September 10th was World Suicide Prevention Day. I wanted to write this blog post then, but I didn't have the courage yet.
November 20th is National Survivors of Suicide Day. I am glad my friends and family won't be recognizing this day. They very easily could be.
October brings out a sort of pensiveness in me; a meditative and solemn thoughtfulness. You see, six years ago this month I attempted to take my own life.
Yes, I am a sort of suicide "survivor". Not a year goes by when I don't use the autumn quiet of October to reflect upon how far I've come since that dismal month when I wanted so badly an end to the emotional pain that crushed me. I know I will not be able to find the words to explain what could possibly be so wrong in my life that I would turn to such an extreme alternative, but I will try.
It had been an incredibly difficult year for me. I was in my third year of college, and I couldn't sleep for days at a time. I was exhausted, yet I would lie awake night after night until the sun would finally rise and I would fall into a fitful sleep for an hour or two before the alarm would awaken me for my 8 am class. After years of struggling with undiagnosed depression, I finally began seeing a college counselor who encouraged me to see a doctor. As a broke college student, I could only afford to see a physician's assistant at the local clinic. She put me on Prozac. I continued to see the counselor, but my moods didn't change much, and my sleep got no better despite numerous over-the-counter and prescription sleep medications. I felt that I must be a failure in some respect because the miracle drug that had rescued so many from the brink of despair seemed to do me no good. I must not be trying hard enough. I didn't want to disappoint my doctor by telling her that I wasn't better, so I just kept the fact to myself. (I clearly recognize now the clouded thinking and clouded judgment I had then, but at the time it all seemed perfectly logical).
Through the summer my depression worsened and my shift-work as a night security officer at a state park only added to my sleep problems. I had also been living with my grandmother at the time, and our relationship was quickly deteriorating. When I wasn't at work I was in my bedroom whether I was sleeping or not. I saw no one, went nowhere except to meet with my counselor, and I had no one over to visit. As the summer wound down my job ended and I looked forward to the start of the semester.
School gave me my sole sense of purpose. I had wanted to go to college since I was in grade school, and I knew that college was one of the only ways to succeed in life and get to the many places I had hoped to one day be. It also gave me structure and routine that were essential to my well-being. All sense of stability dissolved on the first day of the semester, though, when my situation with my grandmother came to a head. The night before we had had a disagreement, and it was the straw that broke the camel's back for me. I wrote a letter to my grandmother telling her that I thought it best for both of us, as well as for the sake of our relationship, that I find a place of my own to live. I told her I loved her and valued our relationship, but that I believed we would not salvage it if we continued to live together and eventually despise one another. Because she would not come out the next morning, I left the letter for her as I left for classes.
When I came home a few hours later, she had all her belongings packed in garbage bags and informed me she would be gone by the end of the week. She didn't even know that she had a place to go but she was leaving promptly anyways. I had less than four days to figure out what to do. She had been paying our living expenses, which I was very grateful for. It was the end of August, and the rent was due in just a few days. The rent alone would take 25% of my student loan money, and that would only cover one month. I was in no position to try to find roommates, having lived basically as a hermit for two years and knowing virtually no one.
I eventually broke my lease (well, grandma's lease, actually), something that I felt a great deal of guilt over (after all, a contract is a contract). The one friend I had offered to let me stay with her until I figured out what to do. I thought I would probably just move into the dorms at the start of the second semester.
I also had to find a job. I had tried to work while going to school several times, but I always became overwhelmed and felt forced to choose between my education and my job. Living with Grandma had allowed me to not work, though money was tight. Now work was not optional, so I began working at a laundromat. Very quickly, I was once again deeply overwhelmed. My anxiety and my depression made juggling work and school so difficult for me. I saw so many fellow students working even full time jobs while going to school, and I couldn't even manage 20 hours a week. I felt like such a failure. Worse yet, I felt that I had to choose work or my education. I wanted my education, but I couldn't see how it was possible without working. I couldn't imagine a life that didn't allow me to finish school. School was everything. It was the reason I got up each day.
Only problem was, pretty soon I couldn't even get up with the promise of interesting classes to motivate me. Sleep was even harder to come by than it had been before, and I was so incredibly exhausted. I can't explain the tiredness that I experienced. It must be akin to the exhaustion a new mother feels. It was relentless and it only compounded all the other problems I was experiencing. I was beginning to see little light at the end of the tunnel. I started missing a lot of classes. I had so much social anxiety that the prospect of sitting in a crowded classroom gave me panic attacks. My depression was so great that I was convinced I was too stupid to grasp the complex subject matter. I felt I was a waste of space. I believed that my amazing professors were wasting their time with me and that there were far more deserving students that should benefit from their time. Who was I trying to kid? I wasn't college material. The very classes that were once my sole motivation became one more reason for me to be convinced that I was taking up resources that were better suited for others.
Over the course of the month of October all of these thoughts became more and more consuming. The exhaustion became harder and harder to ward off, and it began to cause a sense of utter exhaustion in another form - emotional exhaustion. I felt I had been fighting for years. I was losing the battle, I feared, and I was tired of being tired. I was tired of fighting. I just wanted the pain and the tiredness to stop.
