My Lightening Bolt

I began cutting myself when I was 14-years-old. As I've previously posted, I internalized the belief that I could not let anyone know how sad or anxious I was. Combine that with the fact that I took on everyone else's problems on top of my own? I was one stressed kid.

I started small, experimenting to see if it really worked - if it would make me feel better. The first time, I remember I was really upset about something with my mom and I knew I couldn't do anything about it. So I used a safety pin and pretty much just made a small scratch on my wrist. I scraped and scraped until I started to bleed... just a little bit. I remember feeling scared at first that someone would see what I had done, so I quickly found a bracelet to cover the scratch. After I had hidden the minimal damage, I realized that I did feel a little better. Sure, my wrist was a little sore and I had to figure out how to hide it, but I wasn't as upset anymore.

As I continued to utilize this coping skill, I started to get more aggressive with my cutting. I even had preferred razors I liked to use because I had figured out what brand was the sharpest.

I had to pick up the hobby of making beaded bracelets during this time. I had one sport wrist band for one of my wrists to cover the cuts, but my other wrist needed coverage too. So I made tons and tons of bracelets that I would stack together to hide the evidence. Actually, if you look back at pictures of my during high school, you can see the wrist band and bracelets.

This became too much of a hassle to hide so I moved on to cutting my thighs. I would press the blade deep into my skin and rapidly drag it across my leg. If I was satisfied by the amount of blood, I would do it again in the same spot, making sure I got deeper. The pain was short lived, but it was excruciating each time I ran a blade across my skin.

The deeper the cuts, the more blood would spill. I'm not quite sure what it was about this that calmed me. I can remember sitting on my bedroom floor with toilet paper folded up under my thigh to catch the droplets of blood, the razor still in my limp right hand. And I just sat there and watched the blood trickle down my leg... completely calm and emotionally drained.

I honestly think the blood, for me, symbolized the tears I didn't feel safe to shed. The pain distracted me from what was upsetting me. As long as no one knew, I figured this would have to do for the moment. At least it seemed (at the time) that it was helping me.

But then I cut just a little too deep.

I had been fighting with my mom. I was probably 19 or 20, so living at home during this time. She had made me so angry about something, I don't even remember. I just remember the tears of fury that filled my eyes as I ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I grabbed my hidden "cutting kit," dropped my pants and took the razor and pressed as hard as I could before I dragged the blade three full inches just above my knee. The blood instantly began to pool up and overflow down my leg. I remember feeling like hurting myself, in that moment, was a way to "get back" at my mom, even though I never wanted her to know my deep dark secret.

"Bailey!" My mom screamed from somewhere downstairs. "Come back down here, we aren't done with this yet!" The tears of fury began again as I started to wipe up the blood quickly. "Hold on!" I screamed back. My fury quickly turned to panic, though... my mom was waiting for me to come downstairs to argue some more and for the first time, I couldn't get the bleeding to stop. She screamed again for me to come down and I could hear her walking around on the creaky wooden floors. In a panic, I grabbed a pad of gauze and scotch tape. It was the best I could do. I taped the gauze over my bleeding wound and pulled my jeans back up. I opened my door just as she yelled at me again to come down.

She made me sit down, and I remember thinking that I needed to make this conversation as short as possible. She began to scold me for whatever disrespect I had shown her by arguing with her or disagreeing with her rules (I don't really recall the specific topic, but this was generally how round two of fights went with my mom). I rested my hand as casually as I could on my leg over the giant cut I just made. I could feel the warmth radiating from it. I decided to not fight back with my mom, as I knew this would shorten the conversation by at least half. I still had to maintain a decently surly attitude though, to keep up my appearance. I never took my mental focus off my leg though... I just knew I was going to bleed through my jeans. My mother dismissed me after a quick apology (begrudgingly, on my part) and I ran back upstairs, just as a small amount of blood soaked through my jeans.

I changed, got the bleeding stopped, then properly cleaned up the bloody mess I had made. Over the next week or so, the cut became infected as it was warm to the touch. I even showed my therapist once it started to heal. She was appalled and said that I should have gone to get stitches for it. I admitted to her that it was the first time I was scared I cut too deep and that it took so long for the bleeding to stop. She knew about my cutting, but I don't know if I shared the gravity of the situation with her: how I cut myself everyday, like a compulsion. How when it was really bad, I would make the worst cuts.

