As a senior in high school, I knew exactly what college I wanted to go to. It was hailed as the “Harvard of Christian Colleges.” What more could a youth group leader want? I remember my adviser telling me not to bother, that the school was too selective. But, I am distantly related to someone they named a wing of the library after, so I was a shoo-in.
I was full of hopes for my future. I’d be a natural, albeit humble, leader of the masses. I’d effortlessly excel at every subject I took. I wanted to be an Ancient Language major, and help translate the original Hebrew and Greek Bible into languages to reach the Unreached. Near the end of my college career, I’d fall in love with a precocious and handsome Christian boy and we’d get married. Over a dinner (cooked by myself, natch) we’d debate the merits of Calvinism vs. Open Theology. I’d press on in academics and get a PhD in something, maybe Biblical Literature. I’d be asked to speak at national conventions. Or something. I would wear a sensible yet stylish skirt suit and wear my blond hair in a bob while I solemnly spoke about the importance of a Christian Culture in a hedonistic world.
Life, however, had other plans.
Only a few weeks into my freshman year, something went wrong. A darkness fell over my eyes, as suddenly as it does in the theater when the movie is about to start. I felt different. I was different. I started having nightmares. Terrible, vivid nightmares. I dreamed that I was being chased by a faceless man with a knife. Soon, those dreams haunted me while I was awake. The faceless man would call my name in the middle of class. He’d laugh during the prayers at chapel. I blacked out for hours at a time, yet I remained conscious. Suddenly it would be 10:34 PM and the last thing I remembered was breakfast. My roommate would tell me how outgoing I was that afternoon: flirting with boys, making jokes in the quad, suggesting a dance party for our floor devotional. And I remembered none of it.
I started cutting myself. Tentatively at first, but then with a growing need. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, or why. But I knew that the cuts made me feel better. More than that. They made me feel. I was so tired of feeling like a character in a movie, or like I was watching life pass me by as my mind stood aside and took no part in the activities. I can recall sitting in the student union, surrounded by laughing, happy people, and wondering if I was really there. I couldn’t feel anything. Not the wool of my sweater. Not the vinyl under my legs. Nothing. It was like being underwater. Everything was dulled, yet overwhelming. And so I cut. Sometimes I wasn’t even aware of what I was doing, and the next morning I’d wake up with a neat row of red lines on my forearm. All I could think those days was, “at least I survived.” What I had survived, I wasn’t willing to ask yet.
On more than one occasion I’d pass out completely, and an ambulance would be called to cart me down the concerned hallway to an ER room, where I’d be declared healthy and sent on my way with instructions to get lots of rest and watch my blood sugar.
I don’t know when it happened, but it slowly dawned on me that my nightmares and “daymares” centered around one thing. One person. A handful of events. I would have flashes of this man standing over me, pantsless, shouting at me not to cry. Or suddenly, I would feel like I couldn’t breathe, and that there was a knife stabbing me between my legs. I started bursting into tears in the middle of a New Testament class, and I’d leave, begging a friend go back and collect my books so I wouldn’t have to face my professor.
One time, I went to a worship concert on the quad, hoping to See the Light and be cured of my disease, whatever it was. I sang the songs. I prayed fervently. And I broke down. I started crying, quietly on the grass, praying that God would save me from these demons who were haunting me. I began shaking. Crying turned to sobbing, with shoulder convulsions and snot streaming out of my nose. As the final notes of “Shout to the Lord” faded, the band dissembled and the crowds around me left. “Wanna go get some ice-cream,” I would hear distantly. But I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed. I felt my heart pounding in my ears. Each breath was an effort. As the darkness came, though, I pulled myself together enough to stumble my way back to the dorm. That night I begged my RA to pray for me. She looked at my puffy eyes and bloodied sleeves and sent me to the counseling center, probably saving my life.
(OK, I didn’t realize this would be so long; all this depth is exhausting me, so I have to say “to be continued” for now and go take a shower before American Idol begins. I promise that the story eventually has a happy ending (SPOILER!).)
Technorati Tags: 1001 Things/101 Days, Crazy, Abuse, PTSD
I thank God every day that I’m a sharp pain wuss, because all I was ever able to do was beat myself with a belt. I walked around bruised and limping, but at least I never ran the danger of cutting too deep.
There’s a very serious danger in talking about this sort of thing, because the general (by which I mean suburban upper-middle-class mentality) idea that “Oh, those kids are just doing it for the attention.” To which everyone rightfully responds, no, they’re not spoiled brats — they’re sick and something in their brains isn’t firing right. Which is true.
But it’s also true that we do it for the attention. We do it because there’s something sick and rotting inside, and no one is seeing it, and we so desperately need *someone* to recognize that things are wrong that we’re willing to rip ourselves apart to do it. We need someone, anyone, to understand that there’s something splintering, something we can’t articulate or handle ourselves.
I think self-injury is our subconscious’ way of finding us help, because our conscious mind can’t do it.
I’m glad you had someone who noticed. *hug*
I’m so glad you wrote about this Emily - and you, too, Robin.
If I still had a blog (and maybe I will again someday) I would write about how you telling me these things and going through these things opened me up, too.
Picture the young idealistic, Michael W. Smith loving closeted Christian boy who assumes that if things are going right, you’re not a good enough Christian. That these ‘problems’ don’t happen to anyone like me or anyone I know.
And then I realize that other great people go through these serious, SERIOUS adult problems. LIke we all do. And suddenly it isn’t terrifying that I’m the only known gay Christian in the world, or that I’m the only one dealing with anything complex that requires more than just “follow the word of James Dobson” or “are you praying enough?”
I, however, didn’t get the good counselor at the counseling center. He used the words “you’re giving the middle finger to God.” Wow, I still remember that.
I never cut myself, but I wanted to kill myself instead.
It’s funny. We already have so many instincts to hurt ourselves. Do we need the extra help from people who want to make us feel worse?