Jacquelyn Nicole Davis

“I remember when I was five playing tag with Cara and her brother. I accidentally got pushed into the side of her trampoline, and I bit the inside of my mouth. Blood gushed everywhere. Cara’s mom held me until my parents came back. I didn’t need stitches, but it was nasty. I roll my tongue over a small bump on the side of my mouth. Yep. It’s still there. Real friendships have battle scars.”

“Whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for me. I know it’s the best you can do. Life hasn’t hit you in your perfect little bubble yet. Please don’t try to understand. Nobody can. No one knows what it’s like to be me, except others like me. You’re making me pissed. You’re making me feel bad. Stop reminding me that I have no life. I don’t care about your prom. Yes, I know I haven’t talked to you in a while. NO, I’m not ignoring you, but it’s not exactly like you’ve been calling me either. I just haven’t been feeling well lately. I’m tired and my body is aching all over. It’s hurting all the time. I can barely move when it rains, and some days I just don’t want to do anything. SHUT UP.”

“There is nothing as delicate, as stunning, and as vulnerable as the heart.”

“Does the butterfly lose time in the months it grows from caterpillar to flying beauty? One day, I’m going to want to sleep twelve hours at a stretch and I won’t be able to. I’m not losing time. I am going through a metamorphosis.”

“When you go into the psych ward, you can’t have anything with you except colored pencils. You can’t have any electronics. If you have a drawstring on your pants, a belt, shoelaces, a hood, or extra-long fabric, your very clothes are ripped off your back. They search you with a metal detector like you’re a criminal, doing everything short of putting their hand up your butt. Before you go through those cold, automatic, barred doors, you know your life is not your own. This is especially true during the first week, while you stare at florescent lighting and wait impatiently for your meds to kick in. I wish I had remembered the psych ward prison cell a week ago. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be wearing this hospital gown that they gave me until I can get more compliant clothes.”

“I DON’T KNOW! I HAVE NO FREAKIN’ IDEA. I’M ONLY FIFTEEN. I want my mom.”

“Though my mental illness is more likened to a big, nasty green monster than something heart-wrenchingly beautiful, I think I have learned many wonderful lessons from my many afflictions.”

“It takes all my strength to do daily tasks. To some people, I’m just a number. I’m a projected food stamps debit card lifetime member. I’m seen as crazy or insane, but it doesn’t matter. I know I am bigger than my suffering.”

“May 4, 2006Blog Entry #1There once was a girl who took everything for granted. She had friends. She had good friends—friends who saw her geeky exterior but loved her anyway, friends who had known her since before she knew herself. But she wanted more. She had people who loved her. She had a huge house on a hill. A bedroom as big as a studio apartment. But she still wasn't satisfied. She moved to the ends of the earth … Long Island, New York. She thought it would be exciting. And for a little while it was. But she soon found that life in the “city” wasn’t everything she hoped for. Before long, all the shops and landmarks were meaningless, and she realized that all the parties in the world meant nothing—especially if she didn't have the people to share them with. She decided to make a distress call. She lined up coconuts. H–E–L–PShe spent one and a half years on her “deserted island.” Then, a moving truck finally answered her call. But little did she know that she was returning to her home as a different person. She was returning with lessons of contentment that would stick with her forever. Lessons of gratitude, integrity, faith, and love. Exposure to things and ideas she would have never seen in Snellville, Georgia. How she could be and how her life could be… She drove back down only to find that she wasn't the only one who had changed.”

“I remember when I was growing up and there would be sick people in the church. I was always so sensitive to them sitting in the pews alone, and I would not pass by without saying hello. But even at those tender ages of 5 through 14, I felt like they carried the plague, and after seeing them I would turn around praying really hard to never experience sickness like that, ever. I’d pray that I wouldn’t make God angry enough to curse me like that with really awful things, but I didn’t think about grace. I did not understand that it does not work that way, that God’s grace is so much bigger than our sin because of Jesus—but I do get it now. We go through what we do so that we can fulfill God’s glory in our lives.”