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fortuitousmind · 3 years

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Self Harm Awareness Month

March is self harm awareness month. Just wanna drop in to say a few things about my personal experience as well as general education about the topic.

Content warning: discussion of self injury.

For many people, myself included, this is a lifelong battle. The first time I hurt myself was over 10 years ago. At my lowest, I was engaging in self harm multiple times a day. I was so desperate that I would lie to teachers about where I was going and then go to the bathroom to hurt myself. That was a very long time ago. I have made astronomical progress since then, but it is still a daily struggle. It will always be a struggle. Every day clean is a day of progress, but the urge will always be there. My brain considers it as an option when I’m in distress even though it’s not a good one. Even though I know better. Even though I have the necessary tools to help myself through difficult situations in a positive way. March 20th will mark 6 months since the last time I hurt myself. It’s only happened a handful of times over the past two years. I have grown so much since the darkest moments. It does get easier to live without it.

Self harm is not always a suicidal gesture. Almost everyone I know who has fought this battle has actually used it to cope with being alive. This does not mean that it’s a good strategy to use to cope with the pain of existence, but it does mean that not everybody who self harms is doing so with the intent to end their life.

Self harm can be an addiction, just the same as any substance or disordered eating behaviors. It is a very difficult habit to break. Be patient with your loved ones who struggle with self harm. It is not a behavior that can be stopped overnight. If somebody isn’t ready to quit, they won’t. Obviously the end goal is to help someone get to the point where they don’t feel the need to hurt themselves and stop the behavior altogether. Before someone is ready for that, supporting them by means of harm reduction (like limiting access to items they can use to self harm, or items that may be potentially lethal if used to self harm) and helping them build positive coping skills is a great step.

If you have a child, family member, or friend who self harms, punishment will NOT make them stop doing it. I can’t emphasize this enough. If your first reaction is to yell at them, or take their phone, or ground them, you are fueling the fire. For many young people, technology is one of their greatest methods of finding support. There are so many phone apps and websites that help with skills building and distraction in times of distress. There are so many people who will listen. There are countless crisis phone lines, chat boxes, and text lines that young people are strongly encouraged to access if they are struggling. Punishment makes a person less likely to come to you for support when they need it. They will feel like asking for help will just get them in trouble. They won’t trust you. They will feel even more guilt and shame surrounding the behavior. On top of this, don’t get mad at somebody for not telling you about it. It’s not something that’s easy to talk about.

As unhealthy as it is, most people use self harm as a coping mechanism. While it’s not a positive one, it’s important to think about why someone feels so much psychological and emotional pain that they have the urge to self harm. They probably do not have the tools to manage that pain properly. Instead of focusing on the physical act, attention should be drawn to the causes of that pain and safety planning for how they can help their self through situations where they are feeling that pain. It is much easier to try to move forward once the root of the issue is understood and processed.

People do not self harm for attention. Many people go to great lengths to hide these behaviors from their loved ones. If it seems like somebody is doing it for attention, they are more than likely trying to ask for help. It’s not always easy for someone who is hurting to reach out to others. Sometimes you, as a supporter, do have to go to them.

Don’t bring attention to anyone’s scars or injuries. Just don’t. Don’t comment on them and for the love of all things mighty, STOP STARING AT US. It’s weird and dehumanizing. Some of us might have stripes or spots, but we are NOT zoo animals. We are still human. If you notice that someone has hurt their self and want to check in with them, address it in private. Do not bring it up in front of others. Do not make a big deal out of it. Do not act like it is the end of the world. HOWEVER, if the injury is serious and looks like it needs medical attention, please assist that person in getting the help they need. There IS a point where injuries may endanger a person’s health.

For people who do struggle with self injury, please please please listen to me when I say that it WILL get easier to see your scars every day. It WILL get easier to look at yourself in the mirror. It WILL get easier to wear comfortable clothing in the summer. You won’t always feel like you need this. It’s really hard to see that from such a dark place, but I promise that it’s true.

#self harm awareness #sib #recovery #healing #mental health #mental health awareness #mental health recovery

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fortuitousmind · 4 years

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Living Life in the Era of COVID-19: We’re Not Feeling too Hot

Check in on your friends. Check in on all of them, but especially the friends that you know struggle with mental illness.

