A Shitty Night

Is it at all odd that I'm more angry with myself for not knowing why I did it than I am for having done it?

I cut last night. Fourteen months clean, down the drain. Two bouts of wanting to cut and not. And somehow this one got me. I cut into my skin eight times, and I haven't the slightest clue why. I've been wracking my brain all damn night, haven't slept at all, and I still have no good ideas.

Was it because I couldn't get my brain to shut up earlier? If so, cutting is a stupid way to stop that, since it inevitably makes it worse.

Was it because my mom has cancer and I'm still maybe a little freaked out by that? Possibly, but I don't think it was the main thing.

Was it because I had an anxiety attack earlier this week and wanted to cut then, but instead went to my therapist and talked it out? Possibly. Certainly that day got the idea back into my head.

Was it because I didn't finish the stupid test during which I had the aforementioned anxiety attack?

Was it because I didn't go to class for a week simply because I couldn't muster the energy to get out of bed? Was it because I missed class yet again yesterday because I was actually sick?

Was it because I was overthinking the evening I spent playing video games with my across-the-hall roommate? Maybe he didn't have fun? Maybe he was irritated by my constantly giving him advice? Maybe, maybe, maybe?

Was it because I kept thinking about scars and how so few of the twenty-seven cuts I made last year left scars? Yes, I know exactly how many times I cut last year.

Was it all of the above?

Probably.

And now I'm out a night of sleep, a perfectly good razor blade, a few ounces of blood, and my self-esteem is shot. Not that the last was particularly good to begin with.

And I'm also in a state of self-loathing and general discomfort.

And I'm still sick. So ain't that a bitch.

I feel like a fraud.

This post was written on September 15, 2014.

Warning: This post is basically a giant rant against the church. And by "the church" I mostly mean any church I ever attended for any significant length of time (that is exactly four churches in two states). 

I was born and raised in a Christian family. When I was very young my family was part of a conservative church in Maryland. It was the conservative nature of this church that eventually led my parents to decide they wanted to leave it. In the end, this led to us moving to California. I don't know everything to that particular part of my family's life, I was only four years old when we moved here. But I know, that had we stayed, I would be a far different person than I am. For one thing, I think I'd be a more solid Christian. Since I was about fifteen, I've struggled with Christianity. I have the unfortunate feeling that the institution of the Christian church has failed me continually since I was about eleven or twelve. 

Most egregiously to me, perhaps, is its continual failure to provide any consistent education in being Christian. I know what I'm supposed to believe and I know the basic Bible stories that make up a child's Sunday school education. I can recite the Apostle's Creed (or Nicene Creed) and the Lord's Prayer. I go to church every Sunday. I'm even an active member of my church. And yet every time I go to church, I just feel like I'm faking it. I have given my time and my energy to the church since I was in middle school. And I don't mean just going to church and to Sunday school. I mean volunteering, primarily in children's ministry. And I do not begrudge the church that time. I have some wonderful, and not so wonderful, memories of taking care of children. There are children at the church that I went to from the ages of 9-18 years old for whom I was a regular caregiver in their lives. There are children for whom I was a favorite "adult." I was trusted with newborns when I was thirteen. And I mean NEWborns, babies just a couple of weeks old. There are also children who I solely remember for that one time that he or she would not let me put them down without bursting into tears, not because they wanted me, but because they wanted their mother (or father) and I had been designated "the person who will return me to mommy." I can tell you, after about ten minutes of holding a very healthy two-year-old, your arms get very tired. 

Like I said, I do not begrudge the church this time and energy. However, I do feel that I have given and given and given and gotten very little in return. I had consistent Sunday school until I was ten (fifth grade). But in middle school, I got one year out of three before the junior high leader became the high school leader. I joined the high school group in eighth grade, but two and half years later, he and his wife had twin girls after years and years of trying and failing, and due to his wife's medical condition, both of the girls being born healthy and full term was a literal miracle. His attention quickly switched to them. And then I was the oldest non-college student at my church. I was the only one who was my age at my church. The pastor's oldest daughter was a year younger than me, went to a private Christian school, etc. My point with that is that we had very little in common. I am already socially challenged, so trying to be friends with someone with whom the only thing we really had in common was that we attended the same church was pretty much impossible for me. 

