It's kind of long, but it's my story.
My story isn’t unique. It isn’t one that hasn’t been told before, and it isn’t one that’s never been heard. It’s a story that you perhaps could hear from a passerby on the street if you so chose to listen. Details would change, places would be different, but it might just be my story. My story isn’t exactly told in a happy manner, but it isn’t remembered as being sad. It speaks of things most people don’t feel comfortable discussing, but the lips of the brave will tell it again. It isn’t conventional and the whole situation could be seen as taboo. My story is one that remained hidden from most everyone until years after it had continued. My story is of cutting, razor blades and depression; of trust and telling the truth to set myself free from the lies; it’s of uncomfortable sessions with school counselors, trying to explain scars; and seeing the hurt in the eyes of my friends. It’s of realizing how much people do care; that change is possible; of doctors, psychologists and antidepressants. It’s of bracelets, long sleeves, jackets and makeup. It’s of finding myself through the pain and the tears and finally the healing. It’s of learning that there is hope despite the darkness, and help for the helpless person I had become. My story is of second, third, fourth and hundredth chances; of staying up late at night with a mind full of thoughts and an arm full of cuts; it’s of learning from my own mistakes, and learning not to blame myself for the mistakes of others. It’s of desperation and midnight prayers, amazing friends, and the people I couldn’t live without. My story is one that thankfully doesn’t end, even if I once wished for it to. It’s a story that continues even through the times when I feel closer to death than life. My story is written in countless journals and in the countless scars on my wrists. It’s a story I’m unafraid to tell because I know I’m not alone in this.
I wrote this quite a while back, and posted it on a myspace I created for people dealing with self-injury. Today, when I think about all that I've been through with cutting and depression, I've still got some things I'd like to say about it, and about my story. Think of this as a part two...
I remember my last session with my psychologist. Often, I lied to her because I feared disappointment. Every time I saw her, she seemed so proud of me, so proud of what she considered "progress." She'd ask me how often I had cut during the previous week, and I'd start the sentence with "Well..I've thought about it a couple of times..." but I never once said that I had actually done it, when I had. When I first lied to her about my cutting, the look on her face pulled me in. Her smile, her surprised and pleased look. Maybe I felt guilty at first, but overall I felt like I'd done the right thing for her. I failed to realize that the counseling sessions were to help me, not to please her. Every Wednesday when I went to see her, the questions were similar, and my answers were identical to the previous week. She'd ask me if I had anything else to say to her, and I'd tell her things were "fine" when they rarely were. As the weeks went by, the sessions got shorter and shorter. Secretly I hoped she would see through my lies and confront me, but she never did. I started to dread the sessions, as I knew they weren't helping, and I knew it was my fault. My parents would tell me they could tell I was doing better, which added to the feelings I was already experiencing. Suddenly everything was just how it used to be. I was lying to please, and living to lie.
It was a little less than a month before school started when my psychologist suggested we take a break. She was sure I'd do fine without her for a while, because I was "progressing" so well. She told me how strong I was, and how able I was to handle things on my own for a while. She had no idea. I was stressed, I was cutting, and I was lying. I went back to see her on my next scheduled visit, the week after my senior year in high school started. Little did I know, this would be my last chance to tell her the truth about everything. She asked how I was doing, and I felt the lies leave my lips. "I'm fine, school's fine, everything is fine." She smiled at me and looked at the clock, it had only been about fifteen minutes since our normally hour-long session had begun. "I think we're done here," she said with her pleased smile. My heart dropped. This was the end of it, this was my last chance to get the help I needed more now than ever. She stood up, and hugged me, told me she was proud of me, and we walked out of her office together. My parents were waiting patiently, nervous as they always were. She told them she thought I was through and that I was doing great. My parents nervous glances turned into huge smiles as they stood up to walk me out of her office. Mom got me ice cream on the way home, a sort of "treat" for doing so "great" in counseling.
Seeing my psychologist didn't make me stop cutting, and it didn't "un"-depress me. But it did teach me that what I say, and how truthful I am determines how much help I'm able to get. If I could go back now, and be competely truthful to her, I would. And if I had done so, I'd probably still be in counseling now, but I'd probably be so much closer to recovery.
Sometimes, you're in charge of healing. Be careful with yourself, your health and soul are far more important than you probably realize.
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