I’m about to make myself incredibly vulnerable, but at this point I know I can’t be the only one feeling this way. This entry is moreso an avenue to vent than an informative resource. Things in my head are bad. They’re really bad.

They’re so bad that I was off of work all last week because I had some symptoms of illness and I still could hardly bring myself to show up this morning. I’m having a hard time convincing myself to make it in tomorrow. Being alone is hard. Being around others is scary. I’m worried about my family. I went through a bottle of hand sanitizer in six hours at work today. I’ve been having panic attacks because I’m terrified of getting sick. My lungs are garbage and my inhaler hasn’t been helping. I’m the only person at my apartment and if anything happens that causes my lungs to give up, nobody is going to know. That scares me.

At first I was indifferent about school going online, but I’ve started to realize everything that’s been taken from me. I have a lot of friends that I’ll probably never see again. I finally had a group of people around me who consistently worked to build each other up and genuinely just enjoyed each other’s company, and I’ve never had a steady group of friends in my life, and now we’re separated. A lot of us are seniors. I was looking back at all of the pictures I’ve taken in the past year and there are so many memories that I was ready to make more of.

On top of that, I can’t read on computer screens. I just can’t. I got a concussion the winter before last and it still hurts to read anything on my laptop. My eyes don’t focus on the words. Pitt shut down their printing services. If I can’t physically take notes directly on the article, I don’t understand what I’m referencing when I look over it again later. My memory has gotten so bad that my doctor referred me for a neurocognitive function assessment. I missed class the entire week before spring break because of my mental health. I have no motivation because my mental health is so taxing right now that I can’t put energy into anything else. My grades are going to suffer.

All of my mental illnesses are flaring up at once. I keep having panic attacks related to my PTSD that aren’t even touched by the medication I’ve been prescribed. I have constant anxiety about every single thing that’s happening all at once. I’m so on-edge that if more than one noise happens at the same time, my brain just shuts down from overstimulation. I’m paranoid from being alone. My depression is the worst it’s been in years (and I keep saying that, but each time it comes back I seem to slip further and further into the abyss). I need a medication change, but I don’t have a psychiatrist right now. I know exactly what dose of which medication I need because it’s been effective for me in the past, and I have an entire bottle of this medication, but I can’t get ahold of my PCP to ensure that she can refill it if I start it back up. I need therapy, but my therapist isn’t making appointments because she and her husband are both vulnerable to severe complications if they get sick. My chronic passive death wish has gotten more intense and is at the point where, if it gets any worse, I’m going to need more help than I can give myself. I don’t trust myself because my impulsivity has skyrocketed and nobody is here to check me on it. I’ve started falling back into the pattern of attempting to sabotage my relationships so nobody has to deal with me anymore because I’m exhausting myself with my own mind and am afraid of people abandoning me first. I haven’t been nice to my body either. I’m glad it’s still cold outside.

For a lot of people, myself included, being isolated at home alone can quickly become dangerous as we lose access to our typical mechanisms of care and coping, as well as our ability to reach out to others for help in ways other than speaking over the phone. One of my go-to safety measures is going to a friend’s house so I don’t lock myself in my room and so I know I’ll be in a safe environment. All of my friends are either working, sick, or hours away. I can no longer engage in the one thing that has never failed to guarantee my safety. I can’t distract myself by going to museums or walking around the city or hanging out in a coffee shop. I can’t get to the store to buy things that I know would significantly help me. Even if I could go to the store, I am paranoid and anxious and afraid of what could happen. I’m not supposed to hang around other people and my darkest moments have always been when I’m alone with my own mind.

I’m not sharing this for a pity party. I don’t need anyone to call the cops to come check on me. I have a lot to live for and so many things to do and so many people to help and so many places to go and so many concerts to see and so many dogs to pet (I would like to mention that the highlight of my day was my parents surprising my sister and I with a puppy. Our dog passed away last June), and I still haven’t hugged Harry Styles.

I just want people to know that a lot of us are struggling with a whole bunch of things right now. Remember to be kind. Remember to be loving and to spread the love. Remember that things will not be this way forever (although it sure does seem like it right now). It’s okay to not be okay, and we are all significantly less okay at this moment in time, and it’s okay to break down the wall and express that instead of hiding it away. I want people to know that they’re not alone in their struggles.