I cannot clearly recall the specific time frame when the suicidal thoughts began. I suppose I had actually thought about suicide since the time I was in high school. The option became viable for the first time in my life. Where once I had merely thought about it in passing, I now began to think about ways I could accomplish it. I didn't want to be a burden on anyone anymore. I didn't want someone to clean up my "mess" - that is, I didn't want to harm myself in a way that would be messy for whoever found me to clean up.
I ultimately decided to use pills, because I believed that they would be a relatively simple way to carry out my plan. I also had a great deal of them from the many unsuccessful attempts to find a prescription that would allow me to sleep. Midterm break was coming up and I was scheduled to go to my parents' home to visit for a couple of days. I decided that I would make that trip, and that I would take the overdose of pills upon my return. I suppose in some way it was a last visit to my parents. In some ways I wanted to make sure they were okay when I left them.
I felt a lot of guilt that whole weekend, but I also felt like I would be sparing them some sort of burden. I can't really explain what I mean by this, but I guess whatever guilt I felt I also felt was balanced out by the fact that they wouldn't have to "deal" with me anymore. I couldn't bare the thought of disappointing anyone. My dad went elk hunting that weekend and scored his first elk in many years of hunting. He was elated. It was the happiest I had seen my parents in some time. I had such mixed feelings on the way back to my college town that Sunday. Part of me felt so grateful to be leaving my parents when they were so happy. But part of me felt guilty because I knew that my leaving them would cause them pain ("leaving" was the way I thought of my impending suicide - I couldn't use the harsh term "suicide" at the time, and it's still hard for me to use it).
I didn't have a specific time in mind for my overdose, but I figured it would occur Monday during the night. However, as hour after hour ticked by on Sunday night and I could not sleep, all I wanted was relief. I just wanted the pain to end. Emotional pain. Physical exhaustion. The self hate. The sense that I was burdening the planet. I wanted it all to go away. And so I swallowed several handfuls of pills. I was scared. I didn't know what to expect. I remember thinking, "I wish I had Googled this so I knew what to expect." I hoped I would just go to sleep. I lay down on my bed and picked up my worn copy of Adam Bede, the novel I was reading for a favorite class. I would read while I waited to simply fall asleep.
I couldn't concentrate, though. All I could do was imagine the faces of all the people who had been trying to help me through this trying time. I had a very caring counselor at the college. I had several wonderful, compassionate professors who had been very understanding about my haphazard attendance. One instructor in particular had my best interest at heart and had shown an immense amount of support. I had a roommate that had opened her home to me when I had nowhere else to go, and now I was putting her in the position of being the one to find me dead. And then there were my parents. Who would take care of them and make sure they were okay? Who would tell them not to blame themselves? I hadn't left a letter, because I didn't really feel like there was anything for me to say. I couldn't explain why or how it had gotten so wrong that I felt like the only option I had was to die. Nothing I could say would be enough.
I couldn't do this to them. I couldn't hurt the very people who were holding me together and showing me so much love and support. It was not fair to them.
They say suicide attempts are a call for help. Perhaps. More often than not I think they are simply a plea for the pain to stop. Maybe it's all the same. I know I just wanted it not to hurt so much anymore, and I couldn't find any alternatives in my addled state.
This story could stretch on for hours, so I'll sum up the ending here. I awoke my roommate and asked her to take me to the hospital. I was given activated charcoal to rid my system of the many pills I had taken. This was a horrific experience that I will spare you details of, though better, I assume, than having had my stomach pumped. Because I had no health insurance and because I convinced the counselor that I was "fine", I was released by 8 am, a little more than four hours after entering the ER. Isn't that great?!
I haven't shared this story with many. There is much more to it of course, but the fairy tale ending is that I'm here today and doing relatively well, despite many obstacles along the way. And I'm grateful to be here.
So why share it now? In my quest to reduce stigma of mental illness, and to provide a glimpse of what motivates me to work so hard for my Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance chapter, I think it's essential that I tell my story. I am not ashamed of my past. I learned valuable lessons through every step of the journey that I might not have had any other way. While my life path has not been easy, it is what it is.
I was mostly concerned with what those closest to me would think of me. Would you think me weak, stupid, crazy, careless, selfish, etc.? Maybe so. Five years ago I would not have been able to stand it. Today I can, because I know that I'm strong enough to make it through anything - sometimes it just takes a lot of patience.
Mostly, I wanted you to know that you just never know who might be on the verge of making such a dark choice in their life. The smile you give to someone might be the very thing that makes them postpone their decision. The essay you read to your student upon her return after a brief absence after her suicide attempt may be the very thing she needs to hear to know that at least one person is glad she wasn't successful for once. Maybe you shoved a ten dollar bill into someone's hand as she left your presence so she could buy something to eat. You never know when something you've done has saved a life - even if you think it too small an act to matter.
Everyone is affected by suicide. Someone you know and love has thought about or considered suicide. You might not even know that she once attempted it. Through the sharing of stories like mine we will be able to reach out and hopefully prevent many more stories like mine.
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