Self-Harm as I Know It

Two years ago today I took a blade to my wrist for the last time. This isn’t because it was the last time I wanted to take a blade to my wrist, oh no, the last time I wanted to was last week. But two years ago today was the last time I did, and I pray to God, the last time I ever will.

The thing about self-harm is that I didn’t do it to hurt myself- I did it to make myself feel better. I know some people do it because the physical pain is easier to deal with and quantify than the emotional pain. For me, it was never like that. I cut my wrist to feel better about myself as a person. I still feel the need to hurt myself to feel better about who I am. When I feel like a bad person—that I’ve hurt someone or have done something wrong to another—I feel the desire to cut. Because, surely, if I inflict the pain on myself that I’ve cause another then I will have balanced out my misdeeds.

The only issue with this is that, frequently, the hurt I think I caused didn’t actually exist. Every minor slip up, every minuscule issue I perceived sent me crashing. How could I live with myself if I didn’t balance out my karmic credit within the world? The answer was that I couldn’t. I cut in order to make that perceived moral debt even again.

These days when I get these feelings I like to analyze the situation. What did I do wrong? Why did I do it? How can I talk to the person I think I’ve hurt and gauge how they’re actually feeling? How can I make it up to them? Karmic debts can be payed with more than bloodshed. . . so I’ve come to discover. The best way to do this is usually to admit wrongdoing and apologize. This doesn’t always make me feel better. I think this is a rather shitty way to solve my problems of self-loathing at any and all wrong doing.

This then requires me to find other ways of coping with my decisions and actions. Lately my favorite way to do such is the obsess over my little family of succulents: Harold, Stacia, Phoebe, Monica, and Rachel (yes there is a Friends theme in there). I also enjoy coloring, which, admittedly, is slightly juvenile, but it works so who cares? Two years ago I never would have been able to accept, or even think, that something so simple could replace self-harm. And maybe two years ago it wouldn’t have worked. I was a different person then. I was unmedicated, over my head buried in activities to absorb my time and thoughts, unable to come to terms with my past, and most of all, dishonest with myself and everyone around me.

These days I’m okay with not doing everything (and being the best in everything I do), with taking time to myself, and loving myself for all my flaws and mistakes. I like to think I’m pretty cool and am a pretty good person. In recent months I’ve learned it’s okay to be proud of yourself and to brag about your accomplishments- especially when it comes to recovery and mental health wins. No matter how small they seem. Even if I don’t quite manage to do the healthy thing, but do resist the urge to take a step backwards, I like to reward myself and praise my actions. Give myself a theoretical pat on the back (or an literal cupcake) for my positive actions.

Not going backwards is the equivalent to a forward step when it comes to mental health.

So go me. I’ll be having a cupcake in celebration of my victory, and toasting to me today. Something I’ve learned is 100% okay and good for continuous forward movement. Here’s to the next year of being clean and loving who I am.

Writing as I Know It

This is a slam poem I wrote a little over a year ago, you are welcome to listen to it without reading this preface, but the preface is here if you would like context.

I wrote this poem initially in response to a question that was asked in class- “What makes words so powerful?” From there I journeyed into myself as to why I find my shelter in words, and why they are my safe place to hide when everything else seems to be going wrong. There are darker themes within this poem, and I just want my friends and loved ones to know that the darker themes I talk about have passed in my life, and that I’m doing really well now. So, please take a listen, and feel free to talk to me about anything.

Also, please enjoy the cute picture of my cat to lighten things up.

Caged Words

 

Friends as I Know Them

It’s been a little over a year since I last cut. . . actually, that’s a lie. I did once at the beginning of the school year. However, I refused to let that mistake reset me on my road to recovery- I only left a few marks and then put it down, so I consider it to be unproblematic in the grand scheme of things.

The issue is when I moved to Iowa I had no friends. For God’s sake I didn’t know anyone in this entire state. I simply leapt in and prayed that I would walk on top of the water instead of sinking beneath the waves. The first semester was, in a sense, easy. I was preoccupied by moving to a new place and settling into a new cranny within the world that I had not previously explored. This semester has been different. Despite the fact that I have a wonderful boyfriend, and that my roommates are goddesses, I can’t help but feeling an overwhelming sense of loneliness. I look around me and I see everyone out and about with their friends, but, the fact is, I don’t have anyone who I hang out with outside of the classroom or my dorm around here. If I lived alone I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to besides my boyfriend.