I struggled with cutting until I was 22-years-old. I spent 8 years of my life, deliberately mutilating my body rather than let other people see my emotions and my pain.

How did I stop? During one session with my therapist (after I gave her my razors as a symbolic gesture that I was committed to stopping), she explained to me two things: 1. When I cut myself, instead of having one problem, now I have two - I have the original emotional trigger and now the pressure of hiding the cut. And 2: She said, and I'm paraphrasing, "One day you might have kids. And part of having kids is that, inevitably, they are going to see you in a swimsuit or in your underwear. And they are going to ask what those scars on your body are. How would you explain that to a young child?"

I figured, hey, I just won't have kids. But it still struck a cord with me, and I remembered it.

Then one day, I was swimming with my friend's children at the pool. Her middle child came up to me as I sat with him on a towel. "Bailey, what are those scars from on your legs?" My stomach dropped. "Um..." I struggled. "I was swimming with some friends one time and scraped my leg really bad on some broken pool tiles." Being the curious little guy he was (and still is), he continued to ask questions; why was the tile cracked? Did I bleed in the pool? Did it hurt real bad? His mom, also aware of my cutting problem, overheard the whole conversation and quickly reminded him it wasn't polite to keep asking questions like that and to go play in the pool some more before we left.

She had been right. And it wasn't even my own kid who asked me. But having to lie to a little boy I love so much broke my heart. He didn't need to know how hard life can be. He's still innocent. I could also hear my therapist's voice in my head repeating the phrase that I had two problems instead of just one when I cut myself as well. Right then and there, I decided I would never cut myself again.

I'm proud of my scars now. They show that I overcame something that was an addiction like any other. They show that I struggled, and I survived. They are my reminder that I am strong.

When I was 21-years-old, I got a tattoo of a tree on my wrist. What I noticed later, was that the top of the tree stops right below a fading scar from cutting. It looks almost as though there is a bolt of lightening striking the tree. It's difficult to see if you don't know what to look for, but I see it everyday. My reminder that I survived that storm. I have the scars to prove it. 

Mental Breakdown

At some point in my adolescence, I subconsciously adopted the belief that I could not share how sad and depressed I was with my parents. I think the belief I held was that if they knew how miserable I was, it would only serve to make their lives more difficult. So naturally, I had to develop some kind of coping skill to deal with these emotions.

I figured out that people liked talking to me. And I genuinely enjoyed listening to them. This allowed me to make such meaningful and lifelong friendships.

I don't know if my friends ever truly knew how badly I craved their friendship and acceptance. And I was truly blessed because they always just showered me with love during some of the darkest years of my life.

One aspect of these friendships that I craved was being able to share their burdens and be the keeper of their deepest secrets. If I was putting out fires between friends, giving advice in a crisis, or spending hours on the phone talking someone through a break-up, then I was happy. It made it easier to push aside my own sadness. I loved my coping skill because I knew I was helping someone. And if I couldn't help myself, at least I could be there for someone else.

 This became my philosophy of life. Be there for others 24/7 so I never have to look too deeply at my own growing pile of issues.

My philosophy seemed to be working just fine up until fall 2008.

I had transferred to another university to study film my sophomore year, but it was like starting college all over again. New city, new dorm, new roommate. I immediately began regretting my decision once I started to attend my classes. I actually hated them because I could not focus on any of the material.

I began to have panic attacks daily, though I wasn't sure that's what they were. I made my parents come get me every single weekend because I was too anxious to spend the weekend with just my thoughts.

The panic attacks continued and increased in ferocity. There were days I couldn't leave my room and I would curl up on the floor of my door room and weep. I'd pray to God to take away this sudden irrational fear. But the attacks continued. I rarely left the dorm and never went to my classes. I found that I could calm myself by losing myself in a video game. So I would spend hours every day playing a game, just so I could keep my panic away.

But then I beat the game.

I decided to try one more time... I still had time to make up some work before midterms. But I never made it to class that last time. I had to stop halfway there and sit on a bench to calm myself down from a panic attack. I knew then I needed help.

My parents and I agreed that I would withdraw from school and come home. My father and mother were in a good place together, especially with my mom's new sobriety.

