The first time I was suicidal was fall of my sophomore year of college. It was around the time of my "I Couldn't Think of a Title so I Typed This Instead" post. By the end it seems pretty cheery, right? Like somehow I'm finding some inspiration, that I'm going out to make a change.
Truth is, I did make a change, but it wasn't so cheery. I went to therapy. At the urging of a dear friend of mine I went in to the Regis Counseling Center and got the help I truly needed. What caused it? I can't say. Not because I don't want to, but because I can't pinpoint an exact reason. By rights, life should have been good, great even. It wasn't. I felt like I was in a hole so deep that it would have been better to die at the bottom than find a way to climb my way back out. It started innocently enough, withdrawing a little, staying away from my friends and actually hating being around them while resenting them for feeling so great while inside I felt like I was being sliced away bit by bit. From there it got worse. I'd find myself staying in bed for hours at a time doing little aside from staring at the ceiling and waiting for the clocks to tell me to head to class. Sleeping was difficult, I was taking melatonin nightly and I soon found myself taking it in the middle of the evening so I could avoid any social obligations and find some solace in the warm arms of sleep.
They caught me doing that once, my roommate and his old girlfriend. I had taken one and fell asleep on the floor and I didn't wake up until they came to see if I wanted to grab subway for dinner. I went, but I'd be lying if I wasn't just a tad bit begrudging. I don't know if they knew what I had been doing, but they let it go.
From there I wanted to do something drastic, nothing that would hurt me just something that would be so out of character and so wild that maybe someone would notice I needed some help. I wanted to shave my head. Completely. Just take my electric razor and go to town until all was left was sweet, sweet pasty skin. The thought scared me. I was so afraid of hurting myself that I couldn't bear to do it. That's when the suicidal thoughts started coming in. I had a belt, a pocket knife, so it wasn't like I was lacking for ways to do it,
But I couldn't.
I kept thinking of everyone around me, my family who was hundreds of miles away oblivious that this was happening. I couldn't bear the imagined looks on their faces. To be frank, it made me weep openly. So I knew I had to get help, and it was the scariest goddamned thing I have ever had to do in my entire life. The most vulnerable thing you can do is open up, even for a second but I've found that every time you do it you'll be surprised about all of the people that climb out of the wood work. So I went to my friend Jordan, and I told him that I needed help, that he needed to keep my razor away from me so I wouldn't shave my head and push me onto that slippery slope. He didn't think twice.
The next day he sat in my room with me as I made a counseling appointment. And I went without a fight. Following a few sessions I was diagnosed with clinical depression and high social anxiety, and it came with a strong recommendation to start medication coupled with therapy. And I did.
It was the first time that I made such a drastic decision on my own. I needed to do it, and I figured if my parents didn't like it they could take the back seat on this one. Through a lot of time, tears, and hard work I slowly began noticing a change in myself. It was working. I was feeling better. You know, on all those anti-depressant commercials you see on television when the patient starts taking the product they tear away the black and white veil and suddenly everything is shining bright and vibrant. It is exactly like that. Suddenly I was having the time that I wanted to have. Things were looking up for me, and I had honestly never felt so happy and safe in my entire life.
Unfortunately, it wasn't the end.
April 29th of last year I posted "The Infernal Sunshine On My Spotted Mind." A reflection, really, on my own belief of sordid memories while watching Eternal Sunshine. That's not all it was though. I don't want to go into too much detail on preceding events. Let's just leave it as this: I made some mistakes at a party at the start of it. The next day, back in the dorms, I felt like I had alienated everyone that I had ever known. I didn't shower, barely got dressed if you could call it that, and slugged around the dorm by myself all day feeling completely and utterly by myself. No one answered my texts, returned my calls, hell that night I couldn't even get someone on the suicide hotline to pick up. It was a technical glitch, that's definite, but can you imagine just how much that amplified that loneliness? Things had been kind of a roller coaster for the past few weeks, something that I guess is expected (as far as I've been told) when on anti-depressants for any amount of time and it had finally reached its breaking point.
Again, the thought of death scared me and I made a last ditch phone call to Spencer. I wasn't even thinking along the lines of "Oh man, I'm calling my RA and now the whole ResLife office is going to know about this." That came later. I called him to no answer. On the second try I left a message, "Hey man, I don't know if you're around but I could really use someone to talk to. So, uh, give me a call back when you can, you know where to find me." Then I went to sleep.
I went through the next day (a school day) kind of ghost-like. I had gotten really good at building a facade, it seemed, and it worked. School ends, I go back to bed. Sean is sitting on his bed underneath me doing homework, I laid on my side facing the wall. Someone knocks on the door, and Sean gets up to get it. It's Spencer, and he comes in telling me how he finally figured out it was me on the voicemail, and that's the exact moment it dawned on me.
"No, Spencer, you didn't..."
"I had to, it's policy."
I felt the color drain out of my face, and I was pissed. I felt like I would just have a bunch of official school people come in and start asking me questions while forcing me to do the nothing that I was already planning on doing. I flipped back over in bed and faced the wall.
When I turned around, I swear to God I felt like George freakin' Bailey in It's A Wonderful Life. Remember how I said you'd be surprised the people that come out of the woodwork when you ask for help? I swear my room was full of my friends. People who cared about me and didn't want me wasting away in my room as I slowly self-destructed. They told me about people who wanted to be there but couldn't make it, that no matter what they would make sure that I didn't follow through and do something I would have regretted. All of them. Those official office people? They were people I had interacted with before, people I trusted and cared about. They didn't ask me probing questions, they made sure I was okay. It didn't feel like the school was just trying to save itself a statistic.
That's when I promised myself, no, I swore to myself that I would never take my own life. That I would always make the absolute best effort to hear a friend when they need help, that I would always, always make sure that someone got the help to which they are entitled.
It is now January 29th, 2014 at 10:48PM. I had one relapse last semester that passed in less than 12 hours. I have more energy, I'm motivated, I get up every morning and realize just how goddamn lucky I am that I had the support system I had to get through my gauntlet. I'm inspired. I go out into the world every day knowing that I'm loved, and that I love. I live to make people smile, to make people feel the same way I did when I turned over in bed and saw my room littered with people.
Like in my last post, I'm worried how people will read this post. I do worry about the stigma that I may incur upon myself once this is published. But you know what? At least it gets them talking. At least people can see that this does happen, maybe to people you don't expect. I don't know if people can "smell" that on me. I'm so much more open about it now, I want them to know. Read this, talk about it, know that if you need help its there from me or from anyone else. All you need do is ask. We're all in this life together, and we all need each other to survive.
Until next time.
Thank you, everyone. Thank you Jordan, Sean, Spencer, Dani, Jessi, Olivia, A, Angel, the O'Connell Boys, the RAs with whom I eat dinner, The Commuter Lounge, Mom, Dad, Hayley, and everyone that has touched or influenced my life in some way, shape or form. It is because of you that I am here now, and it is because of you that I continue to thrive.
This is the "true intro" from my posting this blog onto Facebook.
Tonight I am inspired to write this blog after watching the presentation The Gospel According To Josh, a powerful play and educational talk that shows the effects that suicide has on those around you, and yourself. He gets up on stage and shares his story with the audience, a story that is funny, sad, and often times hard to hear. But it's message is clear, that suicide is preventable, that help is out there, and that we all have our stories. This is my story. This is the story my family doesn't know. This is the story that my friends know bits and pieces of. This is the story that didn't end abruptly.
