Peace, Faith, Trust

I’ve had a long struggle with depression and anxiety, and it’s not beaten. At least, I’m not thriving on my feet yet, but I can believe that will happen. I got to a point recently where I felt like to live meant to feel the pressure of others on my shoulders always. I felt forced to live. I couldn’t kill myself because my family and friends would be very pained and disappointed, and that’s exactly what I resented; because I also feel like I can’t live without my family and friends being pained and disappointed by my decisions either. I still, still live my life worrying about others’ opinions.

Recently, I decided that I couldn’t fight to live a life like that. I just got to a point where I was drained by it all. Drained by never informing others of what I really wanted or needed until it exploded out of me inappropriately. But then I did things for others that I didn’t want to do and let others have their way without them even knowing I was sacrificing in the first place, because I never spoke up. I never even gave others the opportunity to love me. Last night, my aunt offered to make me some French toast and bacon for dinner (I love breakfast for dinner!) and I felt so guilty letting her. Then when there were only two pieces left, and she hadn’t had any, she asked if I wanted them. I was scared to even say I wanted them. She could tell, and we compromised with one each. I felt like after that, I had to run away and hide from people, ashamed to let anyone do anything for me. Why should she just do something for me without getting anything in return and anything out of it? I did nothing for her. I had the hardest time accepting love. But I’m so thankful that she offered it.

As I said, I reached a point recently where I could take no more of the way I was living. I felt just empty. Lifeless. And maybe for once in my life, completely “fight-less”. So I stopped fighting. I didn’t try to convince myself of why I had to stay alive for other people. That made me angry. I laid down that night and went to bed, determined to never rise again. I would lay there until I died. This was something I had thought of before, but I’d always wake up in the morning with at least a teensy bit of fire enough to keep me going. But this time I was determined to stay down.

I attempted to starve myself to death or “parch” myself to death. I didn’t eat or drink anything. I allowed myself a bit of water about the size of the tip of my pinky once to be able to swallow a pill I compulsively took the next night like every night. That pill is how I know I must have some form of OCD. I told only one person what I was doing, one friend who called me and told me that I was worth something to him and needed to stay alive for him. I snapped and told him how infuriating that was. That I was killing myself because of my influence on others, because of my pressure to perform, because of others looking at me expectantly, hoping, waiting, pushing for me to move toward what they think I should move toward and want what they thought I should want, and do what they thought I should do. And no one ever really offered to help me discover the things that I liked and wanted. Please, no more opinions from people! At this point, no plea to live for anyone else would have kept me alive.

I would never write about this experience except for that I think it’s important to mention that no matter how dangerous and stupid and terrible all of this might sound, it was a great experience for me. I think after a bit, I realized that someone would do something before I reached death. I found a piece of myself hoping someone would step in so that no one would find me dead and live that horror. The rest of me dreaded that I had planned to go to some events a few nights later and I’d either have to lie to get out of them or be found out. I think I also knew my friend would do something before then anyway.

I spent a large portion of those forty-three hours laying down in submission. I’ve spent way too much time laying down and just mourning and thinking and I did a lot of that during this time too, but this submission feeling was different. Through this experience, I finally understand now what it means to “fast”. You know, like a lot of Christians always do. My body is used to going without food for long periods of time, that was nothing new, but I don’t remember going for forty-three hours without food before. And I especially have never gone that length of time without water.

I’m not suggesting anyone do this for the sake of “fasting” or gaining something good in the end, but good can come from bad. Submission was a big deal in this. I admitted defeat. I lay down and lived my life as if I were dying. Submitted to the sadness. Accepted it. Something I don’t think I’ve ever done in my life. Just accepted the bad things that had happened. It would seem like going without food and water would make me think only about food and water or something. You know, like in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Physical health before anything else. There were those times when I would almost instinctively go to the kitchen to get a drink of water and then remember I wasn’t allowing myself to. It was just habit. (It made me think of all the thirsty people in the world who can’t just walk to the kitchen and get water. They thirst without a choice, and it makes me sad.) Yes, there was that point after 24 hours that I hallucinated (can you call a smell a hallucination?) that I smelled chocolate chip cookies and was just dying for a fruit smoothie, amongst other things, but that wasn’t at all my main focus the entire time. I needed peace in my heart. I needed to be able to have peace, faith, and trust. I sought for that the entire time.

