A Spectrum of Illness

If someone were to read this, I wonder if they would see the pathetic ramblings of a normal girl, or the day to day life of a twisted person. I can’t really tell where I stand in the spectrum. Maybe I don’t even qualify as sick. Maybe I’m just like every other scared and pathetic and weak little girl out there, waiting for my white knight to come get me. Maybe I’m an ungrateful bitch whose been handed everything in life and is still too scared to cross the street on my own. Or maybe, I’m just me: alone and scared in my own head and wondering how to escape. Wondering if everyone feels like this. Wondering if there is an end in sight. I’ve never been very eloquent or good with words so I often feel that the scope of my thoughts is not well relayed. I am not a pessimist. I tend to see the best in everyone and everything. Except myself of course. If it’s a friend, a teacher, a stranger, I could make up excuses for them all day. A bad situation I can always see the good in. So the place where my thinking takes a wrong turn is me. I somehow fail to see or grasp anything good or worthwhile in myself. I don’t feel worthy of companionship or love. I feel that I’m doing people a disservice by agreeing to date them. There are so many other better people out there (especially ones without a plethora of self esteem and emotional issues). I simply cannot see in myself what I cherish so readily in others.

Muss Es Sein?

I just read The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Now I’m not a particularly good analyst of books—sometimes I read too quickly and miss meaning, sometimes I come away with a different meaning altogether. I don’t care to read prolific prose on the meaning of our lives and I detest most books that scholarly people call things like “a paradigm of intellectual media for our era”. Anyway, where I was headed with this before that tangent was that when I read a book and post my thoughts on this blog, take what I say with a grain of salt. I don’t actually wish to be taken seriously or to debate my point of view or provide sound evidence for these thoughts. You have been warned.

Back to the original point on The Unbearable Lightness of Being. The title is the brain child of one of the characters who finds lightness, not heaviness, as the hardest thing to bear. If heaviness is characterized by the burdens that one accrues throughout life, then most people would argue that this heaviness is what gives rise to the weariness, the melancholy, and the despair that many people feel. Heaviness is the enemy. Heaviness is negative and dark. Lightness is envied and striven for. Those people who can cast of the shackles of responsibility and debt, those people who are free—how we envy them! for they are bound by nothing and may do as they please.

In reality, those of us who have adopted an existential viewpoint suffer from this “unbearable lightness”. For what life do we live when we have ties to nothing? We have one single life to live and it is in that one life that we come to know we are nothing. It is incredibly painful to live each day unburdened and unfettered to the future. Who would have thought that it is not our commitments and our burdens but instead it is our freedom that brings the angst of existentialism to light.

One other part of the book that I really identified with is a character who repeatedly questions his purpose—his “Es muss sein” (it must be). He is searching for the one thing in his life that is necessary. He is in love with his wife but he realizes that he could have fallen in love with any other woman who came along. He moves to several different countries so his heritage is no source of es muss sein. We (or I personally) would like to think that should we have the opportunity to live our lives again, there would be some calling, some passion that we would drift towards every time. What is that essence of our being? What is my es muss sein?

Love me some mumford and sons

Hospital for Self Harm

In April of 2011, I was taken to the hospital for an incidence of self harm. Although that was 6 months ago, I really wish to make public my experience since it seems to be a common query among self harmers (e.g. what will happen if I go to the hospital, how will I be treated etc). First off, I should be honest in saying that it was not my own choice to go, but it was probably good that I did. Below is my story in its entirety.