Some things I tell people I work with all of the time that I’ve been trying to remind myself of:

Things are not going to be like this forever.

Things are going to get better.

There are a lot of people who care about us.

We have to be patient with ourselves because we don’t all have control of our own minds.

We need to trust our instinct when our brains tell us we need some assistance.

It’s okay to need help.

We don’t need to go through this alone.

I am struggling, and I know I’m not the only one. Every time I look on social media, I am reminded of the state of the world and the fear and sadness that plagues it. I fall further down the rabbit hole of negativity and can’t pull myself out of it because it seems like it’s all that’s out there right now. Check on your friends. Check on your coworkers. Check on the people who can’t stay home. Check on the people who have to stay home. Check on yourself, too.

#recovery #mental health blog #mental illness #anxiety #mental health #positive mental attitude #bipolar disorder #borderline personality disorder #bpd #depression

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fortuitousmind · 4 years

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Traumatic Relationships Have Effects Beyond Emotional Health

Contains material that references abusive relationships and excoriation behaviors.

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on learning how to love again

when the touch of another

is a shower of acid rain

for so long

it is difficult to believe that fingertips

are capable of anything more than

corrosion

it is as if the burn will never end-

chemical gnawing flesh to bone

for the remainder of eternity

how fortunate am i

to have found somebody who does not

mind the scars

how fortunate am i

to have found somebody who does not

bring pain to the wounds

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I know I haven’t posted in awhile, but I’m feeling inspired to write for the first time in a long time, so here we go. I saw a post on Instagram about qualities of abusive vs. healthy relationships, and it led me to reflect on my own experiences that I haven’t shared much about on any public platform due to me still working through my trauma and being able to verbalize it. Let’s discuss the effects of chronic stress, such as being in an abusive relationship, on the body.

I want to talk about how much the people you surround yourself with can impact your physical appearance. The top row of photos in the image above is from November 25, 2016, after about three months of being in an abusive relationship. The stress of being in such an unhealthy situation was so intense that my skin looked like that top row all of the time, which was extremely out of the ordinary for me because I had never had that bad of an issue before I moved into college.

Nothing could help clear my face up because everything was solely stress-induced. To make things worse, I used to have pretty significant skin-picking behaviors that I would engage in when I was struggling from more severe depression or anxiety than my typical amount. I thought that maybe if I could get rid of the bumps on my face and my legs and my arms, the bad feelings would go away (Please note: this is an unhealthy behavior and not an effective method of coping. I only share this information because it is a major component that contributed to the subject being discussed).

I would wear copious amounts of makeup, and it still wasn’t enough to cover the damage. In fact, I only have the top row of photos because I was documenting the transformation of my skin before and after applying makeup. I couldn’t wear shorts because I was embarrassed by all of the marks. I would space out when engaging in these behaviors and get carried away, not realizing how drastically I was affecting my appearance. It constantly looked like I had an awful case of poison ivy.

Fast forward to 2020, at the same point of time in my current relationship. The bottom row of pictures is from within the past three weeks. The difference is absolutely astounding. I don’t have foundation on in any of those photos and, I don’t mean to be conceited, but I’m kinda glowing (Disregard the bags under my eyes when evaluating this statement. I am very tired. I am very tired all of the time. My boyfriend says it’s like Goob from Meet the Robinsons. Google that if you must).

Being under prolonged and intense stress, such as being in an abusive situation, doesn’t just affect you emotionally. There are physical effects on the body that can have long-term consequences to your health. Below is a list of some of the long-term effects of chronic stress on the body, as described by the American Psychological Association. Click the link to read about these effects in more detail.

-Headaches -Migraines -Chronic pain due to constant muscle tension -Increased risk for hypertension, heart attack, stroke, heart disease -Elevated cholesterol levels -Increased cortisol levels* -Chest pain and heartburn -Stomach pain, bloating, nausea -Decreased appetite and digestive issues -Difficulty breathing due to bronchoconstriction -Low circulation -Decreased libido due to disruption in hormone production -Reduced ability to conceive (affecting the reproductive capacity of all genders) -Worsened symptoms of reproductive diseases

*Prolonged increased cortisol levels contribute to a slew of physical symptoms as well, including weight gain, acne, muscle weakness, severe fatigue, difficulty concentrating, and effects on memory formulation.

