How My Tattoos Help ‘Heal’ My Scars

New article¬†was published on The Mighty today! My second with them. ūüėÄ

themighty

One Year (April 17th 2016)

April 17th 2016. A day I won’t forget – can’t forget.

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Today marks one year since my last suicide attempt.

On this day in 2016 I swallowed a cocktail of pills, slit wrists. And I was saved by two friends.

Life has changed in so many ways since that day. Some for better, some for not. And some things are exactly the same. It’s crazy thinking back¬†on what I’ve been through in just a¬†year. So much. Too much, at times. I look different now, in a very noticeable way if you know me. Last year I was already fading fast and it’s all taken its toll on me, both physically and emotionally.

Heartbreak and betrayal. Successes and failures. Friends found and lost. Illnesses and surgery. Abandonment.

So many ups and downs.

I’m still just a fragile girl, a scared girl, lost and unsure. Loneliness is still my closest friend, but I’m moving forward in life. I’m making things happen. Things I never would have thought possible on this day last year.

Baby steps.

A year ago today I gave up on life. But I’m still here. I wanted it all to end but two amazing people saved me that day, and I found hope. I’m still here.

What Dialectical Behavior Therapy Has Taught Me So Far

So excited to be published on TheMighty.com and be an official contributor! It’s obviously very personal to me and, I feel, really important.

https://themighty.com/2017/03/borderline-personality-disorder-bpd-dialectical-behavior-therapy-dbt/

World Suicide Prevention Day 2016; I Kept Living

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. The slogan To Write Love On Her Arms is going with this year is I Kept Living. So I thought I’d share my story about someone who called me in the hospital after my suicide attempt.

I’m not entirely sure what to call this relationship. I don’t know what she classifies it as. Friendship? Acquaintances? We’ve never met in person. She’s someone I sort of know, I guess. I was blown away by how gracious and appreciative¬†she was, that she wanted to get to know me. Each little interaction with her brought a smile to my face and it meant more than I’ll ever really be able to say that she cared¬†to take that time.

I initially started¬†writing this last week because I was feeling awful about the last time we talked. Of course my BPD jumps straight to, “She hates me”, etc. Yes, I have abandonment issues after everyone I thought was my friend just stopped talking to me. I am afraid of losing who’s left. So I couldn’t¬†stop thinking about it¬†and the stupid thing is is it wasn’t even a fight. It wasn’t an argument. We weren’t angry. It was frustration and misunderstandings.¬†It bothered me because I got the impression that she thought¬†I was ungrateful. She mentioned expectations which has never been the case. I was frustrated about something, which I expressed¬†in not the best way, admittedly.¬†I¬†can’t stand the¬†thought of her thinking I’m ungrateful or something because it couldn’t be further from the truth. What she’s done for me…it’s meant the fucking world.¬†The most invaluable being the night she called me in the hospital.
Skyping with her lastnight for a bit was a relief, and very needed. Kind of perfect timing with this post and WSPD. crszt1lw8aat62k

Before this, I’d overdosed twice just a week apart in January. Accidental. I think.
Accidental or not Рit was nothing compared to April.

Back in April I attempted suicide and was put under a 72 hour suicide watch.The nurses working the night shift let me keep my phone for a bit and I just decided to text her what was going on, and almost immediately a bunch of messages came in.

“You deserve to live”,¬†“I can call you”,¬†“You are loved.”¬†and more.

A new round of tears, and for some reason the,¬†“I can call you,” text made me cry even harder. We’re in different provinces, I have no idea what she was doing, if I interrupted something, and yet she was ready to call me right then.

10pm my time. Alberta¬†to Ontario.¬†Her voice, sweet as can be, instantly relaxed me. After the day I’d had, being scared and alone – she’s something safe, familiar. And she just has a way about her – her gentle voice held¬†all of the concern in the world. I told¬†her what happened and I just wished¬†so badly that I could actually have someone like her as my friend. She¬†related in her own ways when she could¬†but also made¬†a point to tell me I was¬†important, I was¬†loved and capable and,¬†“Do not give up.”¬†Hearing those¬†words from her meant¬†more than I can say; always will.¬†She let me cry it out, listened to what I was¬†thinking – bad or not – and she always had words of love and wisdom to say back to me. She didn’t have to call but I think that’s just a part of who she is – kind¬†and selfless.¬†She said¬†I have to get better for me.