I had received some bad news regarding a job prospect the previous day (read: I was rejected) and was not in a very good place mentally. My roommate was going out of town for the weekend and I knew I was going to take advantage of the empty room. I planned it out in detail. I waited for my other two roommates to leave and then I started drinking. I knocked out two bottles of wine and sat in my room with the door locked and the lights off so my other roommates would think I was asleep when they got home. I started thinking, wallowing, itching under my skin. I called a friend from home (who does not go to college with me) to try and talk it out. I don’t remember what I said but I guess I sounded pretty bad. After we hung up the phone he got in his car and started driving to me. I started cutting. I got out a brand new razor blade and started the cathartic process of relief that I had so come to enjoy. But even in my cutting there was a believed that they were not deep enough and not serious enough. In my head they always needed to be bigger, bleed more, hurt more. I had laid down some towels to prevent making a mess but it was apparently to no avail. I hopped in the shower to try and rinse off but the blood just kept pouring down in thick red ribbons. I could not ask it to stop—it was after all my own doing. The blood covered my towels and my floor, my clothes and the couch, my leg and the rug. Finally the wine got to me and I passed out in my bed. I awoke at 5:30 am to the aforementioned friend calling me to let him into my apartment building. I had not known he was coming and I was desperate to quickly clean up my mess. I had awoken to a horrific scene: My comforter was caked in my blood as I had simply fallen asleep on top of it without bandaging my wounds. Following my bloody footprints out of my room I found the shower had blood in the tub, on the curtain and on the floor. There would not be enough time. I threw on some basketball shorts and spandex so there would be no visible bleeding then threw on a smile to go answer the door. I suggested we go grab some breakfast at the grocery store so that we wouldn’t have to go inside my room. We get to the grocery store and are walking down an aisle when things in my vision get rather fuzzy. I don’t feel good at all. I’m either going to throw up or pass out. I choose the later. I come to, embarrassed, and rush to leave the store. I pass out again. My friend knows that I have hurt myself and thinks I should go to the hospital. I think we should just go out for breakfast instead. We start driving to my favorite diner but have to pull over since I continue to pass out while sitting up. I am convinced it is simply the result of a two-bottles-of-wine type hangover. He calls a nurses hotline and become adamant that we go. I finally cave and we set off to the hospital

We get to the hospital and I have to check in. The first thing you do is tell them why you’re there. I blithely note that I passed out in a grocery store and chuckle at such an idea. When the burse sits me down to examine me, I cautiously reveal the deep gashes covering the entirety of my right thigh. She is entirely unfazed and dryly continues to ask me questions which include “were you drinking when this happened”. I decide to answer everything honestly since I don’t want to seem like a crazy person with something to hide. I answer these question in shame. There is a young nurse or scribe in training who does her best to stay positive and joke with me. She informs me that I will be getting staples. They’ll have to numb me first of course. They ask my friend to leave. Sharp needles deliver stinging anesthetic to fresh and open wounds. Over and over and over again the needle stings and burns. I have never been in such pain. I, who takes great pride in my stoicism and pain tolerance, I begin to sweat. I grip the edge of the bed with such fervor that my knuckles turn white and an involuntary moan escapes. My blood pressure drops and I’m on the brink of losing consciousness. I put my hand in the path of the needle and mumble an “I don’t feel so good”. I want him to stop. The doctor tells me to move my hand. He moves my hand for me.

Finally, he is done and the nurse lays me flat so I don’t pass out. Now the staples can start. They use a staple gun. On my leg. To hold the flesh together. It turns out that the scar tissue that already clutters up my leg does not take the numbing medication well. Every time a staple shoots into the hypersensitive scar tissue, I twitch and jump in pain. 77. Seventy seven staples. In my thigh. Holding the tattered pieces of my flesh together. I marvel. 77. They are almost beautiful and I’m a little proud. Although no one will ever know of my 77 staples, I will remain proud.

Next comes the crisis counselor. He asks “what is a nice young girl like you doing in here”. I explain and revert back to my usual story (I haven’t done it in a long time, I was too stressed, I realize it was a poor decision). I later found out that he called my therapist that I see on a regular basis to corroborate my story. I am thankful that I keep my lies vague yet consistent. I give him my “I’m OK, really” speech and he agrees that I’m ok to go. He has to contact my college though, and they do not agree. I have to be escorted back to our health center by a cop in a police car. I am mortified. It’s the cop’s turn to ask me what happened so he can write up an official report. I hang my head and stare out the window and retell my story. He is in disbelief and asks why I would ever do that to myself. I continue staring out the window without an answer. I get to the health center to find a counselor and a doctor. So many peoples’ lives I’m screwing with. They were probably enjoying a nice quiet Sunday until my dumbass showed up. I give them the same story but put on an extra large smile. They have the power to pull me out of school, suspend me, or call my parents. Nothing comes of the meeting. They tell me it’s my decision to call my parents. I smile and nod and promise to tell them tomorrow when I know I never will. Add it to the growing list of lies. They set me up to meet with my regular therapist. They call the Dean of Students. I am that person. Crazy, sick, suicide risk, in need of help. Should we let her stay on campus? They let me go and I limp my way out of the building as piles of gauze droop off my leg sagging with each step. I finally make it back to my apartment 12 hours later and make attempts to explain away the blood and my limp. I go with nosebleed. Each step I take is painful. For the next week the staples will itch and tear and tug at my skin—tearing it apart and holding it together. They get caught on my clothes and pull. My roommates seem skeptical as I pull the heart monitor patches off ym chest. Falling asleep that night, I can’t believe the number of people who have now seen me in my weakest moment. Weak and pathetic. The pity me, and they shouldn’t. Pity someone who is unfortunate due to chance, not by choice.