Surrounding yourself by people who truly love you, care about you, and treat you the way you deserve to be treated has such a profound effect on both your mind and body. It’s crazy how much changes when you are no longer actively being abused and undergoing constant traumas.

I am very happy with where I’m at right now in my personal relationships, who I’m with, and how everything is playing out. I genuinely never thought I would be able to experience that kind of thing after all that happened just a couple years ago. I didn’t think I would be able to develop any kind of attraction to a person again, let alone allow myself to experience the vulnerability of loving somebody again.

I must say, the “love” I am referring to regarding my past experience was not real love. It was a product of infatuation with the idea of having somebody who “wanted” me and being gaslighted to the point where I believed that I was in the wrong for having hurt feelings over mistreatment. The person had convinced me that people who loved other people exhibited extreme emotional sensitivity and reactivity, as well as control over the other individual, because they cared about them. They convinced me that nobody else would ever want me or love me, so they were my only option and the best thing that I was going to get, and I needed to accept that. They were isolating and possessive, and encouraged me to believe that they were the only person who was ever going to “care.” This is not healthy. This is not love.

It took me months after the end of the relationship to be able to recognize the extent of the abuse I experienced and the impact it had on my quality of life. Even then, I had not developed PTSD until over a year after it ended. It’s taken until now, over two years later, to recognize the significant effects this had on my health and wellbeing.

If you have made it this far into the post, thank you for reading. It feels good to be able to start to verbalize this experience. I have not been able to find the words to begin to describe it until now, and I think that’s why it can be so difficult to start to work on symptoms of trauma and PTSD. When you don’t know how to organize the words or even come up with thoughts explaining what you experienced and how it made you feel, it’s nearly impossible to work through it with a mental health professional. It’s taken two and a half years of self-exploration and discovery to get here. Thank you all for being patient with me on this journey.

Enduring and surviving intimate partner violence and abuse does not make you weak. It does not mean you will be unable to open up to somebody again. It does not mean that you will be stuck in this cycle for the rest of your life. It is possible to escape these situations and heal. It takes time, but you will be able to build yourself back up.

Here are some resources for people who may be experiencing domestic violence or dating abuse.

I want to give a special thank you to Stephen, for teaching me what it’s like to love and be loved for real. Life is wonderful by your side.

#relationships #intimate partner violence #domestic abuse #emotional abuse #depression #anxiety #excoriation #trigger warning #content warning #abusive relationships #ptsd #trauma #post traumatic stress disorder #growth #recovery #mental heal #physical health #stress #chronic stress

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fortuitousmind · 5 years

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Reflection

Contains mention of death.

rebirth

life will rise from grey ashes

rejuvenating forests that once crackled

and burned-

an inferno repossessed by

forget-me-nots

and redwood.

cooled embers fertilize the

soil from which you will bloom

again.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to live lately. Finding out that somebody I went through treatment with is no longer alive has made me much more reflective on my existence and where I stand in this world. I’ve thought a lot about the process of getting myself to this point and the difficulty I have faced along the way— most of the obstacles being products of my own mind, the one thing I cannot escape.

Exactly six years ago, I made a very poor choice that drastically altered the course of my existence, though I must admit that I would not change it if I were able to travel back in time. It is days like today that I must remind myself that healing is not linear. Just because I am in a low place right now does not mean I have not progressed from the low place I was stuck in back then.

I have crossed mountains to make it to where I am today. I have learned and loved and lost and lived. I have come to understand that my body is the only thing that I will carry with me for the entirety of my life, and I must care for myself before giving anything else a second thought. I know that there are certain battles that should be abandoned instead of engaged. I know to not dedicate my time or energy to anybody who does not encourage me to be my best self or refuses to forgive me when I am not.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me along the path that led me to where I am now. I am not the best at expressing gratitude, and I have lost touch with a lot of people who were very important to me throughout that period of my life, but I have not forgotten who these people are or the incredible impact of their support.

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fortuitousmind · 5 years

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When the Loneliness Makes Your Bones Ache

I am the sole unlit candle on a centarian’s birthday cake, melting in the heat of the crowd.

My seventh grade English teacher once gave me the assignment of writing a poem about myself, which was to include a statement of how I perceived myself as a refrain throughout the piece. This is what I led with. One sentence perfectly reflects my longing for conformity, how I was being altered by those around me, and how, through this process, I was on the road to the end of my existence.

