Suicide was my only option. Nothing was getting better. I was failing in school, I was an alcoholic, all I ever thought about was getting high or taking pain medication. All I ever did was eat, sleep, and cut. That razor and the blood it helped produce was my only comfort. My friends were busy, as they rightly should have been. I was proud of them for all that they were accomplishing, but simultaneously I couldn't help feeling neglected and forgotten. My family was distant. They were also ignorant; I kept them that way. I could never imagine showing them my scars and bringing my addictions to their attention. Their love was all I had and how could somebody love a monster like me?
So I formed a new relationship with my razor and bandages. Simply the act of dragging the razor across my skin was a release from my entire existence. Cleaning up was my favorite part, though. In my mind, cleaning up a wound is cleaning up my emotions. I was hurt, so I would bandage everything up and let it heal.
These "cures" of self mutilation, alcohol, drugs, and pills lasted for a time. But always the emptiness, anger, frustration, and darkness would come back, even more intensely than before. My demons grew stronger everyday and I was powerless to defeat them, at least on my own.
So one day (after getting extremely drunk and high, throwing up, and getting even more drunk), I went into my bathroom, locked the door, sat on the floor, took out my razor, and started making careful cuts across my entire body, a little deeper than usual. I cried the whole time, silently. The tears mingled with my blood in a beautiful way, like Christ's tears in the garden of Gethsemane. I was happy and sad, angry and joyful. It would finally be done, over! Yet the dark voices in my mind reminded me of why I was doing this: anger at the world, my family, my friends. Frustration at my own failings filled my heart and mind. Then I realized I was failing this very moment; I was failing my family, friends, teachers, everybody who ever believed in me. I was failing my entire life, right here, on this bathroom floor. Instead of making myself stopped, I started slashing at my arms, legs, and chest. Eventually (I have no idea how much time had passed. I had been completely dissociating) the blood was pouring out of my limbs. My body was numb. My face was drenched from the tears. I went to wipe them away and found my hands had blood on them. Soon my face was covered, and my chest. Admittedly, I enjoyed having my blood all over my body. I felt like what I had set out to do was accomplished.
But then it occurred to me that I was still sitting there in my bathroom. Blood was still flowing. My heart was still beating. I looked down at my wrists: the cuts weren't deep enough. I thought desperately of what to do, but my mind didn't seem to be working. I didn't panic or cry, I didn't do anything. I just sat there and listened to my friends' voices out in the kitchen, down the hall from my bedroom.
Eventually somebody knocked. I let them continue until they persisted that I open the door. See, my friends knew to keep and eye on me. Two weeks previously I had had a pretty serious panic attack. Luckily during that they had stuck by me. Otherwise I would have done exactly what I was doing now.
So, after a while, I unlocked the door, with much effort.
I don't remember much of what happened next. I just remember my two best friends cleaning me up, calling for help, and the police and ambulance coming. One of my best friends had called her parents without my knowledge. When I heard them walk into the apartment, I panicked and started crying; I couldn't let them see me like this, what would they think? I couldn't look at them. I didn't want to see the looks on their faces, looks of disappointment. The police questioned me and the ambulance came. Before I went outside to the truck, I finally looked up at them: they weren't disappointed, they were sorrowful. This stuck a knife into my heart like nothing else ever had. Finally, my own mind spoke up in my head: Danielle, what have you done? At that moment I realized how many people loved me, how many people would miss me if I were to leave them.
*
At this point, I'm going to skip ahead a few months. I'm now living back home with my mother. I'm in an outpatient program at the hospital in Columbia, SC. I'm miserable again.
I never thought group therapy could ever help me, considering I have social anxiety disorder. How could pouring out my heart to strangers relieve my anxiety and fix my problems? At first, it didn't. But then I started having one-on-one counseling sessions with my counselor, Marjorie. These sessions are what really changed me. She seemed to shed light on all the darkness in my mind and heart and bring order to the chaos. She taught me how to identify my emotions and learn to control them, how to interact with other people, how to identify my triggers and cope with them. She taught me the life skills I never learned and gave me the affection I so desperately needed.
After a while, I started to realize that God was working through her. At first I hadn't even considered God in this whole situation, but then it hit me that everything happens for a reason. He had to put me into this darkness and despair in order for me to fight my way out into His light.
During group sessions, the hospital chaplain would sometimes come and talk to us about spiritual matters. I listened to everybody's spiritual struggles, and eventually voiced mine. In my own words I described my frustration with my feelings of loneliness and God's supposed absence from my life. As I talked I started to answer my own questions, as I often do. God wasn't absent, I just wasn't letting Him in.
*
I was raised in a Christian home. Both of my grandfathers were ministers. My mothers parents were missionaries to Brazil. My entire family were heavily involved in their churches and the communities. I thought that all of these things meant I had a relationship with Jesus.
I was desperately wrong. And because of my ignorance, what other path was there for me except one of destruction? I know now that God used that as my jumping off point. He put me in darkness, then brought me to the light. And let me tell you, feeling His presence and love finally in my heart was all I needed to completely turn my entire life around.
I'm still not where I would like to be, but I am happy. I love Jesus and I know He loves me. I tell my story to those in the situation I was in and help them in any way I can. Then I step back and let God do the rest.
I don't claim to have a perfect relationship with God, but that's okay because nobody does. My only testimony is that I was washed in blood and utterly changed. I had suffered my own crucifixion, spilled my blood, and was brought back to life by the Holy Spirit. Now I'm just a disciple walking through life.
I hope this helps those who need help, and enlightens those who need enlightenment.