                       

I journaled, prayed, listened to music, played games on my computer, read a self-help book, lived life, and waited for death. I slept sporadically rather than long lengths at a time. At one point, I became scarily giddy, where I felt drunk. Drunk from not drinking. I laughed at my situation. Laughed at what I was doing. In tiny short little spurts, I’d just feel like things were funny. It was funny that I was killing myself, and I didn’t quite understand why.

There was another point where I decided I would clean up my room and hang up the pictures that have been lying around since I moved here years ago. I wanted everything to be spotless when I died. I thought it strange that suddenly I had the inspiration to do it when I struggled before. It was as if now that I didn’t feel like I needed to, I wanted to. Though it never actually happened cause I fell asleep before I got up to do it. 

For the most part, I couldn't lay still for long. I sat outside in the cold, on the porch, on a wet chair and didn’t care that it was wet. I looked at the stars. Though my eyes were gradually losing their ability to focus, I noticed things. It was as if suddenly, I recognized things that I liked that I took for granted. Like the pretty black imitation jewels on my slippers and the softness of my bed (and believe me, as far as mattresses go it’s anything but soft. I have two pads on it, but I was thankful I had it at all.). I just noticed the little things and I thanked God for them naturally. I don’t understand why, but I did. I was more aware of how my body felt than I normally would. I was paying close attention to how close my body might be to death.

I jolted awake the second morning in fear, wondering whether I was alive. I quickly counted the hours in my head. My instincts still made me afraid to die. But I was just as afraid to live. On the verge of having a panic attack, realizing I must choose between two evils, I sought God. All along, God had been comforting me and I knew that, but I thought that that would change if I killed myself. I thought that would ruin it all, like He was saying to me, “You better not. I have fire.” However, when I said to Him, “I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live, so I’m going to die, okay? But I’m scared.” My panic subsided, and I immediately felt peace and love. He wasn’t mad at me. He knew what I was doing. He understood. Whenever I sought His opinion, I never felt like He said to continue, but He didn’t judge me.

That morning that I spurted awake in fear at 6:00 AM, I randomly remembered the new tent that my parents gave to me for Christmas that I had never put together before. Spontaneously, I pitched the tent…in the living room. 

Why? I don’t know. Maybe because my instincts knew that shelter was an inherent need and I wasn’t alowed to pursue my other needs? Who knows. Body shaking, breathing hard, I managed to shrug off my light-headedness. I was surprised at how strong my body still was, almost annoyed at it. It was the first time I pitched a tent by myself, and I didn’t even use instructions! I was so proud of myself, maybe more than I should have been. I repeated to God, “Did you see what I did?! Did you see?!” and laughed happily. That tent became my sanctuary, my hide-out, and safe place with God. It was a new environment that I needed away from my bedroom where I had been for who knows how long prior to that.

           

I’m extremely happy to be able to say that it was in that tent that the Backstreet Boys helped to save my life. Oh, the Backstreet Boys; they’re “Larger than Life”, and I’m “The Perfect Fan” with “Spanish Eyes”, and “I Want it That Way” because that’s the “Shape of my Heart”. Teehee, okay really, though. I had their one song called “The Answer to Our Life” on repeat near the end of my, what I now call, “fast” when I knew my friend was coming to see me. Secular songs can be spiritual. Jesus was dancing and singing with me:

…This world is not at ease, we seem to hide the truth

Thinking there’s only so much we can really do

It’s up to you and me, to face our destiny

The jury’s here so let’s take the stand

And we’re not gonna take anymore

Can we try to erase all the pain

So, please

Show me a reason, give me a sign

Show me the way we fall out of line

Is it today, or is it tonight?

We'll find,

The answer to our life

So tell me why we have to cry

And not try

When there's so many things we can do

To help this troubled world start anew

I need a reason, I need a sign

There’s no turning back I’m here by your side

Is it today or maybe tonight?

We’ll find

The answer to our life

Show me the way, give me a sign…

Everyone sing it!!

I also had two songs (some others too but mostly these two songs) on repeat for almost the entire forty-three hours. I’d like to thank Spotify (https://www.spotify.com/ca-en/) for introducing me to these two specific songs just days before this whole ordeal happened. One was called “Held” by Natalie Grant:

...This hand is bitterness

We want to taste it and

Let the hatred numb our sorrows

The wise hand opens slowly

To lilies of the valley and tomorrow

This is what it means to be held

How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life

And you survive

This is what it is to be loved and to know

That the promise was when everything fell

We'd be held

If hope is born of suffering

If this is only the beginning

Can we not wait, for one hour

Watching for our savior...