When I went to college, I finally found the community that I didn't realize I had been looking for. The small group I began attending consisted of people my age, who understood Christianity, who understood the environment we shared. They were silly and weird and serious and intelligent and dedicated people between the ages of 18 and 22. And for me, that was a magical thing. I felt like I belonged with them. But when we started talking about what we wanted to talk about in our group, what book (or topics) we wanted to discuss, I was lost. They had all read most of the Bible. My knowledge of the Bible was, and remains, confined to the stories you hear in Sunday school--Noah, Jonah, Moses, Zachariah, Sarah, Abraham, the tower of Babel, etc. And there I was, surrounded by people who were suggesting we read Judges or Jude or Paul's letters. 

I cannot name the books of the Bible, not all of them. That's something that my sisters once knew (I don't know if they still do). But somehow, in all the jumping around and years without teachers, I missed that part. I cannot recite the ten commandments. I know, vaguely, what they are. But I cannot tell you exactly. I know the names of the first five books of the Old Testament and the first six of the New Testament. I know the names of other books, but the only other one I can tell you exactly where it is is Revelations, because it's the last book. 

All that being said, I am not saying that I don't believe in the essence of Christianity. I do believe in the Holy Trinity, the Resurrection, Heaven and Hell, etc. I do believe that the Bible is a true account of the Christian faith at the time that it was written. I'm still figuring out the details--where God, not Christianity, stands on current things like gay marriage, or on lifestyle things like financial management (beyond the whole 10% of your income to the church thing, which I believe is right but have never done consistently). I know where I stand on gay marriage (I'm cool with it). I don't believe divorce is wrong, but I do believe that it should be a last resort, excepting cases of domestic violence. I believe that in certain cases, abortion is the right choice. But I'm also of the opinion that it is primarily a personal decision where the line between acceptable and unacceptable abortion is. I believe that a child is a living human being from the moment it develops a nervous system, no matter how primitive. Once that neural tube exists (the precursor to the spinal cord and spine), I believe that the embryo is a human being. I also believe that medically assisted suicide can also be the right thing to do in some circumstances. I believe a lot of things. The problem lies in relating those things that lie outside the realm of faith to faith. 

Before I go farther, faith, for me, is belief in some higher power even when there is no proof that such a power exists. My higher power is the Christian God. And, while we're on the topic of faith and beliefs, I believe that many religions are just different interpretations of the same higher power. The God I believe in is an omniscient, omnipresent being who transcends time and space. I'm pretty sure he can be the God of the Jews and of Islam too. For all I know, he is also the pantheon of Hindu gods. What I just said is probably blasphemous, but it's an opinion, not a fact. Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs, and if those beliefs happen to include the one about "my religion being the only true religion" then go for it, just don't kill people over it (you don't get any true converts that way). I don't force my beliefs on anyone and I believe that it would be wrong to do so. 

Okay, so, I feel like the institution of the Christian church has failed me. And despite trying to figure this thing out, this is not the first time I've come to a place where I go to church and I dread being there because it all feels fake to me. I feel like a fraud going through the motions of something just to fit in with that community for the sake of having a community. And I hate it. I feel like I'm constantly lying--to myself, to my parents, to my pastor, to the church community. I was raised in a household that most strongly enforces the no lying rule. It sometimes feels as though lying were a worse crime than murder to me. It isn't, but the way I was raised so strongly pushed honesty. And so I wonder, am I even doing the right thing by continuing to go to church. And if I'm not, how do I know what the right thing is? How do I figure out my religion without that community? But also, how do I fit into that community without knowing what I believe? 

