I meant to post this yesterday, but with all the blogger issues, I just saved it for today.
As I was looking at suicide help lines and information to tie into my tweets about suicide prevention for mental health month, the pain of my attempted suicide came back to me.
Here's an except of a letter I wrote about that time (with a few edits) to someone that I knew that had attempted suicide and was in the hospital.
I’m not writing to tell you that I know what you’re going through, because I don’t. The reason I am writing is precisely because we don’t really know each other, because you don’t know what I"ve been through or how I got through it. I thought that perhaps my story might be of interest to you.
When I was 12 years old, things started feeling odd inside of me. I really don’t know how to describe what happened or why it happened, but slowly I changed into an individual crippled with despair. It was like I was on a train in a tunnel that was never going to resurface to see the light again.
For years I lived in this highly depressed state, afraid to tell anyone how I felt. I thought about dying all the time and just wanted to escape from this world. When I was 16 years old I starting drinking in an attempt to escape. I would chug as much hard liquor as I could until I finally passed out.
The only problem was that it didn't help in the least. When I was drunk my feelings of emptiness, depression, heartache, worthlessness and despair were all amplified and release only came when I did pass out. But obviously I would wake up again and start the cycle all over again. It didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't working.
By the time I was 17 years old, just a few months before high school graduation, I tried to kill myself by overdosing. It didn't work. I ended up in the emergency ward.
My bed was next to a padded room, where a naked man, dressed only with a straight jacket threw himself at the walls screaming until he lost his voice. One night he escaped when they tried to retrieve his meal tray. Three orderlies tackled him and forced him back in that little room while he wailed. It was frightening to watch. Worst of all, I was terrified that I might actually be as crazy as him since I didn't want to live.
All I could think about is how I would finish the job when I got out. I wasn't sure what the best way was to kill myself, but I was very determined to keep trying until I succeeded.
The care I received while in the hospital was atrocious; I can only hope that it’s much better for you, since they actually have a ward for adolescents now. As I lay in my bed in the emergency ward under suicide watch, the nurses would walk by and tell me what a stupid girl I was. They called me ungrateful and silly and made me feel even worse the whole time I was there.
The so-called psychiatrist that worked for the hospital was even stupider. He asked me if I had overdosed by accident because I was stressed out about school. He didn't even try to talk to me to figure out what was going on. So I lied and told him he was right, that I’d never be so "silly" again. Then I asked him when I could leave. He signed my release papers shortly after. What a moron! I was just waiting for my next opportunity.
For the next six months I saw lots of different psychiatrists and psychologists without much success. I also went on different medications and felt the weird up’s and downs that went with being medicated. Most of the time the medication made me feel nothing at all.
After telling more shrinks to take a flying leap than I can even remember, I found one that wasn't a complete idiot. In the beginning I refused to talk and we would sit in silence or he would tell me completely unrelated stories. After a while I started talking about a few things and before long he actually helped me.
A big part of my recovery was finding my purpose in life. As I've grown, my purpose has changed and grown with me. The trouble is, no one can tell you what those things are for yourself, you have to discover them as you go. It’s difficult and doesn't seem worth it half the time, but as someone who has finally come out of that tunnel, I now know that it is totally worth it.
I’m 32 years old now (ancient, I know) and I’m still on medication for depression. I haven’t seen another psychologist since the one that worked out for me. I only saw him for about a year before moving on with my life.
I still struggle with depression and I still have lots of days that I just wish I were dead. Days that I just wish I didn't have to think or feel or hurt. But as I said, my life has purpose now and that keeps me alive.
If you ever want to talk, just give me a call. I have no idea what you’re going through and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s totally fine. But I can tell you more about my experience, the different reasons I've found to live and how I survive when it feels impossible.
If you're feeling suicidal, I encourage you to reach out to a profession. Here are some resources:
When I was 12 years old, things started feeling odd inside of me. I really don’t know how to describe what happened or why it happened, but slowly I changed into an individual crippled with despair. It was like I was on a train in a tunnel that was never going to resurface to see the light again.
For years I lived in this highly depressed state, afraid to tell anyone how I felt. I thought about dying all the time and just wanted to escape from this world. When I was 16 years old I starting drinking in an attempt to escape. I would chug as much hard liquor as I could until I finally passed out.
The only problem was that it didn't help in the least. When I was drunk my feelings of emptiness, depression, heartache, worthlessness and despair were all amplified and release only came when I did pass out. But obviously I would wake up again and start the cycle all over again. It didn't take me long to realize that it wasn't working.
By the time I was 17 years old, just a few months before high school graduation, I tried to kill myself by overdosing. It didn't work. I ended up in the emergency ward.
My bed was next to a padded room, where a naked man, dressed only with a straight jacket threw himself at the walls screaming until he lost his voice. One night he escaped when they tried to retrieve his meal tray. Three orderlies tackled him and forced him back in that little room while he wailed. It was frightening to watch. Worst of all, I was terrified that I might actually be as crazy as him since I didn't want to live.
All I could think about is how I would finish the job when I got out. I wasn't sure what the best way was to kill myself, but I was very determined to keep trying until I succeeded.
The care I received while in the hospital was atrocious; I can only hope that it’s much better for you, since they actually have a ward for adolescents now. As I lay in my bed in the emergency ward under suicide watch, the nurses would walk by and tell me what a stupid girl I was. They called me ungrateful and silly and made me feel even worse the whole time I was there.
The so-called psychiatrist that worked for the hospital was even stupider. He asked me if I had overdosed by accident because I was stressed out about school. He didn't even try to talk to me to figure out what was going on. So I lied and told him he was right, that I’d never be so "silly" again. Then I asked him when I could leave. He signed my release papers shortly after. What a moron! I was just waiting for my next opportunity.
For the next six months I saw lots of different psychiatrists and psychologists without much success. I also went on different medications and felt the weird up’s and downs that went with being medicated. Most of the time the medication made me feel nothing at all.
After telling more shrinks to take a flying leap than I can even remember, I found one that wasn't a complete idiot. In the beginning I refused to talk and we would sit in silence or he would tell me completely unrelated stories. After a while I started talking about a few things and before long he actually helped me.
A big part of my recovery was finding my purpose in life. As I've grown, my purpose has changed and grown with me. The trouble is, no one can tell you what those things are for yourself, you have to discover them as you go. It’s difficult and doesn't seem worth it half the time, but as someone who has finally come out of that tunnel, I now know that it is totally worth it.
I’m 32 years old now (ancient, I know) and I’m still on medication for depression. I haven’t seen another psychologist since the one that worked out for me. I only saw him for about a year before moving on with my life.
I still struggle with depression and I still have lots of days that I just wish I were dead. Days that I just wish I didn't have to think or feel or hurt. But as I said, my life has purpose now and that keeps me alive.
If you ever want to talk, just give me a call. I have no idea what you’re going through and if you don’t want to tell me, that’s totally fine. But I can tell you more about my experience, the different reasons I've found to live and how I survive when it feels impossible.