I would be lying if I said most of that had changed. I am not even close to being one in one hundred. Everybody else’s glow shines so bright. I am in the middle, looked over and ignored. I was ready to burn to the bottom of the wick if it meant I would no longer be on my own. I still am.

I suppose this fragmentation is a product of my disordered personality. I am fairly certain that a lack of cohesiveness and identity and stability of the self is one of borderline’s hallmarks. The worst part is that none of this feeling is fleeting.

It doesn’t matter where I am, who I’m with, or what emotions I’m experiencing. I am plagued by the perpetual feeling that I am completely alone. It’s more than something I am bothered with from time to time; it’s a black aura that shrouds my entire existence. It fuels my sleepless nights. It haunts my waking hours. I cannot escape it. I am afraid that I will never escape it.

This feeling does not discriminate in the settings it chooses to whisper into my ear. I could be in five seconds deep into a hug, laughing with a large group of friends, or pushing the fourth hour into a coffee date with a new guy. One moment everything is beautiful, nothing hurts. In a split-second, you can see it in my eyes.

The glazed-over gaze straight into the void. The tug at the sleeves. The hard swallows. The hollow conversation. The veil of silence that falls like the heat of an atom bomb shortly after.

My rationality is coaxed to the eye of a labyrinth shielded by cactus needles and barbed wire. The thoughts race through my head. They don’t actually want you. They never actually wanted you. They just feel bad for you. They’ll never love you the way they love each other. Your friendship is shallow and forced into existence. You don’t matter. You never mattered. You never will. You are a background character in the lives of everyone you’ve ever known and loved. You are nothing more than average— a speck of dust floating through the universe.

I try so hard to challenge these distortions. I do. My effort never seems to be enough. As soon as a group doesn’t invite me to make plans, as soon as my best friend does something I’ve always wanted to do with them with someone else, as soon as I say hi and someone doesn’t say it back—I fall apart. It is irrational for my soul to be so crushed by such trivialities. I am aware of that much.

I have always been the person who is part of the group, but not really part of the group. In high school, I moved to a place where everyone had known each other since the age of four. I had friends. The only problem was that as much as I felt accepted, I never felt like I truly belonged. It’s like no matter how close I got, somebody was always closer. My entire life, I have been accustomed to not being the first-in-line. I have never been the important one. When the relationship finally does conjure itself, I feel like I will find that it is too good to be true.

The displacement I feel, combined with my anxiety, create a vicious cycle of not feeling like I belong and not being accepted into new places because I feel like I will never belong. This makes me too afraid to even try to integrate myself into other spaces because I have such an intense fear of these beliefs being true.

I want this weight to fall off of my shoulders. My bones ache. I am exhausted from carrying the water buckets this way.

#lonely #loneliness #mental health #mental health blog #mental health awareness #mental illness #bpd #borderline personality disorder #bipolar disorder #bipolar 2 disorder #anxiety #social anxiety #depression #empty #recovery #survivor #warrior

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fortuitousmind · 6 years

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World Suicide Prevention Day: Sharing my Story

Contains material strongly centered around suicidality.

September 10th is World Suicide Prevention Day and I am deciding to use this as an opportunity to tell a story that few people know and is excruciatingly difficult to tell. I am not sure how my extended family or new friends will receive it. I have some old friends who have a general idea but have never known the details. People know I am a strong advocate for positive mental health without really knowing why. Here I am, about to be brutally honest about my story publicly for the first time. I apologize for how long this post is going to be.

I want to begin by saying that I am in no way looking for pity or apologies. I do not want anybody to feel bad for me, or to feel like they could have done better. I am simply sharing this because it has truly shaped me as a person and allowed me to transform into who I am today.

On May 5, 2013, I attempted to end my life.

I didn’t come close to death by any means, but in the moment I genuinely believed it was enough for me to not wake up in the morning. I didn’t want to wake up in the morning. I hadn’t in a long time.

I am not going to share how because I refuse to give other people ideas as to how they can make my mistakes. I am just going to say that it happened, and leave it at that.

