Something I have been delving into more and more as I have progressed through recovery has been writing about my trauma. Here’s a glimpse of what I’ve been working on.
***TRIGGER WARNING FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF ABUSE, TRAUMA, SUICIDE ATTEMPTS, AND VARIOUS SELF HARMING AND EATING DISORDERED BEHAVIORS***
unfolding into myself I am coming home to my body where I’ve never belonged before There’s an ache and a burn and some sort of stretch into a scary but exciting reality I feel like I’m seeing things for the first time Like maybe I just got glasses without ever realizing I was blind. My body is my vessel It is not my responsibility to anyone to make it attractive— It’s for my own pleasure and use and that is all. I think I am unfolding into who I want to be. There’s a new longing to be alive To love those around me To see and hear and experience new things. The last time I remember wanting to be alive was 11 months ago now. I still don’t know what prompted it this time. All I know is that my future plans are finally getting me excited And now they really seem within my reach. Somehow all of this is becoming real And I don’t want to stop it.
i am the same person Sometimes I think that I’m being born again, But I don't think that’s true. I’m still the same person that took the pills That went to the bridge planning to fall That bought the bleach intending to drink That ate the food and turned it inside out That marred the skin now unrecognizable. I think somewhere in that destruction I had to realize That I was not born to die But that living had to happen That I had shit to do. I still made the calls Still stopped myself on the brink of dying To be cared for To be loved To be alive. And somehow Eventually I learned that I needed to do it That I wanted to do it And that maybe Just maybe I really wanted to be alive all along.
First times The first time I cut I was 14. I was a freshman in high school. I had failed one of my midterms and I deserved to be punished. That was the year I first decided that I wanted to die, Exactly a month after the first time I cut. My parents found out two weeks after that. I sat on the kitchen floor sobbing while my dad screamed at me that I just needed to “change my fucking state” while my mom laughed uncomfortably, baffled at the idea that I thought I was stupid. The first time I attempted to make myself throw up I was 15. I was sophomore in high school. I couldn’t actually do it because I was scared of putting my hand that far in my mouth, but boy did I try. That was the year of my first diet after I carved the word “FAT” into my stomach and my dad laughed and said it was ridiculous. That was the year of my first outright panic attacks, too, The first one being during intermission at my ballet recital. I was sobbing and hyperventilating and I couldn’t feel my hands and I couldn’t really talk and everything was shaking. And then ten minutes later, (despite the fact that I was still sobbing and hyperventilating and I couldn’t feel my hands and I couldn’t really talk and everything was shaking) I was onstage and smiling at the same time--and most likely disassociating. A month later I would do the same thing (but three times during one show instead of just once) at my jazz recital. My mother, the stage manager, would pass me in the hallway sobbing, hyperventilating, and biting my nails, And all she would say was “stop biting your nails” Like I wasn’t dying inside. The first time I promised myself I was going to die I was 16. I was a junior in high school. The week of Thanksgiving I wrote in my journal that I was going to kill myself after our production of the Nutcracker was over but before the New Year. All of my friends had left for college that year, One moving to Florida without telling me, The other stopping replying to my texts despite going to school only half an hour away. That was also the year I started hyperventilating and crying myself to sleep every night because my religion teacher scared the absolute shit out of me. Most of that year I looked like I got into a battle with a butcher because my arms were so f*cked up. The first time I started throwing out my meals I was 17. I was a senior in high school. I would bring my breakfast into my room, Throw it into the plastic bag with my lunch in it, And then throw it out when I got to school. That was also the year when going to Spanish class everyday made me want to throw up, The year when every time I would get called on to talk or had a partner activity My throat would start closing, my voice would start shaking, and I would start dripping with sweat. When I was 18 my dad decided it would be a good idea to take a picture of my feet on the scale every day and send it to one of my dance teachers that was a fitness instructor, along with a list of what I was committed to eating that day. That was the year that after I gained five pounds my first semester of college, one of the first questions my dad asked when I came home from winter break was “hey, I see you’ve gained some weight. Are you okay with that?” That was the year I blacked out most of, labeling it my “mentally stable” year, only to remember out of the blue two years later that I was still weighing myself and sending it to my old dance teacher the whole time. When I was 19 my professor called the cops on me twice because I was suicidal. The first time I think she may have been a little over-concerned—I wasn’t quite planning on anything. The second time I told her that I bought bleach I was going to drink later that week, and then