Don’t watch the music video of “Held”, though. I don’t understand why she’s just standing in a pretty dress making eyes at the camera. That song is a freaking dance. She should be dancing! The whole time! It’s like the dance of life!

The other song was called “Worn” by Tenth Avenue North:

I'm tired I'm worn

My heart is heavy

From the work it takes

To keep on breathing

I've made mistakes

I've let my hope fail

My soul feels crushed

By the weight of this world

And I know that you can give me rest

So I cry out with all that I have left

Let me see redemption win

Let me know the struggle ends

That you can mend a heart

That's frail and torn

I wanna know a song can rise

From the ashes of a broken life

And all that's dead inside can be reborn

Cause I'm worn...

 I thought at first that there was nothing really original about these songs and that they were too cheesy. But when I really listened to the words, they spoke to me. It was interesting, the words infuriated me if I thought about them before I started starving myself, but they called to me during this time. I laid down in teary submission pleading wordlessly to God with my heart. I did so much of that silent thinking about God. Not trying to understand who He is or get to know Him or mentally trying to solve my situation. The problems were still there tormenting me, but I didn’t try to understand them or solve them. I let them float in God’s face and told Him to do something cause I couldn’t to the point of death. It was almost as if these songs were my last fight. Half the time, I wouldn’t even listen to them. I’d just let them play and I’d feel. I didn’t even believe the words most of the time, but they comforted me and distracted me so I let them play.

I speak to God a lot. I’ve gone through phases where all I’ve done is yell at Him. During this time, I was mostly too weak to talk or think too deeply at all, really. I told Him that He needed to rescue me. That I didn’t want Him using anyone else to do it. He had to perform a miracle to prove He cared. Well, I didn’t see a miracle, though my body was still going pretty strong considering the circumstances. My friend showed up with pizza and water at hour 43 and it would have been really rude of me not to eat it after he went to all the trouble to get it, which of course had to be at least partially why he got it. So manipulative. After glaring at him, I ate it and drank a butt-load of water! He said, "This is about the cheapest pizza I've ever eaten." I said, "It's heavenly." Then I thanked him and offered him chocolate, which I also ate lots of. You’d think I’d be nauseous after going that long without food or water, but I ate like a horse.

With that first bite of pizza, I knew something had changed. I felt different. I realized that I could die if I wanted. I could. When all you’ve ever done is lived, it’s hard to understand the concept that you could be dead when you’ve never been that. But I really could commit suicide. The choice was in my hands. By accepting the pizza, I was accepting friendship and community and the ability to affect and be affected. Exactly what I didn’t want, so I had mixed feelings about accepting the pizza. That pizza meant I was fighting again. It meant I was accepting the pressure of the fact that I will affect other people and they will affect me. I was accepting that because of that, I would not be in complete control. This is where faith and trust comes in.

I still went to bed that night with a broken heart that felt even deader than normal. However, those forty-three hours taught me to trust God. The difference in my situation was a lack-age of fear. A knowledge that the pain is temporary, and to shorten my life would also be eliminating any chance for things to be turned around for me.

I also learned to see good things regardless of pain. Like my soft bed. Sure it could be way softer, but it beats sleeping on the floor. I wonder why we make happiness our default expectation. Everything is compared by levels of how happy we were in that circumstance. We ask the question, “Is good really good enough to compensate evil?” We don’t ask the question, “Is there enough bad to compensate for all the good?” I often look at pure happiness as fake because it’s ignoring the truth that everything isn’t currently made right.

But if that’s the case, then pure sadness is fake as well, because it ignores the truth that not everything is wrong.

The good that happens still has bad around it. It’s not perfect. But the good is good regardless of what else exists. In fact, that’s how we know it’s good at all. We have something bad to compare it to. The trust that I found trusts that the good that I have witnessed, whether to myself or others, is worth it. I found faith that it is worth all the pain in the world, now and in the future, even after death. I can’t exactly explain how, and not everything is fine and dandy, but I discovered that I could have peace without answers and faith and trust without proof. Through that, I found the strength to carry on.