I had only been out of my intensive outpatient treatment for three months. While my anxiety improved tremendously after completing the program, my depression worsened significantly. I am not sure if it was triggered by being placed on a new medication (a major side effect to watch for when starting psychiatric medication is suicidality), or if I just couldn’t handle the pressure of living anymore. It was probably a combination of the two. Mix that with dangerously low self-esteem, few genuine friendships, constant feelings of inadequacy and failure, and mental illnesses that were improperly treated— it was the perfect storm.

It’s not to say that my treatment wasn’t helpful; my anxiety was finally under control. The other treatments just weren’t targeting the correct problems. I was on the same antidepressant for five years and had to stop taking it on my own when I realized that it was only making me worse. It took five years to finally receive the diagnosis of Bipolar II disorder (instead of Major Depressive Disorder) that allowed me to understand why the antidepressants weren’t working. I was struggling with disordered eating. I had Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) that wasn’t even acknowledged by a mental health professional until I was 20. In short, I was a mess.

I had convinced myself that I wasn’t worthy of anybody’s time, that I wasn’t worthy of help, that I wasn’t worthy of survival. I felt like a burden to my family. I spent most of my time alone in my room because I couldn’t have conversations without having them turn into screaming matches. I had absolutely no social supports because I isolated myself from everybody I knew in order to minimize any damage I would have caused with my company. I didn’t even say goodbye.

On May 5, 2013, I woke up in the middle of the night and decided I couldn’t take it anymore. It was time for me to go. So I tried.

And I failed.

The next morning was a Monday. I think my mom knew something was wrong because I just came and sat on the couch instead of getting ready for school. I don’t remember how the conversation went— I don’t even remember if there was a conversation. I just remember my mom calling my psychiatrist and telling her I’d hurt myself pretty badly, but then having to call my psychiatrist back myself because it was an attempt to die, and then having to go to the hospital to get checked out before they could ship me off to a psychiatric facility.

The medical hospital decided I was fine, so they decided to send me to a psychiatric hospital for further treatment. They wouldn’t let my mom drive me; I had to ride there in an ambulance by myself. There was no music. The person in the back didn’t even speak to me. Facing backwards while driving made me nauseous.

I waited in the psych hospital’s emergency department for hours. My parents drove and met me there. I didn’t want them to. I didn’t want to see my mom sad. I didn’t want to fight with my dad. It happened anyway. I was not a good person.

When they finally admitted me, there was no room on the general adolescent unit, so they placed me on a unit meant for adolescents with eating disorders. I was up there for a week and my journal indicates that my head was all over the place. One moment I was writing about how much I loved it and wanted help and wanted to get better, the next I was talking about how much I hated it and needed to leave, the next I was talking about how much I wanted to die and that it would never get better for me. It was cyclical and constantly flipping back and forth. Looking back on it, it was a major indicator of my BPD.

The doctor up there could not help me. The only things he did were prescribe me acne medication, tell me that yawns are contagious across cats, dogs, and humans, and increase the antidepressant I had just started to quickly that it made me physically ill. It took days to get antibiotic medication for my injuries. It was gross.

After about a week, I was transferred to the general adolescent unit. The transition was not smooth. They did not tell me I would be leaving the other floor until the time came for it to happen. I had to pack all of my things to be moved. I was having a panic attack as it happened and when you hyperventilate for so long, the lack of oxygen to your extremities makes it nearly impossible to move your hands. They saw it as an act of resisting so they had security closing in on me (at least it felt like it), which made my panic attack even worse. I had a genuine fear of men and it was terrifying to have someone so large and strong be so close when I was completely vulnerable.

Downstairs probably would have been fine if my roommate hadn’t threatened to hurt me the first time I saw her. She didn’t, but it was a constant fear of mine. We had a lot more therapeutic groups and less free time than upstairs.

My visits were not good. I truly believed that I was not worthy of love from my parents and unconsciously did things to try to prove it to them (thanks, BPD). I was a horrible daughter. I said horrible things. I physically and verbally lashed out at home. I needed them to hate me to the extent that I felt like I deserved. They never did. One of the worst feelings in life is looking back on how many times I made them cry.

While I seemed to be doing better (to my doctors, my family, the milieu staff), I was still fighting suicidal thoughts on the inside. Pretending to be okay became my default setting, as I had already spent two and a half years perfecting the art. It really sucks when people only see the outside and then don’t believe the truth. Working in a psychiatric hospital now, I can say that it probably seemed like I was trying to sabotage my discharge and get them to keep me longer. In reality, I just wanted more help.