There are certain things we have in common but faith is not one of them, and we know this about eachother. She spoke so honestly about herself, how her belief in god was the biggest thing that helps her. And even though I don’t believe in any god, I can genuinely say I’m glad she has that comfort to turn to – because I don’t. And I told¬†her that.

For almost an hour we talked¬†and we laughed and we (I) cried and we planned…plans I know, realistically, will never happen. But she honestly got me through that first night. I don’t know what I would’ve done¬†without¬†that distraction, that connection, even for just a little while. During our call, I realized I do still have some hope in getting better, that maybe I could have a future and life worth living. I can’t imagine what that would be – even now, 5 months later – but the thought is still there, and that’s what matters.

Darling, if you ever read this; thank you. I’ve said it before and I will keep saying it.
I am someone who has let their failures and mental illnesses define them. So when I go on and on at 4am, thanks to sleeping meds fucking me up, insinuating that you don’t care, I’m sorry. Learning how to cope and live with BPD and everything I have¬†is no walk in the park. Learning how to deal with someone with BPD¬†is just as hard. Please know in those moments that I don’t mean it. In fact the next day, because of the meds, I barely remember it. You have added hope and positivity to my life, not harm. I promise you that. Thank you for every little message that put a smile on my face when I could barely stand being alive. Thank you for the big things; the kindness, exchanging cell numbers and texts, the skype dates and most of all – the phone call that saved me during the worst day of my life. Thank you for caring.¬†

Someone I know called me in the hospital after I attempted suicide. A beautiful person both inside and out was there for me in the best (and only) way possible. I will never forget it. I know for a fact I only found that little bit of hope left in me because of her that night. And I will always be grateful and thankful for her.

I kept living because of that hope she helped me see. A hope that it won’t always be this way, that I’m stronger than I think. That I have something important and valuable to share with the world. I am loved. I am capable.
downloadI kept living because I know from that hope that¬†I’m better than that hospital gown and the charcoal they made me swallow and the IV in my bandaged, bruised wrists. I’m better than that. I know it now. But I need to be reminded more often than I’d like to admit.

I kept living because though I’ve once¬†again been in a low place lately, I know it’ll pass at some point. It has to. Recovery will always have ups and downs. It won’t always be like this.

I kept living because there are still so many things I want to do; I want to meet the girl that called me in the hospital when I was at my very lowest and helped me find that hope.

I kept living because despite those who have left, I found a few that either understand what I’m going through or try their very best to. They want to see me thrive and get better.

I kept living because everyone’s story is important, including mine.

I kept living to make sure others keep living, too.cqf4035xeaaun5g

The Way We Used to Breathe (poem)

My first poem published in print ‚̧
Huge thanks to Untethered.

2016-08-17_23.12.10

IMG_20160823_122158905_HDR - CopyLook at me
like I’m not broken.
Like nothing’s wrong
or changed,
like I haven’t missed
this;
the way you used to breathe.

Always Recovering, Never Recovered | World of Psychology

Thanks to psychcentral for publishing my piece on self-harm!

‘Always recovering, never recovered.’ A simple sentence that can be a harsh reminder. And that’s not to say your efforts or how far you’ve gotten were for naught, but to keep getting back up when you do fall. I’ve learned over the years, of course, that it’s extremely important to know you are not alone. Others are struggling and surviving alongside with you and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve always had a difficult time accepting the shame part. I‚Äôm very back-and-forth on my scars. On one hand, they‚Äôre a reminder of what not to do, proof I‚Äôve held on this long. But on the other hand, I hate them. They‚Äôre a reminder that I was ever so weak to do such a stupid thing, and now I have to live with the physical proof. The amount of shame and guilt I’ve dealt with not only from myself, but a few loved ones as well, breaks my heart. I can’t help but feel they’re ashamed of me; of knowing me, being who they are to me, as they tell me to cover them up like a dirty secret. Maybe they don’t

Source: Always Recovering, Never Recovered | World of Psychology

Vol. 3.1

I am so excited and honoured to be featured in this issue of Untethered. It’s my first publishing in print – thank you to everyone at Untethered for including me! ‚̧

Forthcoming August 2016   Editors’ Note Dear Reader, In this issue you will find the body controlled, imprisoned, misunderstood, judged, failing, starved, bound, raped, disappo…

Source: Vol. 3.1