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Hold onto hope. |
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"It would be so easy to hold onto this feeling that elopes, misery with agony; but I'll hold onto hope." - Kiros.
I grew up in a Christian bubble, I went to church, did the whole Sunday school thing. I probably didn't realize the fact that a lot of the world wasn't Christian until I was half way through Elementary school. I used to blame my upbringing for how my life turned out, I blamed it for the day I picked up my first knife and used it on myself. I blamed the way my family raised me, I blamed the churches and schools I went to, and most of all - I blamed God. I won't lie, going to Sunday school didn't help me as a child, they told me Jesus was going to make everything okay. I truly believed that nothing could touch me because I was a Christian, they told me it would save me from pretty much anything, like a get out of jail free card. I was only seven years old the first time I hurt myself. At first, it was just an accident, it wasn't like at seven I was cutting myself, but I guess it was just as bad. I spent hours hitting my head against walls until my head was held in a headache that put me too sleep. From there, things just progressed. At that time, my family was in the midst of replacing me as the youngest child, at least that's how I saw it. I had such hatred and resentment towards the little girl my parents adopted. I got tossed aside, at least that's how it felt, I got replaced. The hatred towards her, and the resentment towards my parents for doing that too me progressed my own depression forward. But it wasn't until grade eight that anything really drastic crossed my mind. I lost sight of all joy that had ever been apart of my life. The light that used to hang at the end of the tunnel disappeared and my life was plunged into darkness. That's when they started, the ideas of suicide, the plans to take my own life. They started small, purposely hitting my head against walls, purposely turning the shower on so that the heat was so intense it left my skin raw. But it progressed. I remember clearly the first time I picked up a knife with the intent to hurt myself, it's not exactly something you can forget. I sat there and stared at it for awhile, but before I could rationalize my way out of it, there were three thick cuts on my left wrist. And I, well, I was addicted the second that happened. It went on for awhile, I was pretty good at hiding it. Long sleeves, hoodies, wrist bands - I was a pro. I had a few friends who were doing the same thing, and as sick as it sounds, we'd sit around together and cut. It was our thing, our release and at least together, we knew we weren't alone. About a year after I started cutting, my dad (whom I had a horrible relationship with at the time) noticed two faded cuts on my arm and confronted me about it. Somehow, I passed the blame on my friends new kitten and he dropped it. But, I knew he'd be looking so I resorted to cutting my thighs - no more arms, it was too risky. Over the next few months, I came to the point where I couldn't go a day without cutting or burning myself. That's when I met them. My friend dragged me to a concert, and with the excuse to get out of the house for a few hours, I let her. The music was good, but I couldn't wait to get out of there the second the lead singer mentioned Bible study. At that point, my fifteen year old self had nothing but hate built up for God and anything that had to do with Him. I tried to drag my friend with me, but she was busy talking to some other friends, so I sat by the door and waited. I had been looking down at my feet for about ten minutes before I finally looked up. Across the room, my eyes connected with those of the lead singer's. I tried to look away, but I couldn't...for some reason, I just couldn't. We weren't all that far away, and all he simply said was that he wouldn't take no for an answer, that I was going to his little Bible study thing. I couldn't say no, I just...couldn't. So, I settled myself in the back of the room and listened with little interest. I didn't let it get to me on the surface, but that was the first night that I let God touch me again. I hated that I was letting Him, but I was. After the Bible study, Barry came over and talked with me. Honestly, with my trust issues and my resentment towards most all Christians, it was a miracle that he was able to convince me to talk to him. But, I did and I spilled my story too him in the next hour. I'd like to tell you that that was my turning point, that I was finally cured of an addiction, that God worked in my life and changed me - but, nothing really changed. I promised him I'd pray, I promised him I'd go home and really think about what I was doing. But I didn't. I went back to cutting and burning myself, I went back to everything I had been doing before. And I didn't see him for a few months. The next few times I saw the band, I grew to really admire them, they were great guys and every single time I saw them, they were there to hug me and tell me how glad they were to see me. Me and Barry had more epic talks, but still - there was nothing. It wasn't until ten months after our first meeting that anything changed. I had finally re-dedicated my life to God in the fall, but by the new year, nothing had changed in my struggle with self-injury. It was the end of the semester when I finally said the words, "I promise you I will never hurt myself intentionally again." And I don't break promises, I'd had too many of them broken in the past by too many people, I refused to break my promise. That was the first day I didn't go home and cut myself. And every day after it was a struggle, there were days I thought I wouldn't make it. Days I thought were hopeless. But, in the months before the summer and then during the summer (which I was in New Zealand and Australia on a missions trip), my relationship with God was restored. No, everything wasn't happy and fluffy and perfect all of sudden, but the light at the end of the tunnel came back. I found hope again. I came back from my summer missions trip completely on fire for God, everything was...awesome, I'm not going to lie. It felt like nothing could touch me, I was invincible. Mid-way through October, something happened. I'd tell you what it was, but I honestly don't know. But something happened that rocked me so hard that I plummeted to rock bottom and picked up my trusty razor. Two weeks went by of the same everyday hurting myself routine. Two weeks passed, and I snapped out of it, horrified by what I had done as I looked down at the fresh cuts that lay over the scars. It made me hate myself, and two days later I had to face Barry and tell him that I had broken the promise. Somehow, he knew exactly what I needed to tell him and had nothing but hugs and advice for me. We talked for awhile about forgiveness, and then he challenged me with the one thing I had never done - forgive myself. I realized that God forgave me, but I just couldn't forgive myself. I worked on it, I seriously did - and it was hard, really, really hard. And it's a daily choice to forgive myself for it, but as I went home that night, I realized that it was still so overwhelmingly tempting to pick it up, but I couldn't just throw it out, I couldn't just let go of something I had trusted so much. Well, two months later, in December, 2007; I handed Barry a white envelope that contained something I had been holding on too tightly too. I let go of my razor, and it was probably the hardest thing I ever had to do. I was shaking, almost in tears, but it was good for me. I've had struggles since then, I've been depressed and had days I just didn't want to get out of bed, but somehow; I've gotten through them. Without cutting.
There is hope. I lost that for too long, I missed out on too much because I felt hopeless, I felt like I had nothing to live for. But, there is hope. And there is joy, even in the darkest places and in the worst situations, there is joy and there is hope. Through all the years of my resentment towards my parents, my hatred towards my little sister and my pure disgust towards God; somehow, God didn't give up on me. That has to compensate for hope, right? If God didn't give up on me, there's got to be hope. I'm still alive, I'm still fighting and it's hard sometimes, most days it hurts - but, I'm alive, and I have hope, joy and love in my life, despite my bitter past. I don't think I'll ever get over the fact that I used to cut myself, it's not really something you can just forget, not with all the scars on my legs, and all the memories burnt into my mind. But, at least now, those scars will always just be scars, not fresh cuts. Even in your darkest hour, just remember; there is hope.
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