I want to be honest with the people around me, but knowing that if I do, they'll just pray for me. And right now, prayer isn't enough. I want to learn. I want to be knowledgeable about my beliefs. I want to make educated decisions about my beliefs. But where the hell do I start!? I know that it isn't simply a matter of reading the Bible and praying and confessing and doing devotions. Maybe it is for some people, but not me. If I'm going to be Christian, I don't want to do it behind closed doors and I don't want to do it by shoving it in people's faces. I'm not saying that I want to go out and change the world and convert hundreds of people. I'd be gratified if I honestly changed one person's life and if that person had changed out of their own free will, not because they wanted to get me off their back. The two most important characteristics to me are loyalty and honesty, in that order. And the first tends to beget the second. 

UPDATE (October 20, 2014): The topic of "maturity in Christ" came up during the most recent church staff meeting, and I just want to note a couple of things. What I want, the Christian I want to be, is an authentic Christian. One who is always Christian, not just when it's convenient or easy. I don't want to be a church Christian -- someone who only thinks about being Christian while at church -- although, if I'm to be honest, that is what I am right now. And I think that's where the problem lies for me. What I am is exactly the thing I don't want to be, but the prospect of being anything else is so daunting that I don't even know where to begin. Where do I start reading? What do I read? Who do I talk to? What questions should I ask? How do I read the Bible and understand it the way it was meant to be understood!? And how do you pray?

Hey Again

This post was written on May 10, 2014.

Hello all,

Sorry about my absence this last week. My psychiatrist adjusted my antidepressant dosage about three weeks ago and the adjustment side effects hit me on Tuesday this week. It's been a rough few days. I'll probably be up and down for the next two weeks or so, but right now I'm feeling pretty good.

I've started looking for a job again. I've decided to forego school for at least this summer and the fall semester. I've been in school, excluding summers, non-stop since I was just shy of five-years-old. Fourteen years of school. And I'm bored of it. I want to do something other than spend half of my day five days a week in a classroom listening to someone lecture me on the rules of whatever. Instead I want to get a job, move out, and do other things. It's not that I want to stop learning. I still want to learn stuff. Just not in a classroom. I'm thinking of taking yoga classes, possibly returning to archery, maybe joining a book club. Stuff like that. I want to experience the other side of life. The part that will make up the majority of my life. I want to meet people and really get to know them, not just spend four and a half months with them in whatever class and then lose touch with them after finals.

So step one is finding and applying for jobs. Step two, actually get a job. Step three, apartment? 

Lessons Learned

This post was written on April 30, 2014.

During my senior year of high school, one of my friends, Megan, sent a text that was along the lines of, "Cynthia insisted on spending tutorial with me. She's so annoying." That text was SUPPOSED to go to my best friend, Katherine. You probably see where this is going. She accidentally sent it to me, while I was in the room, minding my own business and reading. 

It was a one time thing. I had never asked to spend time with her in tutorial before, and I never asked again (although not because of the text, I just didn't need to). It was a special case of me having to be at school during tutorial, but because I didn't have a first or third period (the periods before and after tutorial), I also didn't have a tutorial classroom. But I had attend a mandatory senior assembly about graduation or something. And yes, I did feel betrayed and I was quite upset. But I have a tendency to repress negative emotions, I like to say that I put them in unlabeled cans in a pantry. So instead of railing at her and refusing to speak to her, I responded with a, "Let's just forget it and move on." I'd like to believe that I followed that statement, but almost two years later and I know that I didn't. 

I had trust issues regarding friends before that incident, and I still have them, worse than before. Megan cut off contact with me after graduation. She told me that since we were going in different directions, she didn't see the point anymore. That got me mad, really mad. I unfriended her on Facebook, deleted all her contact info, etc. I don't regret it, but I also don't think it was the best response to the situation. What's done is done and, if I look at our three-year relationship objectively, we were never very good friends to begin with. Frankly, I don't remember how we became friends in the first place. But the experience taught me a lot about myself over a very short period of time. 

