the paper cranes

The coldest days are always the brightest. The sun bears down on us, but it brings no warmth. It just shines, malicious and blinding against the white, white, white. 

"Limit your outdoor exposure." The weatherman says. The thermometer reads -20° F, but the wind plummets the temperature even further. It is -41° F with windchill when I step outside into the merciless sun. I am wearing an obsene amount of layers, but it still cuts through me. My car groans pathetically when I start it, whining slowly to life. Everything is quiet. There is no movement on my street. I would be inside too, but I have to drive across the river to a normal looking office building and see if I meet the requirements for DBT.

I sit in the waiting room, still wrapped in my coat, my gloves, my hat, my scarf. The cold is still lingering in my bones. Next to me, a man and woman sit with a skinny teenage boy. The woman keeps dabbing at her eyes. The man is tapping his foot, restless. He eyes me with blatant curiosity. I look away.

"...don't want to!" The boy is whispering sullenly. 

His father replies, a short sentence muttered under his breath.

The boy retorts his own muttered reply, and his mother dabs her eyes again. His father on the other hand, lets out a dramatic sigh, his voice rising.

"God, I don't know why you can't just get over it. Just get on the internet. There's at least twenty different ways to fix this."

The mother sniffs. The boy glares. I stare at the floor and clench my teeth.

Just get over it.

...

"How do you feel about DBT?"

She smiles, this therapist. I look down at my hands.

Anxious. Pressured. Angry. Frightened. Unenthusiastic. Curious.

I am honest about my feelings, and I wait for her to tell me I can't join, that I need to want this.

I start next week.

...

I turned twenty-seven over the weekend. 

It was a date that I dreaded, and age had nothing to do with it. I have always loved my birthday, but my twenty-sixth birthday was a dark day. My twenty-sixth birthday was when everything started going downhill. I was sobbing in the dark on the kitchen floor, and I knew that everything was going to fall apart.

I was so afraid I would experience that again.

But this year? This year everything was perfect. I was surrounded by people I loved. We went out. We drank. We danced. We laughed. We celebrated. It was everything I wanted.

But a birthday is just a day.

Sunday, my actual birthday, I woke heavy-hearted. I wandered around the house like a ghost all morning until I suddenly realized what was wrong.

I had expected my perfect birthday to magically fix things. My perfect day would lift the curse placed on me one year ago. One perfect day and everything would be ok.

Later my friends came over again and we ate cake and I opened presents. The last one was from one of my closest friends. I opened it to find a framed piece of art. It was delicately crafted, just a simple colorful drawing on white paper. I was holding it upside down at first, but when I flipped it over, I almost broke down in front of everyone.

It was a drawing of paper cranes.

I folded so many paper cranes while I was in the hospital. It started as a distraction. To keep my hands from using a plastic comb to attack my wrists. But then I started giving them away to the other patients. And those little brightly colored paper cranes spread across the ward. People smiled. And with each one, life didn't feel quite so hopeless.

Maybe everything is still broken. Maybe I'm still not ok.

Maybe life isn't hopeless.

of dreams

It's been five mornings in a row that I've woken from nightmares.

My father murders someone that I love. This boy leaves me a voicemail as he dies, telling me of my father's betrayal. I sit terrified in my room, waiting for my father to come home. I'm trying to dial 911 with shaking fingers, but I keep getting the numbers wrong. 

My mother dies. I am sweeping the floor when I suddenly realize that she is gone. I will never see her again. All the words unsaid pile on top of each other until I break from the weight of them. I hide myself in her closet, sobbing as I run my fingers across her dresses. 

I am running up and down endless hills that are crawling with bears and mountain lions. I just have to get to the top of the hill. If I can get to the very top, I'll be safe. But with each peak, there is another valley, and I am gasping for breath.

The Mr. dies. Years after his death, I attempt to go on a date. That's when I realize that no one will ever know me like he did. I sit at a table across from a very nice, attractive man and realize that I have no idea how to talk to him. What do I say? Do I tell him the truth about me? Do I hide it? He won't know how to read my expressions. He can't gauge my emotion with a single glance. He doesn't understand the tangled mess that I carry with me everywhere. I break down in sobs before our food even comes and flee the restaurant.

These are just pieces. Vivid, broken fragments of dream that I remember. I've woken crying. I've woken in a terrified jolt. I've woken crippled by anxious dread. 

Sleep used to be an escape.

....

New Year's Eve is approaching. 

Facebook gathers your most popular posts and photos and compiles them into something called your year in review. 

Mine is full of silly posts and pictures. There is my new job. The return of one of my best friends from overseas. A vacation with some of my favorite people. Then right in the middle there is this post:

"Home is such a beautiful place to be."

I wrote that after spending 8 days in a psychiatric ward, but only a handful of people knew what I meant.

The rest continues in the same manner. Silly posts and pictures. There is no trace of the suicidal, depressed girl who one day sliced up her arms and legs with scissors.

It's difficult for me to look at it. My year in review is just sugary sweet frosting hiding the truth.

I turned twenty-six on the fifth of January. After my party, I sat on the kitchen floor in the dark and sobbed because I just wanted to die.

My weight dropped and dropped. I lost 40 lbs, but it was never enough. It is never enough. I cried every day on the way home from work. I thought about driving off bridges. I thought about stepping in front of semis. I thought about taking all the pills in the house. I thought about cutting my wrists.

I started getting drunk almost every night so I wouldn't think about food.

My smile started cracking. It took all of my energy to go to my new job every day and pretend I was fine.

And then the day came when I couldn't do it anymore.

So I spent 8 days in a locked ward on the 8th floor of a hospital.

Life could never be the same again. 

There are good things. There are wonderful things. The Mr.'s unwavering love. My friends' constant support. 

But there are hard things. Appointments. Meal plans. Diagnoses. More appointments. Meds. Med changes. Med side effects. Talking, talking, talking. 

Pity.

I want to pick and choose the things I can change. I want to feel in control of my own life. I am fighting, but sometimes I'm not sure which side I'm fighting on. 

Every day, I hear her. Just a little bit more. Just a little bit more...

I have no idea what 2014 will bring. In many ways, I am just as terrified as my twenty-six year old self. But I have something I didn't have before, something new.

Hope.