This thought is the wave that is threatening to pull me under. To be honest, I haven’t had real friends in two years. The kind you hang out with all the time, always talk to, and know everything about you. I used to have four best friends (pictured in the image above). Then one day they all suddenly decided to stop talking to me. They never did tell me why. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t almost kill me, but it didn’t so here I am stuck with ghosts of friend’s past.

I’ve tried to make friends here, and I’ve really put effort in. Starting conversations with people before and after class, going to school clubs, trying to get to know my co-workers, hell, I even e-mailed my councilor and asked her for help. So far I’ve turned up with a whole lot of nothing. Every time I think about this I feel my skin lusting after the blade I swore I would never pick back up. But dammit I refuse to fall back down the mountain I’ve spent the last year climbing.

I know that not everyone has a lot of friends, and that good friends are hard to come by; but is it too much, after two years of being lonely, to ask for one good friend? I’m not even asking for one good friend and five okayish ones- just one good one. Sometimes it’s hard for me to think that I’m ever going to get a good friend again- I’ve been at this shit for two years now. Despite this, and despite everything telling me that it’s never going to happen, I will keep trying to start conversations and find a friend. I will talk to every single person in this city if I have to because I know somewhere out there is a friend, and I’m going to find them.

Rules as I Know Them

I was driving in my car this morning on my way to work, and a conversation my mother and I had the previous day was floating through my mind. We were speaking about others with anxiety and their battles when my mother said, “but your anxiety is different, you could see through to reality.” That is huge reason why my anxiety is so bad, I get anxious about things—but I can see through my own mental bullshit into the fact that I am being irrational- which then in turns causes me to get more anxious because why can’t I just react normally?

Long tangent short, this conversation brought into my mind the great what if of life I am writing about today “what if I’m just not made to follow the rules?”

I do believe, and have always believed, that rules were meant to be broken. If you know me personally you know that I mostly live according to my own rules, and if you don’t know me well you could ask literally anybody I’ve ever associated with and they would agree with that statement. The thing is that rule breakers in our society are generally punished for their supposed wrong doings. Now, this is quite discouraging to a personality founded on rebellion.

Despite this fact of life there is another, rather more hopeful, fact of life. Those who break the rules within our society also tend to reach new heights that mankind didn’t even know existed. Now, I do quite hope, that my rule breaking and line crossing leads to the latter. The difference between punishment and reward is the tact with which you dare to challenge society’s desired behaviors.

I like to think that I have, at least, some tact when I go about making my own rules and living life. However, I know sometimes that is not the case. But, I think the thing is, that maybe forging your own path isn’t always about having tact. Creating your own rules, abiding no one else’s way of life, these things don’t always require tact. I have about zero strategy when it comes to making my own rules about my anxiety, because the part of me making them is a part of me I have yet to completely understand.

And that’s ok.

I’m working on understanding that part of me, and the rules it likes to create. With each day I understand that part of me even more, and each day I’m able to continue on my unique journey with this illness. Because that’s the thing about anxiety, there are no universal set of rules for how it will behave. Looking at each person’s illness that way only prevents us from understand the disease and helping those who suffer from it. Sure, there are general examples of things that are widespread among those who suffer from anxiety, but there are no rules to anxiety.

Everyone who suffers has different battles, worries, triggers, and coping mechanisms. Each person has a unique set of rules to learn about themselves and their anxiety. And I think once we, as a society, understand that we can begin to help those who suffer from anxiety. We can begin to help those who suffer from any mental illness—because they all create their own rules.

College As I Know It. . . Thus Far

Iowa is a weird place. You can’t look outside the window and gauge how warm it is here—and apparently it’s a weird thing that that’s how I told the temperature in Washington? It’s really flat here as well. . . I mean there’s small hills and the states rises and sink, but, overall, this place is flatter than your 7^th grade girlfriend. Just kidding. . . well. . . for the most part.

I’ve also learned the corn thing isn’t a joke here. There’s a guy on my floor who brought a petrified corn cob from forever ago and has it on his desk. There’s a corn monument in Iowa City. There are pictures of corn everywhere. And, finally, the student entrance to our football stadium is lined with corn. They’re very serious about their corn here or, at least, that’s what it seems like. I have yet to do further research on if it is just a front for their secret mission to overtake the United States and become the supreme state.

Another odd thing- the lack of traffic. Like ever. I think I’ve been in mild traffic like twice here due to construction, but that’s about it. There’s something eerie about driving down the freeway during rush hour and going faster than 5mph. I don’t trust it. I’m just adding it to the evidence folder for the Iowa as the supreme state plan. I think the lack of traffic may be due to teleportation devices, but I can’t be sure yet.