One evening, the roommate that I was afraid of changed rooms. I woke up to a new person sitting at the end of my bed staring at me. She had taken my glasses from my cubby and placed them on my chest. It was the most uncomfortable moment I have ever experienced in my life. I had nightmares about it. Luckily, that was the day I ended up getting released.

My discharge didn’t go smoothly. I was not ready. I clawed at myself. I yelled at my parents. I cried a lot. The only good thing was that I got to breathe fresh air for the first time in two weeks. When I got home, I barricaded myself in my room. I screamed. I cried. I pushed my dresser over and it destroyed all of the knick knacks my grandmother had gifted me over the years. I still haven’t forgiven myself for this.

Once the two weeks were up, I went back to school as if nothing happened. I don’t think many people noticed I was gone. Those who did notice didn’t ask questions. I went to therapy twice a week. I finished the school year. A month later, I moved away from the only place I’d ever known.

There are still days where things are bad. There are still days that I wish everything would end. Now I am on the right medication, am actively involved in my treatment, and am pushing to be the best I can be so I can use my experiences to help other people. I have the skills to push past these feelings and the resources to turn to if I feel that I can’t. I am no longer afraid to reach out for help before I am in too deep.

For anyone who is struggling, I can truly say that things get better. Without this experience, I would have never realized how desperately I want to help others get through similar struggles. I would have never found who I really was. I would have never found who I wanted to become.

If you are still reading, thank you for listening to my story. If you need support, resources, or don’t know where to start with getting help, don’t hesitate to reach out to me. If you need a friend who gets it, I got you. I’m here to listen to anybody who needs it. My goal is to spread hope.

I survived. Back then, I truly wished I hadn’t. Now, I am eternally grateful that I did.

#trigger warning #mental health awareness #world suicide prevention day #hope #survivor #bpd #borderline personality disorder #bipolar disorder #anxiety #depression #recovery #mental illness #positive mental attitude #fortitude

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fortuitousmind · 6 years

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Creating Connections When Your Self-Worth Tells You No

Contains material strongly centered around social anxiety.

untitled

remove the words

I’m not good enough

from the pages of your

worn-out leather

pocket dictionary that is

smudged

in black ink

with your witty annotations

When you live in a state of persistent negativity, fostering positive relationships can seem like an unreachable milestone. It can feel like the whole world is out to get you, and the only remedy for the tornado of what if’s in your mind looks like a neon sign that says isolate yourself from everyone who could possibly become connected with you.

Fortunately, you may come to learn that these thoughts about everyone hating you and rejecting you are false and it is possible to build healthy relationships with others. Unfortunately, it can take a very long time to understand that.

I have anxiety. My social anxiety used to be so bad that I had to obtain a special hall pass from the guidance office that allowed me to leave class early in order to get to my next destination without falling into a crowd. In class, my leg would shake so bad that my entire desk would rattle. Half of the time it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I hardly spoke. I was too afraid of the idea of saying the wrong thing or sounding boring.

This silence made it really hard for me to make friends. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy— I felt like I wasn’t good enough to interact with or be accepted by other people, so I didn’t interact with other people, leading me to be isolated because I didn’t try to be friends with anyone. I maybe had two or three steady friendships that got me through the day.

I always thought the popular kids hated me. I was at a party a week ago, and a group of popular people from the high school that I moved away from five years ago walked in. I started to panic and genuinely considered leaving because I was afraid of the idea of being confronted by somebody, even though I literally never had a personal negative experience with any of them in my life.

My mind taught me to believe that I was an outcast when I was younger, and those beliefs stuck with me. When they saw me, they talked to me like I was their friend. I learned that I had no reason to be afraid. The thoughts that had me literally shaking to my core when I was 15 were broken down by a simple conversation, and I wish I had been in the headspace to change them years ago.

When you consistently tell yourself that you aren’t worthy of other people’s time, that you will never be accepted because everyone hates you just as much as you hate yourself, making friends is incredibly difficult. It took me years of therapy and self-exploration to realize that I was the only one preventing myself from having the connections that I so strongly desired.

I’ve learned that positive relationships start with me. I can’t rightfully ruminate on my isolation when I haven’t made the effort to reach out to anybody. Relationships are a two-way street. They have to start somewhere, but in order to maintain them, both parties must actively pursue their continuity.