I learned that I was often somewhat irritating, bossy, and always judgmental. I held grudges for a ridiculously long time. I wasn't as good of a listener as I believed myself to be. And my habit, which remains, of always bringing up my sisters in every conversation had long since passed irritating. I still am some of these things. It takes a long time to un-ingrain seventeen years of habit. And I don't think I'll ever really stop relating other's experiences to those of my sisters and me. They are my models, not role models, just models of different lifestyles and beliefs and ways of approaching the world. And they are all way more outgoing than I am. For a long time after the revelations of the month in which the above events occurred, I constantly wondered why my friends had never brought those irritations up before. I didn't think that they'd be that hard to talk about. I failed to take into account that we were seventeen at the time. But now knowing that I am that way, I strive not to be. I am always trying to listen better, to really hear what people are saying. Auditory skills are not my best. I still tend towards being judgmental, but I'm working on it. I'm constantly listening for and trying to negate the little whispers of, "She's probably...." or "He's definitely a..." because those thoughts are harmful to both the potential for a relationship and to myself. 

Forgiveness is a different topic entirely. The grudges I was referring to earlier were ones that I had held onto for many years, some since second grade. Because I never moved after starting school, I went to school with many of the same kids year after year after year. I know of at least a couple that I went to school with from kindergarten through senior year of high school. They were the ones I didn't like, the ones against whom I held the most grudges, the ones whom I judged based on actions committed in third grade or something. There's the judgmental part. I'm not saying that I would have been friends with them if I hadn't held those grudges, but I am saying that I denied myself the opportunity to get to know them because of a childish first impression. For those people, it wasn't forgiving, just forgetting. 

But getting back to Megan--that is an event that I will constantly have to try to forgive her for. My sister Katt explained this to me when I visited her a couple weeks ago. Forgiveness is a constant battle, especially for the big things. It requires you to honestly forgive the person every single day. And some days you may not be able to forgive them. You had a crappy day or whatever and you just can't muster up the energy to forgive them, and that's okay. But you still try. Over and over and over. Until one day it doesn't matter anymore. Whether that day is next week or ten years from now is a mystery. Or it may be a lifetime battle. I suspect this is one of those, but I won't know until it no longer matters. At this point, it isn't so much the event itself that matters, just the effect it had on our relationship. 

The takeaway? I'm not perfect. I can be quite blind to my faults, as many people are. And lastly, forgiving someone is hard word. You are constantly fighting against yourself to not be offended or upset by someone's actions or words. But you just have to keep trying. 

Letting Go -- a quote

"To let go isn't to forget, not think about, or ignore. It doesn't leave feelings of anger, jealousy, or regret. Letting go isn't winning, and it isn't losing. It's not about pride, and it's not about how you appear, and it's not obsessing or dwelling on the past. Letting go isn't blocking memories or thinking sad thoughts, and it doesn't leave emptiness, hurt, or sadness. It's not about giving in or giving up. Letting go isn't about loss, and it's not defeat. To let go is to cherish memories, but to overcome and to move on. It's having an open mind and confidence in the future. Letting go is accepting. It's learning, experiencing, and growing. To let go is to be thankful for the experiences that made you laugh, made you cry, and made you grow. It's about all that you have, all that you had, and all that you will soon gain. Letting go is having the courage to accept change, and the strength to keep moving. Letting go is growing up. It's realizing that the heart can sometimes be the most potent remedy. To let go is to open a door, clear a path, and set yourself free."

-Anonymous

Making Plans

This post was written April 26, 2014.

So I discovered today, after waiting for almost six months, that I didn't get into UCI. You see, about halfway through my leave of absence from WUSTL, I decided that I wasn't ready to go back, and that perhaps I never would be. So I applied for a transfer to UCI and UCR. Didn't get into either. Getting in would have made planning the next year a lot easier, but in the last couple of weeks, I've realized that I'm not sure I want to go back to being a full-time student immediately. I have so much time to figure stuff out. It sucks not getting in. It feels like it was a ton of stress and effort and anxiety filling out and submitting the applications, because it was, and then even more anxiety and stress waiting for the admissions offices to get their collective asses in gear and tell me my admissions status. And it ends up being mostly for naught. I mean, in the process of writing the personal essays and transfer statements and whatnot, I did learn quite a bit about myself. But it's still bullshit, and I'm frustrated at not getting in. 

Now it's new plan time. 

Step 1: Get a job. 