This city is an odd mix between people who came here because we are the number six party school in the nation, and book nerds who came here for the international city of literature. It’s an odd balance but we all seem to get along. At least from what I’ve seen. That being said I mostly stay in my room with my roommates making jokes and listening to music. It’s a 24/7 nerd party #collegelife.

Several odd things have happened to me since I got here- I’ve broken my finger, been on the floor at 2am talking about life, got my phone run over by a semi-truck, gone on adventures with virtual strangers, and learned how to make everything in a bowl in the microwave because I don’t have a plate. I’ve learned one of my roommates inhales tortillas at an inhuman pace and the other has a constant stream of commentary about life coming out of her mouth. Overall, they’re great people.

Buster Brown is out here enjoying life- he’s got a girlfriend, a field of grass, and, since I don’t get out 6 days a week anymore, more time to laze about. It’s a great life for a lazy old man.

I don’t understand this state, and I’m not sure I ever will, but I’m surviving, learning, and missing the mountains.

Recovery as I Know It

I read a quote today that struck me deeply- and it said something along the lines of this: ““It’s important to remember that when you’re depressed you have to nurse yourself and be extra gentile towards yourself. Just like an athlete wouldn’t break an ankle then force themselves to run that ankle. They rest as it heals and do not think “I am a failed athlete” they think, “right now something isn’t working so I’ll take care of myself until it does.”

Just like a broken bone, depression can change the way your daily life plays out, and pushing yourself too hard and getting frustrated when you don’t feel better is just like trying to run on that broken ankle and getting frustrated when it doesn’t heal.” (via tumblr user jellie-bells)

Now, for anyone who knows me, they will remember the infamous accident that occurred a little over a year ago. I managed to fracture the knuckle of my big toe, compound the cartilage, and messed up the join in an additional way I don’t quite remember. Anyway, long injury description short, I basically broke my foot in every way possible. I then ignored the pain and the swelling because, hey, my toe still bent and I continued on with life. I ran on it, I rode horses on it, I did karate on it, ect. Then when my toe was still swollen and discolored three months later my mom took me into the doctor and I had to wear a boot for two months, get an MRI, and get a shot within the knuckle of my toe (10/10 would not recommend by the way).

In any case, this incident is prime example of the fact that I simply do not stop when my body is broken. This, rather unfortunately, has traditionally been a rule for my mental problems as well. This has led to the rocky upward climb of recovery that I’m sure many can relate to. And, the thing is, every time I have bad days and just know that I need to take a minute to breath I just add so much more into my schedule. I don’t want to take that minute to breath and think about my problems. I am so afraid of backwards motion and feeling as though I’ve “failed”. But what I came to realize today is that you can’t fail recovery- you only trip, but you don’t fall.

Because here’s the thing about those of us fighting mental illness- it is a battle that we are fighting 24/7 and we are warriors. I am a strong, courageous, determined women and I will be dammed if I am continuing to get healthier every day. A year ago I absolutely loathed myself and did not care if I got better or not- I thought I was the scum of the Earth and my anxiety and depression were quickly driving me down. But then I did the toughest thing I have ever done and probably will ever have to do- I made an appointment with a therapist. Since then the road has been rocky, I’ve tripped, I’ve slid down the mountain, I’ve made great breakthroughs, and most importantly I’ve kept going.

I know that I am never going to be the person I want to be- I simply set the bar too high for myself. But the thing is, after a year and half of almost weekly therapy- I am happy, I am joyful, I can handle my anxiety, I am proud of who I am, I constantly strive to be bigger and greater, and most of all, I love who I am. This self-love has been something I have worked so hard to obtain and now I can say without any doubt- I love myself, I’m proud of who I am, and I’m pretty freaking awesome.

It feels good to have come this far. I know I still have a way to go, but each day I get further and further up that mountain. And the best thing is that every step of the way I know I have the people I love helping me. I know without them I would never have gotten this far.

I am so proud of myself for coming this far- I know I will continue to stumble, but I will never stop going.

 

 

Just as a last note- I would like to mention that I would never have been able to come this far without the love and support of my amazing boyfriend Christopher. He has helped me go to therapy when I really did not want to, kept me focused on my goals, encouraged me to grow and stretch, gone to therapy with me, and most importantly has given me unconditional love and support. I am so blessed to have a man who doesn’t try to fill my voids, but instead helps me to fill them myself.

