By: Jess Griggs
When you’re thirteen, all lunchrooms are the same; whether you’re in a middle school or a loony bin. I stood there with my peanut butter sandwich and carrot sticks and surveyed my seating options. A window seat would be nice but a twitchy girl who said mean things occupied the only table with a view. The three tables in the center of the room were out of the question. Too many people to navigate through. I decided on the table in the far left corner.
A girl was already sitting at my chosen table. She took one look at the bandages on my wrist and said, “You’re a cutter too?”
“Oh. Uh. Yes,” I responded.
“Funny how we all seem to gravitate towards one another.”
We ate lunch in silence with the occasional snap of a carrot stick jarring us out of our own heads.
***
I remember my first night at Mercy Medical Center. Sometimes I still feel the sandpaper sheets on my skin. I stared at the red dot on the camera mounted in the corner until sunlight broke through, sliced into shadows by the wire cage mounted on the window. Morning light brought with it morning pill pass and the opportunity to wash away the restless night in the shower.
I was informed that most girls opted not to shave during their time at Mercy but if I felt the need to, a razor would be provided for me along with a staff member to ensure it was used for its intended purpose. If I took longer than ten minutes in the bathroom a staff member would open the door and make sure I hadn’t offed myself on their watch.
We did yoga together after a breakfast of toast and watered down orange juice and then had group session. The theory behind group therapy is to form a bond with the members by sharing and understanding our universal human experience. And if we pick up some social skills and accountability along the way, so be it. Like The Breakfast Club, only instead of detention, we’re in a mental hospital. In practice, it was more like Lord of the Flies: Middle School Girl Edition.
From what I observed during these sessions, most of the girls managed to internalize their guilt, somehow squeezing it into a ball and shoving it way down deep past the layers of Sun-In tanning cream, through the epidermis, down past the dermis and subcutaneous tissue, until finally it burst through the muscle and found an empty corner somewhere.
Sounds nice. I never had that problem. Thanks to my early and regularly repeated exposure to therapy, I had no trouble feeling all my feelings; I just had no way to control them. Countless hours and dollars were spent naming the demons scratching just beneath the surface.
For example, that one right there is overeating. It sits on my shoulder and tells me that I don’t have control over anything in my life except for what I put into my body. It promises escape and empowerment in the form of cake and chips and cookies and then slaps me with shame and guilt afterward.
This one sitting on my right thigh is anxiety. It has a masterful way of turning everyday, run of the mill what if’s into devastating inevitabilities that cripple me and suck the strength right out of my bones, leaving me gasping for air until the feeling passes.
Over there on my right forearm is victimization. It tells me I am a product of my circumstances and reminds me of all the times I was wronged and let down, followed up by all the ways I’ve lashed out at others. After replaying my most painful memories it tells me that I don’t have control over how I came into this world but I can decide when to leave it.
And here, resting on my left wrist is ignorance. Its game is different and far more damaging than the others. This one doesn’t seek to spread doubt and fear, but rather to keep me in the dark, groping for empty satisfactions with eyes half closed. And the cycle keeps gorging on itself.
Not to worry. There’s a pill for that. One for the anxiety, one for the depression, one for some yet to be officially diagnosed ADD, and two to help me sleep at night, though hopefully not too hard, because then I’ll wet the bed again, and at thirteen, that’s enough to cause some real anxiety. Better double up on the first pill.
***
I don’t remember much else from my stay at Mercy. I know my mom came to visit, armed with Pastor Gilmore who had his Bible locked and loaded. He quoted Jeremiah 29:11, “’For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans for peace and not for evil, plans to give you hope and a future.’”
I had no space for that truth in my heart. A hopeful future was as out of reach as a loving God.
After six days of no indication to self-harm, I was released.
I celebrated the next morning by flushing all of my pills down the toilet and dumping my therapist. So that set me back a bit. I do not recommend this course of action.
Nevertheless, once the chemical veil was lifted I had a devastating and beautiful clarity. Question: Do I want to live? Answer: Yes.
If you’re up there, God, please plan accordingly.
***
I wish I could tell you what my breakthrough was, or that I never again thought about suicide. But this is real life we’re talking about. I do know that God continued to reach down and show up in my life. He comforted when I was in pain, and confronted when I was deep in sin. He tore down my incorrect ideas of who I thought He was and continues to show me piece by piece the undeniable truth of who He is.
I didn’t have a “come to Jesus” moment that shattered all doubt. Rather, I continue to live day by day by claiming the promise that His grace is enough.