Words

They say women speak over 20,000 words in a day.

I have no doubt that I hit that mark within hours of waking up somedays.

I'll talk to anyone and everyone about literally, anything.

That's why I was a good journalist.

I could pull the story out from anyone.

I’ve always relied on words to be there for me when I felt most alone.

On of my suicide notes had words in a poetic form, and another had words pulled together to form good bye letters.

I used words in junior high when I wrote to the teacher who made me feel like trash that I don't understand why she had to be so mean and that it made me want to die.

I trusted words to transport me to another world when I read nearly every book in my high school library.

I relied on words when I started to talk about my brain and why we need to talk about what is going on. Words from others showed me just how important my own words were to this world.

I turned to words in college when it was figured out that dyslexia was to blame for my troubles in school and written tests were better than multiple choice for me. If it wasn’t for those words, I wouldn't have been able to get my degree.

I relied on kind, meaningful words to build up the minds and confidence of the children at the daycare in college.  

Words have been my friend.

But, words have abandoned at time when I need them most.

When I truly need the most help with words, they are running around so fast I cannot get them together to help me.

It’s like being in a small room where hundreds of TV’s are on loud and I am trying to listen to just one.

“What’s wrong?”

“I dont know.”

That’s not a lie or just a line to keep the masses guessing.

All the words have left me.

I cannot possibly explain what is going on. I am drowning in thoughts, emotions, colors, sounds, and words.

This is where something as small as an uncomfortable shirt can set off a full blown panic attack.

Sensory overload.

This where the air around me get heavier and the words in my head continue to pull me under.

I am drowning in my own words and all I’ve said is “I don’t know.”

I don’t know what I need and I don’t know what to do.

I want to explain, but words have failed me.

Hate

Hate is a word that I RARELY use, and let me explain why.

I hate myself. I hate myself so much that there is no hate left for anyone else.

I would give my life to save others in a heartbeat.

Giving up all my rights for someone else’s is not even a question in my mind.

Standing up for fair treatment for someone other than me is a common past time.

I volunteer, participate in walks, talks, and sit-outs, and give blood to the Red Cross on the regular.

Why?

Because I love everyone on this planet more than I could ever love myself.

I remember when I was a little girl and my family took a trip to Arizona to see our extended family. My mother cousin worked across the Mexican border as a translator (and something else I am sure).

We went to a small community he worked in where there were mothers with their children on the streets begging for anything, and giving everything they could to their kids.

I grew up in a small community in Northeast Nebraska where our homeless population is non-existant.

I had never seen anything like this before.

I remember crying and not being able to understand how people can just walk past them without giving them anything. I couldn't wrap my head around why their husbands would throw them out so selfishly.

I wanted to give them every last thing I had and I didn’t understand why my mom wasn’t giving me all the coins she had, so I could help them.

This was my first real taste hate and helping.

I hated the people for doing this and I wanted to help them change and help heal the pain they caused.

How could someone not be able to put themselves in someone else’s shoes.

How could someone be so selfish?!

I grew up and encountered many other cases where selfishness was the leading cause of hate and pain.

With all the negativity and pain that is taking place in today’s society, why can’t people put their pride and wants for the betterment of others?

I still struggle with this concept. I do take pride in my ability to understand other points of view, but I cannot understand hate and nor do I want to.

That is why I volunteer, march, and give blood. I don’t care if I am tired or if the needle hurts, if it can help someone else I am going to do it.

I will put anyone else’s needs above my own.

I would give both my kidneys if that meant saving someone.

I would give up my rights to guns if that would help stop mass shootings.

I want to get another degree in political science or law so that one day I can run for office and stand up for those who don’t yet have a voice.

Everyday, I have to silence the hate for myself.

So everyday, I love everyone else harder.

Forget the L's, I have A LOT of Wins.

It took me years to accept the fact that I will be living with a mental illness for the rest of my life. 

For the longest time, I though I was better. I thought I would never go back to that dark place. 

But time and time again, I woke up with those same dark thoughts.

Time and time again, I covered up my tears, scars, and pain with a smile and an obnoxious, awkward joke. 

But time and time again, I would end up right back where I said I would never be. 

Learning to live with depression and anxiety is a fight everyday, and it’s a fight that I’m winning. I have some HUGE L's in the record book, but the wins can outshine the losses if you let them.

It took me a long time to be ok with being on medication to keep me mentally stable. But now, I am ok with that. As long as I get to live and watch the people I love grow, then give me all the medications I need. 

It took me a long time to be ok with my past. But now I see that my past has beauty.

My scarred past is beautiful.

It may not be beautiful to others, but it is to me.

And no one can take that away.

 

 

You can never forget scars

Last night I was painfully reminded that I don't think like others. I was reminded that the reason of my actions is most often very different than others.

I also realized that it is very hard for me to talk about being truly vulnerable and even harder to explain why I am broken even when I appear so strong on the outside.

I informed my significant other last night that I am planning on tattoos covering my self-harm scars that I have on my inner arm.

He suggested laser removal to get rid of them and that he doesn’t like tattoos that are really visible.  

I said that I don't want to get rid of them, I just want to see the beauty that came out of what I went through, and be reminded to not go back to that dark place.

I won't be able to ever forget that I did those things to myself. No matter how much cream I put on them or lasers I let near them, I will always see the scar.

He said that he doesn't see a point because I am better now.

At that point I realized that he thinks it happened years ago, or even a decade ago when my first suicide attempt happened.

What he doesn't know is that it was less than a year ago.  The scars are recent.

He does realize that I am no better now than I was crying on the floor scratching my arm until I bled.  

I am still that person, and I always will be.

I have three tattoos thus far. Two very visible on my left arm, and one on my ribs.  

Each signify a time in my life that I otherwise would have missed if I would have succeeded with my suicide attempts.

From studying abroad where I randomly roomed with two other women who struggled with suicide attempts, to graduating to college and getting tattoos with my professor made mentor made friend, then to San Diego where I celebrated making to to see the point in my life where my parents dream of their three kids getting bachelor degrees did come true.

My tattoos remind me to keep going, that my life isn't done yet.

That even though there is a lot behind me, there is even more in front of me.

They remind me to NEVER forget that even though I can’t see my future sometimes, it is still there.

I spent this past year looking at these scars that are placed so close to my beautiful artwork on my body.

Since my mind won't tell me to keep looking forward, I need my body to tell me to.