It’s time to start teaching myself to stop staring at those neon signs when they blind me from the opportunities that lie ahead. I am worthy of love. I am worthy of a voice. I am growing to be more comfortable with being heard.

#self worth #anxiety #hope #fortitude #mental health #positive mental attitude #mental health blog #awareness #recovery

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fortuitousmind · 6 years

Text

War Waged on my Own Skin: My Battle with Self Harm

Contains material strongly centered around topics of self harm/cutting.

raw

why do you insist on transforming soft green grass into a strawberry-stained mess? don’t you see the pain it brings to everyone around you? your intricate designs disintegrate into a vast nothingness as you travel further into oblivion.

stop allowing red roses to grow in your garden. their petals have been replaced with thorns that prick your skin at night, and stop being so captivated by their beauty because i can no longer lift a finger to clean up the mess.

crimson is not easily scrubbed from the sidewalk when bleach leaves burns on your skin.

Not everybody spends their high school years silently watching their sanguine soul flow down the drain of the bathroom sink. I would know, because I suffered very much alone. Depression is one hell of a creature. It manages to swallow every last bit of your body until you are incapable of seeing the light from behind its razor-sharp teeth. Weighed down, but weightless. Always hollow.

The first time I ever hurt myself, I was twelve years old. It was a stupid decision over a stupid boy when I was in the sixth grade. I wrote in my journal saying that he made me “emo” and didn’t try to hide the scratches.

The second time was in the fall of seventh grade. Nearly thirteen. I was isolated from my only friend and truly alone. I didn’t know how to cope with the emotional pain, so I made it physical.

The third time, the incident that sent me down the slippery slope that left me permanently scarred, was during the spring later that year.

I’ve just started my junior year of college, nearly twenty-one years old, and still struggling with the most soul-crushing choice I’ve ever made. There are very few areas on my body that do not mock my shortcomings. My right forearm has more scar tissue than skin. It is so hard to get better when you are constantly reminded of the biggest mistake you’ve ever made, and the weakness that comes with being unable to stop.

Addiction starts as a shallow ditch and very quickly deepens into an inescapable black abyss. When somebody mentions addiction, people typically have one thing in mind: drugs. Heroin, oxycontin, cocaine, maybe cigarettes. Minds don’t typically wander to bad habits, certainly when they don’t involve psychoactive substances. _Especially _when they involve a choice.

Yes, I was the one who chose to take a blade to my skin, but I quickly became addicted to the release of endorphins that would surge with each act. I couldn’t stop chasing the high. I kept needing more of that feeling because it’s so much better to feel pain than to feel so empty all the damn time. One wound turns to eight wounds turns to over twenty in one sitting because you lose the control to stop yourself. You don’t realize that with each time, the cuts get a little deeper. You stop feeling everything until you realize you have a huge mess to clean up and parts of your body to cover.

It becomes your outlet for anger. You hate yourself and you deserve to be punished, you tell yourself. You deserve to feel pain because of the pain you put others through. You are a terrible daughter. You are incapable of loving other people properly. The pain is necessary because you deserve absolutely nothing that is remotely better.

It becomes the only way you know how to cope. Healthy methods of getting through tough times are forgotten and overshadowed by self-injurious behaviors. It is the only option. Hurt yourself or keep hurting.

I wish I had known it wasn’t my only option.

I wish I had known that the words I told myself held no truth.

Wishing won’t change what I did, though. It won’t change the chain of events that started when I was only thirteen years old. It won’t remove the scars from my skin. It won’t give me back the countless hours I spent prying apart sharp objects and cleaning up my own blood moments after I lost control, or the friends I lost when I became too much to handle. It won’t give me back missed sleep, missed classes, or missed opportunities to be better. It won’t give me back my entire freshman year of high school, where the longest I went without hurting myself in some way wasn’t even two weeks.

I have lived a third of my life as my own enemy. I can only work to do better from here. I will be better. I am still learning to love myself and the skin that I am in, but I am exponentially further from where I started despite some slip-ups along the way. I am still moving even if my steps are in the wrong direction. Healing is not linear, and there is no concrete marker to say that I have made it. This will be an ongoing battle for the rest of my life.

I am ready.

I have my armor.

#trigger warning #self harm #awareness #recovery #mental health blog #mental illness

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