“Are you experiencing any anxiety in the moment?”
“Just anxious to go home,” I joked. I always joke. It alleviates the obvious tension in the room and brings a smile to my awkward conversation partner. It works like a charm. Every. Time.
But this time is different. My joke elicits a small smirk from the crisis worker, but she bows her head slightly and closes her eyes for just a moment before saying, “I don’t think that’s going to be happening.”
I was in shock. I had been charming, warm, honest… all the qualities that were supposed to communicate that I was stable and therefore primed and ready to go home. And oh how I wanted to go home. But that wasn’t going to be happening.
You see, this was the second time in two weeks that I had been ready to take my life. I had been taken to the CSU the first time. But two weeks later, my roommate found me in a state of mind that worried her. It took some persistence on her part, but eventually I admitted to her that I had indeed attempted to take my life yet again. She called another friend of mine and they drove me to the hospital. My parents and sister drove the hour distance between our homes and stayed with me in the emergency room as we waited on the crisis worker to come.
“I don’t think that’s going to be happening.”
I could barely process her words. I thought surely I had secured my masks in such a way as to not let the “crazy” show. In the moments that followed her pronouncement, however, the pit in my stomach began to grow. It grew and grew until finally terror consumed me and I whispered on a shaky breath, “Really?”
“Yeah, really. This is the second time in two weeks that you’ve made an attempt on your life. We just can’t let you go home after that.”
It made sense. If I had been her, I wouldn’t have advised that I go home either. But it still broke me. I wanted nothing more than to stay out of the hospital. Only “crazies” went to the hospital. So if I went, something in my worldview was going to have to change. Either I was going to have to admit that being in the hospital does not necessarily equate insanity, or I was going to have to admit that I had indeed lost my mind.
I stayed in the hospital for four days. I rested, read, went to therapy, ate regular meals, took my daily medications, all on a tight schedule that ticked like clockwork. It was predictable, steady, unwavering. It mimicked the stability they hoped to instill in my heart and mind.
I sobbed shaky tears the first twelve hours I was there. Anything and everything set me off. The worst was when I was granted a phone call and heard my mother’s voice on the other end of the line. I had no words for her. Only tears.
As time progressed in my forced retreat, the tears lessened, and I finally found words for my experience on the hospital wing. They weren’t my own words, however. The words I found were words given to me by those who have gone before me.
My friends had brought me some books, one of which was the Book of Common Prayer. I read from it day and night. I learned to pray in earnest the words on those pages, “Be present, O merciful God, and protect us through the hours of this night, so that we who are wearied by the changes and chances of this life may rest in your eternal changelessness; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
And I sang songs in my head. My mind became a symphony and the lyrics came alive in new and marvelous ways.
“Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come, Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home, When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He: His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.”
Often when someone says they have a “spiritual experience” I expect a story that is likened to the powerful visions of the mystics of old. I expect stories where clouds open up and hearts are strangely warmed and a palpable presence is in the room. I experienced none of this, though I would be lying to say it was not one of the richer faith experiences of my life. For in the silence of a hospital wing, I found a language to speak. When I say I found language, I don’t mean that I learned to speak on my own of my experiences. No. I found words. Or maybe, better yet, the words found me. The written prayers and songs started out as words foreign to me. Awkward words that came fumbling out and landed flatly in the room, going nowhere and doing nothing. But as time went on, the prayers and songs became my own.
In these songs and in these prayers, I began to answer the question “Who am I?” anew. I grew up believing I was special. When I entered the CSU and donned my standard hospital-green scrubs, I believed I was anything but special. Now, as I sat in the silence of the hospital wing and let words and lyrics come to life for me, I began to realize that I am, simply, “Kaitlyn.”
That statement seems more profound to me than it likely does to you. Allow me to try to explain. When I was young, I wanted “Kaitlyn” to mean something that was extraordinary. Something entirely different in all the best ways. I wanted to be the best, but I wanted to be the best so that I could earn the love I so desired. When I went to the CSU, I felt I had lost any hope of love because I had proved myself to be “less than.” I had reached a low in life and therefore I couldn’t regain any aspiration of being loved. But here in the hospital, I now realized that the love I so desired wasn’t something I earned based on merit. It was something given regardless of what I did. True love doesn’t measure a person’s worthiness of that love. It is given freely, with hands stretched open in welcome.
And so, it became enough to simply be “Kaitlyn.” I could just be me. No hoops to jump through. No bridges to cross. No bars to reach. “Kaitlyn” is enough. I can be loved based on who I am, not on what I do. I learned this in those written prayers and those simple lyrics. I both brought something new and special and different to the table by praying and singing them, and yet they were old words. Words rich with tradition and history. Those prayers and songs were both special and not special. Just like me. For the first time in my life I knew I could be special and this not carry with it the ever-present anxiety that I would fail someone. And for the first time in my life I knew I didn’t have to be special and this not carry with it the mounting depression of failure. I could just be me. In all the unique ways that “Kaitlyn” is manifested, and in all the ordinary ways too. I am enough.
The language I found in the hospital sustained me and continues to bring me life. They are not simply words. They are truths that have helped me see that there is more to me than I could have ever dreamed. I will continue learning what it means to be “Kaitlyn,” but in the meantime I will rest knowing that whatever I discover will not erase my worthiness of love.