned to love others for who they are. I learned to be thankful for the people you have. I learned to never ever think that I am too far gone.


I do not define myself by my hospital stay. I do not mark my personality by being someone with depression and anxiety. The Lord was using me — He still is. Yes, my days are still hard. Yes, I still feel lonely. Yes, I have learned a lot about other people. But, I have always wanted to write & I have never had a perspective to tell it from. That is why I created this space. My plan was not to tell my story in this much detail. I did not really have the intention to publicly put it out there like this. I was tired of being hesitant, though. I know that it is a lot to take in. It is a lot to read. But telling my story is just the tip of the iceberg of this journey. Thank you for taking it with me.


- Emma

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