laughed. That was the year I started cutting again, for the first time in over a year. That was the year my parents mentioned that my brother could be deployed to Afghanistan. That was the year I couldn’t seem to get myself out of bed, had panic attacks every day, and started performing in everything until I was so stressed all the time that I was distracted from how much I wanted to be dead. That was the year that every time I started packing to go home, I started having panic attacks every day and eventually ended up in a hospital for being suicidal--again. And that was the year that I finally figured out how to make myself throw up. When I was 20 I started making myself throw up multiple times a day. That was the year I finally started seeing a therapist that did their job and she told me that my upbringing wasn’t normal. That was the year that I thought it was miraculous that I didn’t land myself in a hospital first semester despite (kind of) trying to kill myself the Monday of Gala week and then having plans to jump off the bridge after the Friday show. That was the year that my face was swollen from throwing up so much, got up in the middle of class to puke and come back like nothing happened, had a roommate who saw how much food I bought for a binge and told me I ate like I was pregnant. That was the year that I couldn’t see in my modern class one day because I had barely eaten anything in the past couple weeks. That was the year I brought myself to a bridge after dress rehearsal for Fac/Grad and then had my therapist walk me to the emergency room from our session the morning after. That was the year that when my therapist said that if I could promise to stay alive for the rest of the show that week, that I could wait to go inpatient, I said that I couldn’t, that if I was going to wait for the show to be over before going to the ER, I would be dead. Being 21, this is the first year that I truly tried to die, all the way. This is the year that I tried to kill myself three times over the course of four weeks. This is the year that I tooknumber-something anti-depressants at once. This is the year when I was in an ambulance for the first time, when I puked Zoloft and stomach acid in my backyard whilepersonand a bunch of firefighters watched. This is the year when I started to burn in addition to cutting so that I could give myself permanent scarring. This is the year where I had to drop all but one of my classes after I couldn’t get myself to go because I was too busy disassociating and staring at a wall for four hours. But. Somehow this is also the year that I’m trying again. This is the year that I’m actually starting to feel better. This is the year that I made my living a priority and decided to go into partial for five weeks. This is the year that I remember how I was successful in recovery for a period last year and find inspiration in it instead of shame that I slipped. This is the year that I’m trying to figure out who I am without all the shit, Where I’m putting in the effort to stop the self-destruction, Where I’m taking the chance to believe that recovery will be worth it. This is the year that I’m letting myself breathe a little more and trying to take advantage of my break from schoolwork, Where I’m trying to find something in my life resembling balance. This is the year that instead of busying myself so much that I don’t have time to be human, I’m trying to learn how to live without all the misery (or at least less of it). This is the year that instead of fighting the therapy, I’m doing my best to let it help me. This is the year that I’m trying to be more honest with my friends, Where I’m trying to let them care about me, And where I’m trying to see why it is that they do. This is the year that I’m trying to lean into the discomfort, Where I’m trying to figure all this out and learn how to want to be alive. This is the year that I’m doing my best to believe that I deserve this— That I deserve to be loved, That I deserve to recover, That I deserve to be here.
I promise I am doing my best When I stop wanting to die even if it’s only for a couple of minutes I feel like I’m doing something wrong. It feels so unfamiliar That I start to panic And that’s when I really want to dig in And make everything worse. Therapist Ryan gives me a “diary card” to fill out for each therapy session And on it I have to rate my suicidal ideation on a 1-10 scale for each day. I hesitate in putting anything below an eight. I have the idea that if I do He'll stop believing that I’d ever actually do it Even though, if anything, Despite being less suicidal lately, I’m more willing to do something about it And go all the way At the times when the feeling comes back. It’s not that I want to die all the time. For the most part, I don’t Or at least am apathetic towards the idea. But then there are other times Once or twice a day Where, mostly after talking to someone I like or doing something I enjoy I get so fucking sad So fucking suicidal That it feels like it’s going to swallow me. I don’t know how to rate it if it’s only for a few minutes a day, Where in those few minutes I’m at a 9.5 or 10 But then am at a 5 or 6 for most of the rest of the day (and I know 5 or 6 may seem like a lot, but that’s fairly low for me). I get nervous when I start becoming less suicidal, Which I know sounds weird if you’ve never wanted to die before. But when you’re suicidal, Or at least when I am, Suicide is always your default (and best and safest and most comforting) Backup plan. It’s the backup plan that lets you tap out if you