When I came home, I was set up with a psychiatrist and therapist. I hated my therapist. I would actually get more anxious before sessions with her. At home, when my mom was gone and my dad was at work, I would curl up into a ball on the floor and weep uncontrollably. I wrote how much I wanted to die from the sadness that seemed to grip my every waking moment. I even wrote suicide letters to each person in my family. While I never attempted to take my own life, it was a constant thought in the back of my mind. I had a plan figured out and everything. But I never tried. Something in me kept me from going over that ledge. I'd like to think God was holding onto the back of my shirt as I kept inching towards that precipice.

As luck would have it, I learned that you should probably actually like the therapist you go to. So when I approached my therapist about switching to someone else, she was very kind and gave me a list of 5 counselors and their phone numbers. I called the first number on the list and made an appointment.

I was not prepared for the disarming charm and empathy of my new therapist. She was completely unbiased, didn't push me into anything I wasn't comfortable dealing with yet, and she was genuinely invested in my mental health improvement. She equipped me with skills that I never knew I needed and she had a way of reframing negative thoughts or situations that made life just a little easier to handle. She is one of the main reasons I am still alive today.

As those of you with depression know, its not something that you simply take a pill for and it goes away after 6 weeks. Depression is a cyclical disorder, so while you have a good 6 months, you might hit a wall and your depression intensifies again for a period of time. It's lifelong. But it also treatable in so many different ways. For myself, I take antidepressants to help control my depression and anxiety. I also know that when I eat healthier and exercise, I feel better. Happier. And I still continue to see my therapist to this day, 8 years later.

As I write this, I am currently a happy young woman. Despite the trauma in my past and the mental health issues I will probably struggle with for a long time, I am happy. I have a roof over my head, food on my plate, clothes on my body. I have a Heavenly Father who loves me, an earthly father who loves me, and a boyfriend who challenges me to be a better person each day.

My mental breakdown was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because it brought me to this place and this moment and this life that I live today.

Some housekeeping

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"When the bough breaks, The cradle will fall..."

I had my bedroom door shut. Listening to music or watching TV... I'm not positive, but the volume was loud enough that I never heard the thud.

The faint sound of footsteps and the front door slamming made me hit pause and listen at my door. Too confused, already... Why were they rushing?

The front door slammed again and I heard a man's voice. I opened my door and tiptoed to the top of the stairs and listened, my pulse quickening. "...he's on the ground... male, in his late forties... blood all over..." said the stranger's voice, coming from my own living room.

Male? Forties? Dad! I was down the stairs before the man was off the phone. I didn't really recognize him. I think he asked me my address and I told him. I went numb, in shock. The stranger looked so panicked, so scared... what happened to dad that scared this man?

Blood all over... I started towards the front door slowly, just as my mother came through it. She was panicked but managed to conceal the gravity of the situation off her face the second she saw me. I froze as she grabbed my arm, securing me from moving any farther.

"Are they sending an ambulance?" She asked. "Yes," the stranger said. Her grip tightened. I could see strings of Christmas lights littering the front yard through the front door. Dad had begun hanging them on the house today - our day after Thanksgiving tradition.

My mom slowly lead me through the front door with specific instructions to not leave the front porch. "What happened?" I asked, my chest painfully tight. "Where's dad?"

She sat me down and hurried through a quick explanation as she continued to look past me towards the driveway: "Daddy must have fallen off the ladder or the roof while he was hanging the lights."

I went to stand to go see him, but was pulled back down by my mother's firm grasp. "No, you stay here on the porch. You don't want to see him like this. Bailey, you stay right here, do you understand?" I nodded.

I sat there alone in my panic, wondering if my dad was even alive. Because people who are alive make noise... and I couldn't hear him.

The ambulance arrived and the EMTs scurried up the driveway disappearing behind the side of the house where my father's body lay.

Neighbors also began arriving, helping pick up the lights strewn across the front lawn. One of them sat down beside me, and as kind as he could, and tried to comfort me. And my paralyzing fear overcame my more docile attitude as I snapped at him, "Is my dad dead? Why won't anyone let me see him?!" He patted my leg and got up and resumed picking up lights.

He's dead. That's the only explanation... dad fell off the roof and died. This was my circulating thought as the minutes continued to tick by and I sat frozen on my steps. He's gone... he's gone... he's gone.