Step 2: Get an apartment and roommates near-ish to job. Also furniture for said apartment. 

Step 3: Register for classes at the closest community college. 

Step 4: I don't know what's after that. 

One of the important things is that I not live with my parents for another year. It's rather stifling to live with them as a 20-year-old. It causes everyone to revert to the very specific parent-child relationship we had when I was a kid. But I'm an adult now, and we (my parents and I) need to learn to relate on an adult-adult level. It's important for everyone's sanity. But before all of that, I need to pass the classes I'm in now. Finals are in about 3.5 weeks, and I still have two tests before then. Crazy teachers. Adios for now. Next post will be on Tuesday.

Why Grace?

This was written on April 24, 2014.

grace (noun) -- favor or goodwill; mercy; clemency; pardon 

I am not perfect. No one is. But my brain constantly tells me that I have to be perfect. No one taught me to be this way. All of the pressure I feel comes from me, not my parents or siblings or peers. But it also means that I can't blame anyone else when I mess up. 

About 13 months ago, I was diagnosed with moderately severe depression. I was a second semester college freshman at Washington University in St. Louis. I managed, just barely, to pass most of my classes. I made the decision to take a year-long leave of absence. But, being the person I am, I enrolled in classes at the community college in SF. There was some adjustment to my medications, but overall I was doing pretty darn well. I wasn't necessarily happy, but I wasn't numb and unmotivated either. I felt things, I was interested in doing things. And things were like this until about month ago. My cat died. Penny was almost nineteen years old. She had kidney disease and arthritis, her heart started to fail, there was a mass in one lung, she had lost almost 50% of her weight (she never weighed more than 8 pounds). She was old, and she was dying, and it wasn't kind to her to keep her around. We euthanized her on March 27th. 

TRIGGER WARNING for cutting and self-harm. It ends at the next line. 

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I didn't notice at first that I was feeling more stress and anxiety. Until April 12th, around midnight, when I started wanting to self-harm. I didn't that first time. I dug my nails into my palm, but I didn't break skin and just ended up with sore hands the next day from clenching them so hard. I was so terrified by the thoughts that I told my mom immediately. 

I cut for the first time the following Monday evening. I broke apart one of my razor blade heads and used one of the razors to cut just above my knee. Twice on Tuesday, once on Wednesday, once on Thursday, once on Friday. A total of 23 cuts. None were particularly deep. The first ones have already healed completely. 

I didn't cut after I saw my therapist on Friday and told her about wanting to cut. But I didn't tell her that I had cut. My parents and I had seen my psychiatrist on Tuesday, when he prescribed an anxiolytic and increased my antidepressant dose and suggested I see my therapist twice a week instead of only once a week. I still want to cut a lot of the time. I wanted to slice my forearm open yesterday, I'm proud that I only cut half an inch instead of the seven I thought I wanted to. And today I told my therapist that I was cutting. 

That conversation and the one I had with my mom last night were the two hardest conversations I have ever had, harder than when I had suicidal thoughts last year before I was diagnosed. 

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Those who skipped the previous section can pick back up here. That's me. Depressed, anxious, self-harming, numb. And sometimes I hate myself for succumbing to all of this. For letting my mind steamroll over my will. And that is why I need to learn grace. I need to learn that no one expects me to be perfect. I am expected to blunder and fumble around. I am nineteen. NINETEEN. My grandparents are in their 80s, so I have at least another 60 years of life in me. I am in college. No one my age has it all together. Very few people know exactly what they want to do with their lives. In some ways, I am lucky to experience all of this now rather than earlier in my life, when peer pressure was a more active part of my life, or later, when it can seriously impact my future. At nineteen, all of this is easier to handle than if I were in my thirties and had a career and possibly a family. Right now, the person this most effects is me. No one is dependent on me for everything. But that is all logic and rationality. I still have to learn the emotional forgiveness I need to give myself; for how can I really care for and be kind to others when I can't do the same for myself. 

That is what I am here to do. I am going to be honest, brutally so if necessary, and I am going to try my very best to learn to forgive myself.