For those of you that actively keep up with this blog, you know that it has been mainly focused on my current journey of recovery.
But for every current story, there is a back story, and I’m in the process of writing mine.
I’ve always wanted to write a book, but have never felt like I had much of a story to tell.
The truth is, I’ve always had a story to tell, I’ve just never had the voice to tell it.
This past year, the good and the bad, and all of the incredible people that have made this journey their own, has given me my voice.
If my words, my story, can help one person from having to walk their road alone, then it’s all worth it.
These words are difficult to write, but painful ones often are.
I can still vividly picture that first time. I was so incredibly angry. And hurt. And broken. And completely at the end of my rope.
I don’t even think that it was my intentions to cut that night. I barely even knew anything about it, other than I’d made fun of some girl when I was in the eighth grade for pretending to do it. I’d seen it on tv, and there was a girl in my youth group that had clearly been struggling with it. But to me, she was much different than I was. She was strange. And dressed the part all too well. And me? Well I was one of the oldest kids in our youth group, and definitely had seniority there.
After all, I’d grown up there, gotten baptized there, said goodbye to my dad there, and was on the leadership team. I was planning on pursuing vocational ministry after high school. I was “that girl”. The one who had it all together one the outside.
No one had any idea the private hell I was going through on the inside. The demons I was fighting or the war I fought with myself every day. I hated myself. I was so empty on the inside. I couldn’t understand how God could love someone like me. I had held in so much pain and hurt for so long, that when it finally found its way out, it was fighting for my life; I was fighting for my life, and I didn’t even know it. Before I knew it, the mirror was in pieces on my bathroom floor, and I had entered a world I never wanted to be a part of. Before I knew it, instead of picking up the mess I’d made, I was making it bigger than I’d ever intended.
I think I’d convinced myself that it wouldn’t hurt and that I didn’t have the guts to actually hurt myself. That was my way of justifying the soon to be addiction I was about to embark on. I thought that I could cut a few times, get it out of my system, and carry on with my life. How very wrong I was.
I woke up the next morning with so much regret, and relief that it was fall break. By the time school came around on Monday, no one would have any idea what had gone on in that bathroom. But that’s the thing about self harm, you think you can cut a few times, relieve some stress, and that’s that. What you don’t realize is the sense of relief you feel immediately after you cut, that sense of calm in the midst of internal chaos, and you begin to crave that. You become so desperate for a moment of peace, that you’ll do anything to keep it around. By the time you realize how destructive your newly found self medication is, you’re in over your head and in the middle of a full blown addiction.