Alternate Names for Depression

This is a parody poem I wrote based on Danez Smith’s Alternate Names for Black Boys (Link: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/247334).

This poem is about the things I’ve heard other people say about their perspective on depression, things I’ve felt describe my depression, and observations I’ve made about myself and others with depression. This poem is a reflection on my struggle with depression and how there are so many ideas surrounding what exactly depression is. I hope you enjoy and this poem gets you thinking about the stigma of mental illness versus what it actually is.

Alternate Names for Depression by Brianna Goux

1. Attention addict syndrome
2. A mental black hole
3. The archangel of friendship
4. The inability to cope with “no”
5. The nubs of bitten off nails
6. The Berlin Wall of my life
7. Fake
8. The ultimate civil war
9. The inability to smile
10. The silence between family
11. The tear stains on a pillow
12. Mental malleability
13. Mascara marks on sweatshirt sleeves
14. The ever approaching finish line
15. Pill popping problem
16. The crippling phobia of the unknown

Dear Mom

I will always remember the way my heart sank,

When I first showed my mother the cuts on my wrists.

The way she struggled to mask her reaction,

As I stood in the hall

Showing her the hatred towards myself

That I had carved into my own skin.

Her eyes struggling to hold back tears.

I stood before her, a young women,

Having faced sixteen revolutions around the sun,

And not wishing to have to face more.

In her mind I was still five,

Bright eyes

Messy hair

She could solve all my problems with a hug and a kiss.

 

But the image before her did not match up with that.

 

Before her stood a girl full of self-loathing,

Begging for her help

I watched and felt her heart sink as she realized

I wasn’t a little girl anymore,

That she could not fix me with a hug and a kiss.

 

Then, months later, refusing to return to therapy

I could hear her voice shake,

I could not see her shadowed face,

But I could only imagine the tears she was trying to hold back,

Her voice pleading with me:

“I don’t know how to help you, I would do anything to make you love yourself as much as I love you”

How do you go back to your mother and tell her

You stopped taking your medicine,

That your two months clean have been eradicated,

Only minutes separating you from when you last took your anger out on yourself.

How do you tell the person who keeps you hanging on that you just want to let go.

That you can’t imagine doing this anymore

How could you even think of doing that,

When you can already feel her heart breaking.

 

That the little girl she still sees when she looks at you is long gone

Depression As I Know It

Today I’ve decided to focus on the question of “What if depression isn’t what I’ve been told it is?”

The thing about depression is that there are many different forms of it, and I tend to find that when I tell people I have depression they think a few different things. I find people think one or two things: The first being that I’m suicidal, and the second being that I just want attention. Now, neither of these things happen to be particularly true in my case.

My depression looks entirely different. Most of the time I function in a state I refer to as “I am” which basically means I’m neither happy nor sad, I simply just exist and that’s how I feel. This is a very hard feeling to describe to anyone who’s never felt it—it’s as if someone pulled out my insides, I feel hollow and empty. That’s my base state of being, I have no internal joy or sorrow in general. That’s not to say I’m not capable of being happy or sad, I’m happy a lot and I’m sad a lot. When I’m happy I’m giggly, smiley, and I make a lot of really bad puns. When I’m sad I don’t get suicidal, I just simply wish the Earth would swallow me up or that I could just cease to exist. This doesn’t mean I’m going to go seek out to try and end my existence, just that I wish some mystical force would stop it for me.

The thing about being in a constant state of “I am” is that I care about everything all too much and not enough all at the same time. I will over analyze and worry about everything, but at the same time I could care less about what’s going on around me. When I disappoint or upset people I tend to get so mad at myself I can’t think straight, sometimes causing me to self-harm. It’s not the best response to thinking I’ve disappointed people, and I’m working on it, but that’s how I “fix” that I’ve been a “bad person.” At the same time that I’ve upset these people I could care less about what they’re feeling.

This storm of too much and not enough inside me is slowly driving me insane.

The thing is, my depression is anxiety driven. My therapist and I have done a lot of work, and since the two, for me, work so closely my therapist thinks that if we fix the anxiety we fix depression. Fixing my depression is something odd to think about, because that means that instead of a state of “I am” I will have internal joy. That’s not to say I’m not a happy person right now, I’m happy in plenty of moments, but I lack joy in the core of my being.

This balance of things going on within me is odd, and my depression certainly isn’t what the media makes depression out to be. But that doesn’t make my feelings any less valid. Instead it makes my battle uniquely my own.