It’s funny to take a look back at your life and see how you have changed over the years. You never truly feel yourself changing, yet it happens so quickly. I have grown up. I am no longer the little girl in torn jeans and a ponytail, running around the woods playing Star Wars without a care in the world. Sometime, in the past years, I have grown up.
I have moved across the country 6 times (although Michigan is counted a few times), and I’ve lost count of how many house moves we’ve had. I had successfully completed elementary school, middle school as well as high school. I found my dream career at the ripe young age of 14. I have been semi-successfully living on my own at college for two years now. I have worked and volunteered with multiple professional theatre companies since beginning school. I completed 2 decades of life. 20 years and 3 months, rather 243 months. That’s approximately 7,407 days that I have lived. But who is counting, right?
However, not too long ago ago my life could have easily been cut short. My day count could have stopped easily about 4 years ago. Let me give you a quick run down.
My family works in ministry. It has been a great blessing to my life in many ways. There are people that my family has had the honor to meet, that we would never have had the chance if not for ministry. Yet, there are also downfalls to a ministry filled childhood.
I had always been associated with my family directly. I was referred to as “Jill’s little sister” or “Scott’s youngest daughter” not “Stacey.” Because of that, I had a hard time finding myself. I felt as if no one saw me for who I was. It was overshadowed by the actions of my family. People got this idea that we had the perfect life because we were serving God. That means everything was awesome for us and we never made any mistakes. False. If I had a nickel for every time someone came up to me and said they wished they were apart of my family I would not be this stressed about student loans, that’s for sure.
It felt like there was this invisible pressure on me to keep up this ideal of our family to in the outside world. No one could know how isolated I had made myself. No one could know that I created this immense expectation of perfection upon myself. No one could know that sometimes I fell short of this expectation. It all followed me everywhere I went.
I was a junior at a local Christian high school at the time. I was involved in nearly everything: National Honor Society, Student Government, drama club - the works really. They praised me at school because I was doing so many things. They praised me for how well I was handling it all. I was maintaining a decently high GPA and studied vigorously. I held every single rule that was set in front of me in high esteem because I was afraid of being cast out. Somewhere in all of this, I found that I was labeled “the good kid.” Before long, I became the model student in a lot of ways - academically, extra circularly and yes, religiously. I could never say no. I had to be perfect.
I held a job at the conference center where my family lived. I worked in the dining room as a server on top of my busy school schedule. When I first started working it was strange. My co-workers were my sister’s friends. These seemingly random people that I had only ever heard about suddenly became real to me.
Abby’s best friend, Emily, had a crush on this guy that I went to school with. He switched to homeschooling only a few weeks in though so I had never had a chance to meet him. He was tall with bright red hair. His name was Lucas, and soon he and I became fast friends, along with a select group of others at work. There were about 5 of us that hung out all the time for a solid year. They became a second family to me. Suddenly I wasn’t just “Abby’s little sister” I was me. For the first time in my life, I was Stacey. They were a shining light amidst a cloud of darkness that was rising up within me.
I was beginning to feel pulled in many different directions. I had a lot to do and not a lot of energy to do it with. I felt as if I was the one who needed to care for everyone else. Maybe it was because we moved so much, but I had created a very skewed idea of friendship in my head. I thought being someone's friend meant that you had to be there for them, no matter what was going on in your life. I started giving more than I had to give. Yet, this overwhelming need for perfection in every aspect of my life overpowered the logic of saying no. It prevented me from removing toxic things from my life. This is the mindset that allowed a darkness swell up inside of me. And grew like a mold within my soul.
This mold was depression.
Days began to meld into this never changing cycle of feeling like I was falling short and failing those around me. I would wear the wrong thing and be sent back to my room. I would get busy with homework and forget to call a friend back. I wouldn’t sleep the night before a test because of this furious anxiety that welled up within me, so I would receive a B. I could never be good enough.
I lost feeling for a long time. I became numb to things that used to make me feel happy. I went through all of the motions that were needed to show people I was good. I painted my own mask to wear around others. And I dealt with nearly every emotion in one way - I turned against myself.
New Years Eve 2011 was the first night that I cut. We had finished working a large banquet, and after returning home I could not break this cycle of anxiety and anger. I stayed awake for hours, trying to calm down and just go to sleep. I don’t remember putting a pair of scissors my bedside table, but before I knew it, they were in my shaking hand. I placed them on my right side, and that was it. I was nearly instantly addicted. I carried razors with me and anytime I didn’t live up to expectations, I had a go to. It went from a one-time thing to every single day, multiple times a day. If I was challenged with any sort of issue, I went straight to self-injury.
Self-injury acted as a motivator for me. It was a push to do better, to bebetter. Yet with every mark I made upon my body it simply dragged me lower and lower into a deep dark pit. It became the only thing I felt for months. It kept accelerating and got terrifying very quickly. And no one knew.
Then, something happened that changed my life. I was faced with seeing someone I know deal with the attempted suicide of his friend. I held him as he cried and mourned over the sadness that had built up within his dear friend. In that moment, I knew I couldn’t live like that anymore. I was well past the point of caring about myself, but I did still manage to care about those around me. Especially my close group at the Cove, they had become the one thing that didn’t make me hate myself. I had to change.
The next day I texted Lucas, telling him that I needed to talk. We met up, and I told him what I had been doing to myself. I told him how I was scared to be alone. I could have sworn he was going to think I was a freak and leave me, but he hugged me. He held me and told me that I was loved, and that it hurt him to see me hurting. It was through him that I felt comfort in this comfortless place that I had built for myself.
The next week was a whirlwind, that Tuesday at youth group I spent the entire time talking to our youth leaders about what was going on. They told me I had to tell my dad. That was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It felt like I was looking him in the eye and saying the words “I am a disappointment”. Which, to an extreme perfectionist, is no small thing.Two days after that, I was nervously sitting in a counseling office awaiting to meet the person they expected me to pour my soul out too. I was expecting to meet an older guy who had no idea how I felt about anything. I was surprised when I met my counselor; she was a younger woman that was actually relatable. We bonded over the craziest thing, Harry Potter.We would spend the first few minutes talking about what was going on in the books (we were both reading through them for the first time). I slowly began to unpack why I was feeling the way I was and how to fix it. She taught me ways to cope with my feelings, and methods to use when it all became too much. She wasn’t a magic pill that made everything okay and it still took me awhile to be able to wean off the self-injury. After a few weeks of bi-weekly visits, I started realizing that I didn’t need to cut anymore. I needed people. I needed to understand my value was not directly tied to perfection. I needed to have faith in myself and in others again.
On April 13th, I cut for the last time. It was a bad relapse - I remember that. I had had a particularly hard day at school, and I refused to use any of the coping skills I had been learning. I locked myself in the bathroom exactly like I was trying to lock my feelings away. After I was done, I realized that I still felt bad. I still wasn’t perfect. I was hurting so badly that I could only turn to a blade. I had to stop, otherwise I was going to die. It was the first time I decided to care about me in a long while.
My counselor told me to paint a box, and put the things that mattered the most to me in it. So I bought a small box and painted it blue with purple accents, and filled it with pictures, sayings, and bible verses that made me who I was. I started going to my box rather then my razor. I started to smile for real again. I am 3 years, 4 months and 8 days self-injury free. That’s 1,225 days. But who's counting, right?
I am putting this all out there for the great big world to read because I don’t want to be silent about mental illness and self-injury. I don’t want anyone to ever go through what I did. So if you or someone you know are dealing with something like this, please feel free to talk to me about it, or someone. People can’t read what you are feeling underneath your mask, talking is key. And folks, I am ready to talk.
Here goes nothing.