That's when the screaming started.

I felt such overwhelming relief. Screaming people aren't dead! He's alive! I began to wiggle on my step, anxious for someone to come tell me some news about how he was hurt and what the hell had even happened. But then the screaming got worse.

And it didn't stop.

I had been praying that he would just make a sound... any sound to let me know he was alive over there. But the screams of complete pain and agony pierced my heart leaving me, once again, alone and afraid for my father.

After what felt like an eternity, his screaming stopped. I could make out his voice through the jumble of others. My mother rejoined me on the porch, looking utterly worn and agonized. "They are taking him to the hospital. I don't think I can drive, honey, I'm too shaken up. Can you drive us there?"

"Of course," I replied. I ran in quickly to grab my purse and keys and was back out front just in time to see my father being wheeled to the ambulance on a gurney. I could see him looking around, searching until he found my face.

"I'm not going to die, sweetie," he yelled from the gurney. "Everything will be just fine," he said, right as the EMTs rolled the gurney over a large crack in the driveway, causing my dad to make an "oof" sound. Typical for my father, he laughed when it happened and waved at me until he was inside the ambulance.

My mother and I walked over to the driveway together, heading towards my 88 Saab. I looked down at my feet as I walked toward the car, just in time to avoid stepping in my dad's blood.



My dad suffered many injuries from this fall back in 2006. He broke both of his ankles, dislocated both feet, tore a rotator cuff, crushed his fibia and tibia right at the knee, and suffered a minor head injury. He was in a wheelchair for 7 months, relearned how to walk... he was even home by Christmas. My father fell from the top of our two story home while hanging Christmas lights, something he should have died from - could have died from. And we were blessed enough that he not only made it through every surgery, but was even able to walk again.

A Little About Me

I am a Christian.

I have a bachelor's degree.

I have three crazy and beautiful dogs

I have a boyfriend who I thank God for everyday

I love reading - young adult novels being my favorite

I'm a movie buff

I was binge watching TV shows before it was even a thing!

My mother died when I was 21-years-old

I go to therapy and I am very proud to share that

When I was little I wanted to be an archeologist because I thought it might be like  "Jurassic Park"

I wanted to be an actress - part of me still wants too

I can play the drums, though I haven't practiced in awhile

I can juggle

I love Eminem...

But my favorite composer is Michael Giacchino

I want to write my story, no matter how hard it might be.

I want to write my boyfriend's story, no matter how hard it might be.

And someday, I want to write our story.

I love the smell of my dogs' snouts

I secretly like the smell of gasoline

The worst feeling in the world is wet socks

And...

I'm fairly certain I could live off of a diet of cheese alone.


You'll learn much more as these blogs continue, I promise. I just needed to get the important stuff shared first ;)

Let's See How This Goes

I've dreamt of being a writer for many years now.

I love writing - telling my story, telling fictional stories... I even enjoyed a good essay here and there while in college.

But I continued to push it aside; ignore the occasional impulse to plop down with my laptop and type away. Why? There was always some excuse, something else that demanded my attention or some TV show beckoning me to binge watch.

I guess I felt like writing wasn't something I could make money doing. And somewhere along the line, I subconsciously decided that this was just another childhood dream that needed to be boxed up. "I can always write when I'm older" was the general line I would give to those who challenged me: "Why not just write now?"

I trudged ahead anyway, working countless jobs that never truly fulfilled me even though they were all within my field of study. But that's the way it's supposed to be, right? You work, you're responsible, you pay your bills. That's just life, isn't it?

I recently had a conversation with my father. He listened while I wept over, once again, my current unemployment. And then he asked me a question that I honestly do not believe he's ever asked me before: "Bailey, why don't you do something you actually enjoy?" I sat there for a moment, and all I could say was, "I like writing." My dad immediately encouraged me to begin a blog. So while I am still currently looking for part-time employment, I decided, "hey... I gotta start somewhere."

So here I am, 5 days after this conversation, finally starting my blog.

Some of it will be stories (mostly true) from my rather unusual life. Some of it will be rambling about my day. And some of it might be little stories I've had cooking in my head for awhile.

It doesn't really matter, in the end, though. Because this is my own journey, and I'm going to just ride along with it. :)