In the end, it was probably good that I went but given the choice, I would not go again. I was fortunate at the time to have very comprehensive insurance under my parents which I now no longer posses. Although I was treated kindly by the staff I felt the hassle and fuss was disproportionate to my level of need. If stitches are all you need, perhaps an urgent care center would be better suited to those needs. Even then, it is very rare to self harm to the point of needing stitches. Almost anything you inflict on yourself will heal with time. Many people say that stitches help prevent scarring but I can only say that having my wounds stapled back together did nothing to reduce the scarring. However, for anyone who happens to read this, if you are ever in crisis or feeling severely out of control, please please please never hesitate to go to the hospital. For me, I had already come down out of my anxiety state when I got there which is the main reason I feel it was unnecessary.

Eating Issues

While in therapy (which I am no longer in fyi) it was easy to discuss the elephant in the room: my self harm. The stress of college and my struggle with perfectionism were also easy targets. Even in the privacy of therapy though I could not openly discuss certain things. I have always seen myself as strong and I wanted any faults of character to be ones of strength. Perfectionism, pressure to succeed, competitiveness. While most would agree that when taken to excess they are detrimental, they are still qualities that people admire. Even self loathing and criticism is accepted without a second glance. One thing that I could never bring myself to discuss was my eating habits. To talk about food and the desire to be thin would mean admitting that I am subject to societies perceptions of beauty. It would be admitting defeat. My frequent binges would be admitting weakness. The way I feel powerless around food and my desire to control it all feel like an admission of my worst flaws. To me, talking about my eating issues had a certain air of pathetic about it. I am not underweight nor overweight and thus, it cannot be serious. It does not warrant attention. My food issues still feel like something to be brushed aside with the rest of the teenage-girl-esqe gossip. My self harm on the other hand now THAT was a serious issue worth talking about. Visible and concrete and in need of immediate attention. But at present my food issues have become the largest source of distress.

Stuck

It’s hard to verbalize the feeling of being stuck inside your own head. After all, isn’t that where we all must reside? But it’s not simply the thoughts in your head. It’s a tumultuous swirling of erratic and chaotic noise that you can neither pacify nor disregard. All you want to be able to do is straighten everything out for a second; stop and collect yourself. But it doesn’t work that way and it’s certainly not that easy. In most situations using your head is an advantage. Not here. You can’t use it. It’s your head that’s screwed up in the first place. So you must rely on something physical to bring yourself back round to reality. Walking, running, eating, cutting. Whatever it takes.

I’ve been trying to think about why I have such a hard time sharing my emotions with other people. And I think it boils down to this: I hate to be viewed as weak. But in the end, that’s all I am. I’m just like every other weak and silly and pathetic girl. Afraid to end up alone, afraid of the crowds, phobias beyond belief. Afraid of everything. Weak and fragile and just like everyone else. I had always put myself a little higher. I thought I was stronger, better, something-er. But again, I find myself average and just like every other goddamn person out there. And that infuriates me. But I won’t show it. I’ll bury deep inside so that no one has to know that I’m not anything special. Eventually some guy will fall and think he;s snagged someone unique. In reality, it will be me. The usual. Just a little better at stuffing it all back down inside of me so that no one hears me cry at night.

Wow

I had completely forgotten I was supposed to be writing here. I have many thoughts tucked away in the archives of my computer and will be posting them a day at a time until they are all out of my system. Here is the first of many to come dealing with my self harm:

Despite feeling a lot better these days, sometimes I can feel the panic and trembling feeling come back. I start to feel trapped. I feel trapped on every level—I’m trapped in my head, trapped in my skin, trapped in the room, the building, the campus. It’s the scariest feeling I know. It’s immobilizing to the point where, lo and behold, I actually am trapped. Sitting in a corner of a room trying to will my brain into a settled state. But it’s not to be coerced so easily. It’s not something that I can talk myself out of because at that point, I’m too far gone. My brain can’t register anything except the jittery impulses racing through my nerves. I become aware of every nuance of chaos. Air isn’t just something you breathe anymore; it’s trillions of vibrating molecules bouncing off me and around me. I can feel my skin start to crawl. It’s in this moment that I always realize exactly how crazy I really am. It internalizes as beyond repair. Huddled up as small as I can get, hugging my knees, I must be the perfect picture of a crazy person. I try to cry. I think of sad things and emotional movies. I need a release of some sort. I want to be like normal people and sob on someone’s shoulder. But sadness isn’t the right word and tears are not my reaction. I try to describe what I’m feeling. Pathetic. Angry. Stupid. Frustrated. Bottled up. Scared. Alone. Fragile. Weak. There is nowhere for these emotions to go, so I keep them up here in my head. Eventually, they scream at me so loud that I have to listen. It would appear to the outside world that I have a breakdown. Slash a razor blade across my thighs and revel in the physical pain. For me, it is not a breakdown but rather a fresh start. My emotions and feelings are dull and throbbing akin to the fresh wounds on my legs. But it’s bought me several hours of time where I can be back in control. Until it starts all over again.

