What a long title for the post! LOL But its appropriate none-the-less.
Last Thursday when I arrived home after committing my mother to mental health because she attempted suicide, I felt drained. Drained isn’t even a strong enough word. I felt beaten down. Like most people with bi-polar disorder and depression and most people who have been through sexual and emotional abuse, I have considered suicide. In fact, I will say that it’s never far from my thoughts. When I was having trouble with my medication not too long ago I caught myself staring at my kitchen knives and wondering if it would hurt if I sliced open a vein. I thank God every day that the sound of my children playing video games or fighting 15 feet away kept me from finding out. But my mother, being bi-polar, an alcoholic, and an abuse victim (many times over), does not have the in your face reasons to prevent her suicide. So, with vodka courage, she held a knife to her throat.
I understand the urge, almost a need, to end the seemingly endless pain that is life sometimes. I understand the desperation to escape the feelings of worthlessness. And on Thursday night, when my husband was leaving for work and he asked me if I was okay and would “all be right in his world tomorrow” I could only give him a blank stare and tell him I was fine. In a way, I thank him. He made me angry with his comment, as if “his” world is the only one that counts. But at least I felt something, instead of blinding numbness.
I sat here on my couch, in front of my laptop for a while. I listened to my phone ring, but I didn’t answer. And then I picked up a bookmark that I purchased at the end of May on a day trip with my kids to some local caves. It’s one of those ones with the penny that has a shape cut out of it. This penny has a cross on it, and the bookmark one of my favorite writings: “Footprints In The Sand.” I know it by heart, but I sat here and read it anyway. As I read, I could feel myself getting lighter and lighter. By the time I got to the end, I knew I was being carried through this very difficult time and I knew I would be okay. I prayed to God for strength all through Friday and he provided it. When my mother called me screaming, I made it through. When it was time to go collect my work for the weekend, I made it through. When I was taking call-offs and emergencies (and there weren’t many), I made it through.
And now I know what I want my next tattoo to be. I want something symbolic of “Footprints in the Sand.” My tattoo artist thinks I have lost my mind. If any of my wonderfully creative friends out here in internet land has any ideas, I am open to suggestions. This has to be just right.