Whenever I’m hurting so badly that I start to believe it’s not worth it, I remember the Denver skyline at night. It sounds like cliche bullshit, but that’s fine with me. It works almost every time.
Here’s why:
I was flown to Denver with my mom on December 3 2018. A few days prior, I was released from psychiatric care on the condition that I seek treatment as soon as possible. My body had stopped functioning correctly, and I wasn’t able to put up any kind of fight. My body was failing, and I couldn’t protect it or stop it or really even feel it.
During those few days, I finished out the semester–early. I was ostensibly a junior in college with a 4.0 and for some reason that was still important to me.
Then, for three days I stayed up all night, pacing around my room–I was unable to walk in view of my family or friends because they’d worry I’d topple over. I stayed up all night with nothing in my head but a very clear and simple directive–get through the night. There was something incredibly comforting about that kind of certainty.
I don’t remember what airline we flew, but I know we stopped in Boston for a bit. I remember we saw John Kerry. I know someone met us at the airport with a wheelchair, which I insisted was overkill. And I remember being driven to the hospital.
It’s at this point I need to talk about my mom. My mom who, through absolutely everything, was strong in a way that almost made me religious. (It didn’t–hail satan forever.) She is the reason I didn’t croak at 21 years old, and that kind of pressure is more than anyone should ever have to hold. She shaped my beliefs around parenting–having kids–raising a family–in the really hard years of my disorder. It is hard, and it never, ever gets easy.
Eventually, my mom flew back to New York, and I started to learn how to eat again. A few times a day, I was wheeled outside for fresh air and absolutely no cigarette. During my first night alone in Denver, a CNA, and god I wish I could remember her name, wheeled me outside. I told her I’d never been to Denver, and asked what the skyline looked like. She said she’d show me.
She told me not to tell anyone, then wheeled me to the top of the hospital’s parking garage. I had mixed feelings about the idea of her yeeting me over the edge, but when I decided we were cool, we sat together and watched the skyline and I cried a ton. She let me. There’s something very cool about the way the Denver skyline kinda pops up out of the desert. I wasn’t used to that kind of openness. It was hopeful for me, then. Still is.
Shout out to Denver Health. That fucking hospital rules.
When I transferred from the hospital to a residential facility, I fell on my ass really thoroughly. I was struggling to finish meals, to accept help, to understand what I needed to do to recover–I was, and I have witnesses to corroborate, nuts.
I snuck in jumping jacks in my room–hid food under the table–all sorts of insane shit. This dumbass disordered behavior didn’t stop until I saw Denver at night again.
I was sitting on the balcony with two BHCs (behavioral babysitters) on one of our allotted fresh air breaks. It was the last of the night, and it was dark and cold but clear. We could see the skyline in its entirety. I was listening to the two BHC’s talk about what they were going to do when they got off work. They seemed like friends–like they hung out when they weren’t on shift. They were talking about if they were going out, and where. What shows they were in the middle of watching. Potential dates and some kind of karaoke contest. They were happy, and I dunno, something clicked for me.
I realized that I could have that life. That I could think and talk about my life like it wasn’t a tragedy. I could have friends in a new city and I could go out with them and I could have this whole life that didn’t hurt all the time. There they were next to me, and there was the city, and all I had to do was figure out a way to recover. I could have that.
And I did. I never went back home. I stayed in Colorado after treatment, finished school, made friends–fell in love on the internet. I had that life. And I still do. Every night when I get ready for bed, I’m so fucking grateful that I don’t have to worry about pacing till morning. I can just go to sleep.
Dear reader, right now I’m hurting. I don’t know exactly why, but the thoughts that fed my disorder are sneaking back in. I’m afraid, but I also trust myself to find a way through it. Here’s why:
One of the BHCs I had overheard that night ended up going to grad school at the same university that I did. I didn’t know until my very last day of classes, when I walked into the hallway and saw her standing there.
I wanted to cry, but there were too many people around. I was absolutely overwhelmed, but managed to tell her, “I’m graduating next week.” She smiled and asked, “What are you doing to celebrate?”
I told her about my plans for that night, and she told me hers. I was happy.
Girl Seeking Peanut Butter 