feel like you can’t take it anymore. Therapist Ryan keeps asking if I feel ready to take suicide off the table And all that crosses my mind each time is that it makes living more dangerous More unsafe More unbearable. It feels like it’s impossible to live Unless I give myself the option of dying. I think people oftentimes miss the point of self-sabotage, But to me it makes perfect sense. Because in your recovery There is a danger. There’s, of course, the danger of your failing, Which I think people understand at least at a basic level. But that’s not it. The more pressing danger is the danger of not having a way out. The idea of taking suicide of the table makes me feel trapped and claustrophobic Because what if, Despite what everyone says, The desire of killing myself never goes away? What if even when I commit to living All I want to do is die? What if living isn’t all it’s cracked up to be? Self-sabotage is the safety net. I don’t know what it is to feel happy, or even neutral, For an elongated period of time. Sure I have my moments of laughing at friends’ jokes, Enjoying a good book, Being excited for fun plans. But I always have in the back of my brain That it’s only a matter of time before it all comes rushing back Before I stop feeling everything to the point I end up staring at a wall for hours Before I curl up on my bed exhausted despite not having done anything Before being a human feels like it’s going to kill me Before I’m so exhausted that even the idea of going through with it and killing myself sounds like far too much effort. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop. So if I seem to be resisting recovery, Feeding into everything that hurts, It’s because everything in my brain and body is telling me to. But please be patient with me. I promise I’m doing my best. I promise that I’m doing my best To drag myself out of bed To eat like a normal person (and not throw it up) To avoid hurting myself To stop wanting to die Even though everything in me is screaming at me not to, Telling me that if I let it go that I’m going to die anyway, Telling me that if I let it go it will only make things worse. But I promise that I’m trying. I’m trying to make the resistance inch away, I’m trying to keep trying. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to do this Like it seems like this is too big to fix on my own But I know that I have to do this for myself And that no one can do it for me. So please please please be patient with me. I promise you that I’m doing my best.
what is keeping me here I’m beginning to realize that at some point these should begin to progressively get more hopeful. Right? So I’m thinking that maybe if I fudge it and force it for now, maybe it will cause me to move in that direction more genuinely as I continue. And just to be clear, I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I’m totally just winging it. Therapist Ryan keeps asking me what’s keeping me here, What’s stopping me from just going to the bridge or parking garage And just jumping without a second thought and what’s stopping me from taking all my pills again. And to be honest I’m not totally sure. But there’s an answer that I’ve settled on at least for now. I think what’s keeping me here is a small inkling of hope That maybe Just maybe Things might actually get better. It’s the inkling of hope That maybe I won’t always want to die That maybe I’ll amount to something eventually That maybe I can actually make some sort of impact on someone That maybe I can do some good if I stay. And at least for now What’s keeping me here is that small inkling And the idea that I can always kill myself tomorrow, That, of all things to procrastinate on, This is probably a good one. But I don’t know. Therapist Ryan insists that he thinks there’s something more Some desire that I have that is outweighing my desire to die. He may be right, But I have absolutely no idea what it is.
I am not making a dance. I have become an anxious avoidant subtype. I will not go to the bridge since I almost jumped off February 11 March 18 August 22.Personcan kiss his wishes of me going to the top of that parking garage goodbye since I almost jumped off September 18. I will not look at myapartmentpillslifeexistence since I overdosed (yes I overdosed on a mixture of existence and Zoloft) August 29. (but I have to look at the Zoloft because it is still prescribed to me even after takingnumber-something at once.) I am not making a dance. Dance makes me sick. Right? Or do I do that? “You don’t have an eating disorder, you’re doing it.” I’M DOING IT I’M DOING IT I’M DOING IT Just change your fucking state. Dance makes me angry and makes me feel sick. Doesn’t piece of shit bulimia make me sick enough? or not.“Dance is a source of both healing and trauma.” Right now I think that maybe it’s just trauma. The healing has muted itself and everything just fucking hurts. So I am not making a fucking dance. If it were up to me I’d never make a stupid dance again but I need this stupid degree. So eventually I will really need to make your stupid dance. The stupid dance is more important than my living, That point has made itself abundantly clear. “Why do you want to withdraw for the semester?” “Well I’m not really functioning as a human.” “Huh...not functioning? Well, you just really need to stay in this class.” All for the stupid fucking dance. *Tries to kill myself three times over the course of a month, still needs to complete a class that’s pointless anyway* But for now I am not making a fucking dance. So sue me.
SAVING MY BUTTERFLIES 