Suicide.
I don’t have a clever title for this one. I don’t feel like it would be right to even try. I’m not trying to be cute or catchy. This subject is something that I have put off writing about because I felt that it had to come when I was ready. I’m not even sure if it’s the “right time” now but this is just the evening I decided to binge write about my suicide attempt.
I must have been on the phone with a certain friend and hung up on her. She knew something was up and I am certain we were in one of our extremely depressing conversations talking about how horrible our lives were. Long story short. This friend came and busted past my Grandma and into my room. You can imagine that scenario, my grandma was scary, you didn’t mess with her. She had them unlock my door and came in. My mom called my uncle that also came over and carried me out to take me to the ER. I don’t remember a lot. My brother said he was coloring in a coloring book and saw blood everywhere but I really don’t think that happened…plus I was 14 or 15 and he was 13 or 12, so that doesn’t seem likely.
I remember people crying. I remember the ER doctor bandaging me up. The social worker coming in and saying that if my mom did not make an appointment tomorrow for me to see a counselor to get on meds and get counseling that they would pick slip me and send me to Laurelwood (a psychiatric hospital nearby). That is all I remember of that day.
Continuing on
That is the only time I attempted suicide. Was it the only time I thought about it? No. However, I have a strong group of people that have always rallied for me and made sure that I am doing okay. Whenever I am not, they will let me know when I need to go see someone. I don’t always go right away but now that I have a family to watch over, my mental health is close to number one on my list (I realize it should be number one but I am working on that.)
I feel like some of the details of the actual day are blurry to me. It’s hard to really say when I made the decision that I would try or attempt to take my life. It was a long time coming and I feel that it was more of a cry for help than an actual end to my life. I was tired of no one believing how sad I was inside. How much I hated myself. How much I hated my life. I just didn’t see a reason to be here anymore. I couldn’t even think of my friends and family missing me too much. Besides a few close friends, I felt like most people that knew me or thought they did, did not understand me and did not even care if I was around. You don’t have to believe that I felt this way because I know how I felt and I hope you never feel this endless pit of hopelessness and despair that is clinical depression.
Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash
If I was being really nostalgic and felt like reliving that dreadful time in my life, I could probably go back and even find the letters I had written to the few people that I felt did care. Letting them know that I loved them. I feel like I may have even left them a few things that meant something to me. I had actually put that much thought into it. I had those letters written for a while, I just had not had the guts to try anything.
I have not asked the others involved in my life at that time what they remembered of that night, so I don’t even know how accurate this will be. I was in such a blur of a downward spiral of putrid depression that I could not even really fathom what was going on around me. It is possible to be that far gone. This is why I feel so hard for those that have actually committed the act. This is why I bawled my eyes out so hard when I watched 13 Reasons Why and they actually showed her committing suicide at the end. It was fucking awful. (Coincidentally, as I sit here editing this post, the song from that show is playing. Music holds so much meaning. (Life without a Dad)
How the story began will not be nearly as detailed as it should be. I honestly, have only just begun to explain my story and I don’t even know how much I will get into it for fear of hurting others feelings or even upsetting them for using them in a story that they feel is theirs…when in reality it is mine because this is how I have seen it. It’s not to say that my account is 100% what happened. We all know or at least those of us that are able to think outside the box and know that we are not always right, that there are three sides to every story. Yours, theirs and the right unbiased one.
This is not at all directed at anyone. I have gone back and forth about our decisions with Grayson. I could go back and forth until I was blue in the face (as Grandma always said) but in reality, we are trying everything we can to help him. I NEVER want my baby to feel the way that I did. I know we lead different lives but we have similar genes and chemical components, I don’t want his depression to get so bad that he ever attempts such a thing. This is why we go through the hassles of meds, this is why he is going to a PHP (Partial Hospitalization Program) at a psychiatric hospital. I want to start to help him now, so we can prevent or at least make it less hard as he gets older and matures. I don’t know what the future holds but I do know that we will continue to try our darndest to help him.
This was just the start of my rollercoaster journey through mental health. I will never stop fighting and I will continue to be mine and others’ advocate.
Below is my version of a semi-colon. My kids’ names are tattooed on the inside of my arm. A constant reminder to continue. Always.
To be continued….
My semicolons.