Levels of Stress

Level Ten

I had been saving my ten for a day where there was no hope whatsoever. When I felt really bad, I would say I hit a level nine. I refused to admit to myself that I was so bad as to reach a dreaded level ten.

It wasn't until late September and early October that I would admit it. I had become so good and bottling up and lying and pretending. It all fell to pieces.

I could barely move. The pain was more than too much to bear. It was too dark to see if anything was around me. I knew a panic attack was coming.

My ears started to ring and my head pounded violently. A worry built up inside me and I started gasping for air, only making me panic more.

Something stabs my chest and I jerk, biting my lips to stifle a groan so hard that they bleed. I realize how pathetic I am. I've been told how stressful I am to people. I felt a feeling in my gut that I didn't ever feel before.

Salty tears stained my cheeks and ran down between my lips. I didn't have it in me to wipe them away. I struggled, pulling my knees into my chest. I grabbed a fist of the hospital bed sheets and fought back god awful sounds.

In that moment, as I was so desperately holding back a panic attack, I never hated myself more. I'm selfish. I have too many problems. I stress my friends out. I'm too much.

The worst part of it was pretending, something I became very good at. I would hide everything inside and sometimes none of my friends would notice. Behind a keyboard, I could make myself seem okay. Even as I was in the middle of an attack, I would keep to myself and try to help my friends. Ever since they knew about what was going on, they've been worried, stressed, and panicky. I'm draining everybody out.

Why was I so hurt to see people happy? Around me, some people found each other and found good in it all. I watched people laugh and enjoy each other from behind an invisible wall. I desperately wanted to be happy with and for them, but I couldn't when it hurt this bad. I would never be truly happen again...and it still tears me apart.

I wanted so badly to give up. I was tired of living a life of constant pain and suffering. It hurt me and everyone around me and I hardly felt the right to live.

My eyes scanned the room for something to hold and my shaky hand grabbed a tool off the counter. I don't know exactly what I did next, and neither does anyone reading this. That...and what happened after...was my level ten.

The experience I had that one night, when I carved at my arms, was a level ten. I had no intention of doing that, just like I hadn't at the hospital, but my body did. It took over, making decisions before I knew what was going on. That night, my body refused to live it's repetitive, stubborn life. I was done pretending I didn't need help. I needed help and I never asked for it.

I felt as if the world threw a blanket over my head and all that could be seen from the outside was an oddly shaped lump. Somehow, I transformed that blanket into a tent, where I almost happily planted a camp. I had no idea how my life was supposed to be, only of how it was.

My happiness wasn't something I had to work for, but was something I already had, deep inside me, found through bulldozing down the walls of pain around it. I knew that the walls were inside me, and I saw that most people, never having experienced deep physical discomfort on a regular basis, didn't and couldn't know this like I did.

I often thought back to that day, whether it was regret or confusion. I wondered, since I was supposedly at level ten, would I have went further? When would it hurt this bad again, when the pain was so bad that holding on did more damage than letting go. What other times would I be so afraid of dying a slow painful death that I would want to end it right then and there? What was wrong with me?

I did learn the answer. Two answers. I almost did, but I also learned that I wouldn't have through my friends and the girl that took care of me that night, in tears because of my stupid decision. I couldn't die. I couldn't cut. I had to be there for my love at every second she needed it. Owing her that much, I stuck at her side.

What if she had been the one I found cutting one day? What would I have done? Surely, I wouldn't have been as calm as she was. She dealt with me, even though she knew I had a serious problem. I took this into consideration with my other friends.

And it wasn't just for her. I got better for myself and for my other friends and family. I started to feel like my life and my decisions mattered and that ultimately I would be okay. I learned that it was okay to be yourself when you're not happy. You don't have to fake it. If people notice you're down, they will want to help. The feeling is temporary and will go away with a little bit of time and distraction.

I learned the most important thing in the hospital bed that terrifying night. Just because you're hurting or you're too weak to stand doesn't mean you can give up. Just because your life sucks and you're numbed with pain doesn't mean you can walk out. You push through to the light at the end of the tunnel, the happiness in life. If you only get through, past the bad part, you'll be rewarded with good.

I slowly began talking to people about my life and how I felt, honestly. I still hid a few things from them, but the most important thing I realized is that I wanted help and was seeking it.

I even went to a therapist, and for the first time, took it seriously and poured everything I had out to this stranger analyzing my psycho mind. He prescribed me to pills, which was exactly what I figured would happen. But, he also gave me tips to stop panic and anxiety attacks.

The thing that I discovered was the best at helping me was art. I attached myself to my instruments, sang loud and proud with my voice, and sketched pictures of my favorite things.

Reading and writing poetry/lyrics brought together everything that had ever been important to me. I could be me, write every good and bad thing I had to say, and no one would judge me for it. Rather than a way to create my own private life and hide from the world, the ability to create was now a way to enter the world. Language itself, words and images, could be shaped around the truth and understanding that I had long waited for. Most exciting, I was allowed to fail. I could make mistake after mistake and learn from each one on my own time, on my own terms.

Writing became my religion. I was obsessed. Any second where I had free time, I was scribbling something down. It was a way for me to artistically get my feelings out on paper.

And that's what I did. That's what this book has been.