One Year Later

One year ago today, I sat in my therapist's office and sobbed for every single one of my 55 minutes with her. Back then, I could hardly speak the words or say the names. To say it out loud made it more real and ripped the gaping hole even wider. In all honesty, I don't remember much of what went on around me those first few months. I remember being afraid of losing my job because I was calling in sick so much. I remember my family taking turns staying in my room at night, lying awake and patiently listening to me cry until I didn't have the physical strength to stay awake any longer. I remember feeling the tension of their silent agreement not to leave me alone. I remember one specific night, lying awake and holding my sister's hand while we both cried. I remember her asking me through her tears to promise that I wouldn't kill myself. I clearly remember the pain and fear in her eyes; my fierce and precious protector, who was and is so heartbroken by this, both on my behalf and her own. I remember thinking that I couldn't imagine causing her or the rest of my family the kind of excruciating pain I felt. I made her that promise, which was no small feat. Promises are a big deal to me. And the lies were loud.

That day in counseling, my therapist asked me to write and sign a contract in my own words stating that I wouldn't hurt or kill myself. I agreed, and this is what I wrote:

I promise I will keep myself safe. I will ask for help when my thoughts get dark and I will not be alone if I am unsure. I will stay. 
Kaila Norris   8/30/16

I remember intentionally being brief and a little vague because I didn't want to be the kind of person who needs to sign a contract in order to not kill herself. But however vague the words were, I knew what I was agreeing to. She asked me to take and keep a picture of it on my phone, and she kept my original copy. She made sure that I understood exactly what I was promising.

And here I am, one year later.

If I can be completely honest, there have been moments when these two promises were all that kept suicide off the table. There have been moments when I've begrudged making them. Ultimately, I'm grateful, both for the accountability and the courage to stay alive.

While most of my memories of the things that have happened throughout the past year are blurry at best, my memories of the pain and emotions I've felt are clear as day. I'm still confident that no amount of physical pain will ever match the mental, emotional, and spiritual pain I've experienced. Pain so severe it becomes physical at times. Even though it still hurts a lot more than I'm comfortable with, even though the nightmares linger, and even though I still prefer not to speak it aloud or say the names, I have such a deep appreciation for the contrast I see between then and now. There were days early on when I literally couldn't even stand up. Now, on my good days, I stand taller than I ever have. I take a shower and leave the house most days. I run 3-4 times per week. I find reasons to smile and laugh. I'm starting to hang out with friends on a more consistent basis. I travel every chance I get. Now, my reasons to stay far outnumber my reasons not to.

And even though it still hurts and even though it's still hard, I'm glad I did.