Shopping Trip

To the drug store this morning. I go to a different one every time. I'm afraid of them noticing. Noticing that I always buy gauze and band aids and things to keep my broken self together. I'm afraid they will ask me how I get hurt so often. I'm mostly afraid of my own reply, and my inability to admit that I do it to myself.

I feel a desire to finally explain the title of this blog. It relates to one of my favorite authors, Albert Camus. For anyone who has not read "The Stranger" I recommend that you do. It will put your life in the light of existentialism, in a world where your life is irrelevant. For someone like me who is a scientist, a non-believer, it cast doubt on my very reasons for being alive. But I digress. Camus wrote a short essay called "The Myth of Sisyphus" in which he replies to the age old Greek myth. Sisyphus is forever doomed to push a rock to the top of a large mountain. Upon completing his task, it rolls back to the bottom and Sisyphus must begin again. Camus infers that Sisyphus must be happy in his plight--he is never disappointing. He never hopes for more only to be let down. In knowing his eternal fate, he finds relief rather than punishment.

I would challenge people to think about that. If you knew exactly where you were going and how your life would turn out, you wouldn't bother to worry about much. Funny what a little perspective can do to you.

There are people out there prettier than me. People who run faster than me, people who are smarter, funnier, and better than me. And I can’t fix that. There are certain things in life that you have to live with. Genetic predispositions and inherited features. I can’t change how tall I am or how smart I am. I will never be an Olympic athlete and I’ll never win a nobel prize. There is one thing that I get to change, to improve my status in life: I can be the thinnest. Whether or not people want to admit it, thin is equated with beauty. And not just beauty. Thin is will power and dedication. It’s saying no to ice cream and yes to 6am workouts. Thin is light and airy and wearing whatever you want. It’s what people envy and strive to be. Fat is lazy and disgusting and pathetic. Incapable and useless and stupid. Fat is where I am now. But I can be better. For once maybe, I can actually do something better. Change something for the better. No more swearing to do well on a test only to fail again. Going on run after run and never improving. Promising to learn new material, to keep up with reading, to actually learn something for once, only to be perpetually and painfully disappointed. This is in my control now, and I can’t fail again.

Two's a Crowd

More and more I’m beginning to fear relationships. There is so much to them that I don’t know how to be comfortable with. Plus, how can I be responsible for someone else’s happiness, someone else’s emotions, when I can’t even keep a reign on mine? Relationships require mutual need for each other and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to admit that I need someone else in my life. The other person needs to be needed. And I can’t offer that. Not to mention the mutual trust and honesty which I feel will rip me apart. And then there’s the intimacy. I find it near impossible to willingly take of my clothes in front of anyone. My body is revolting and made even more unpalatable by the scars that ladder up my tree-trunk thighs. No amount of alcohol has ever made me feel ok naked. And try as I might, no number of drunken one night stands has ever made me feel less prudish. I’m starting to worry I’ll never find the right relationship after all the people I’ve pushed away and told no. There have been so many people who care about me that I turn away. And worse yet are the ones who tell me they love me and then seem to find it ok to never speak to me again—I know it’s my fault that they can’t ever be around be anymore but it hurts a lot that they can so easily abandon me. Some friendship I thought I had turned into unwanted romances. I always feel used after that. Especially because I’m not pretty enough to be actually wanted. I’m sure I’m a backup, a second choice. And the longer I stay out of a relationship, the more comfortable I become with being alone. I’ve always done it this way and I’m okay. So I don’t need anyone right? Relationships feel like an intrusion; something that I have to deal with and something I have to work around. They cause me undue anxiety with the pressure to be someone else and the expectations to share and be happy and be intimate. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to do it. I feel like I’m walking around with 10 of me in my head, all telling me different things. And the listen to your heart bullshit? Does anyone ever stop to think that their heart is a giant muscle? Might as well go with listen to your quadriceps. So it’s back to thinking with your brain, but what do you do when your brain manages to simultaneously tell you different things? I can’t listen to all of them; most of all I can’t listen to myself.