National Suicide Prevention Week 2016

After reading Ansley's post earlier, I've felt prompted to share part of my story. This week is National Suicide Prevention Week. As you all know, I battle depression and anxiety every day. These two disorders are opposites and yet so similar. And both have made me seriously consider suicide before. I'm thankful to say that I've never attempted it, as I've always been too scared to do it. Unfortunately, there are many that aren't that lucky. I'm going to share some stories that I've never shared in their entirety. I've always been scared to. I'm still scared to. Please be gentle with this information.

Growing up, I was overweight. And kids are mean. I was always made fun of. Laughed at. Told that I was worthless. Called a cow. Or a hippo. Or a fattie. Or ugly. Told that I would never get a boyfriend. Told that I would be a single parent because nobody would ever want to be with me. Told that it was a good thing that I wanted to adopt because nobody would ever have sex with me. And I believed it. Every single word. It stuck with me like I'd been branded.

I remember my 12th birthday. I had some friends over, and we listened to music and danced and played games. And at the end of the night, one of the guys (who I had a huge crush on) asked me out. I was on top of the world! Finally, somebody who saw past the fat, ugly, worthless cow. (I may or may not have sang Brandy's "Have You Ever?" to him that night... Oh, how embarrassing!)

Two days later, I found out that he'd only asked me out because a friend asked him to. I was mortified. I went home and grabbed all of the pain meds I could find with the intent of taking them all at bedtime, knowing that my mom wouldn't find me until the next morning. At the end of the night, I got scared. I was scared that someone would find me too soon and I would fail in my quest. I was also scared that I would be a burden on my parents if I died. So I put the pills back and cried myself to sleep.

The next day, I went to school, determined not to let them get to me. I wore a hairtie on my wrist (a habit I still keep to this day), and whenever I felt upset or worthless, I popped myself as hard as I could. The physical pain took my mind off of the emotional pain. I rationalized that this was better than cutting, plus I could still wear sleeves (oh, to be 12 years old again). My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Blankenship, saw me doing this one day and asked me about it. I told her the truth (though not the whole truth - I believe I told her that I had started cursing as a result of being around some new friends, so I popped myself whenever I cursed aloud or in my mind), and she talked with me about how this wasn't a healthy way to deal with things. Being the people-pleaser that I was, I stopped that habit. But the thoughts didn't stop.

Throughout the years, I would have suicidal thoughts sporadically, especially after my ex and I broke up in college. That was the other time in my life where I seriously considered ending it all. I was miserable, and I felt like a huge burden on everyone. I felt like I sucked the fun out of every outing with my friends. My parents were tired of me moping around, but I didn't know how to stop. I decided at that point that I would be less of a burden in death than I was in life. I had a plan: pills and a car. I planned on taking a bunch of pills and driving into a tree off of Highway 316. To this day, I don't know why I didn't go through with it. I would get ready to down bottles of pain meds, and I would just stop and think, "Nah, I'll do it tomorrow." Tomorrow never came. One day, I felt like I'd switched back to the belief that I'd be more of a burden in death, so I quit carrying the pills with me. And somehow I started to feel well enough to come off of my depression meds. Still don't know how that happened either.

Eventually things shifted from thoughts of "I want to die" to more of "what would happen if I wasn't here anymore?" I still have them frequently. They usually go like this:

What would happen if I die?

Who would be the first to notice?

How long would it take Heather to even know that I was dead?

How would she get in touch with my family?

She doesn't have their numbers!

How would my friends find out?

Would my parents post on Facebook?

Would they use my phone to text my best friends?

Would they call them?

Would they send an email?

How would they even get my friends' email addresses?

Who would call work?

Which of my coworkers would come to my funeral?

Would my bosses come?

OMG funeral. Please don't let them play sappy songs.

I need to make a note to tell my parents that I want my favorite songs played at my funeral.

Does anyone even know my favorite song? (it's Love Shack by the B-52s, btw)

Would people cry?

Would Samuel even remember me?

How long would it be before people forgot about me?

Where would my stuff go?

Would my parents keep any of it?

WHERE WOULD BZ AND ROSCOE GO?

OMG what if they ate me before someone noticed?

And so on. I know how irrational this is. I've talked with people about it several times. The first reaction is almost always laughter. Because it sounds RIDICULOUS! But it's a real fear I have. My therapist and I are working on all of this, specifically the "false truths" from my childhood that have shaped my life.

I've been in therapy for almost a year now. It's been tough. I've gone through periods of loving it and hating it. I'm currently hating it (because it's tough to work through things that I don't want to think about), but I wouldn't stop going. I can't. I know that I need help. I can see how much better my life is since I've gotten help. I am significantly happier now than I was at this point last year. I'm less stressed. I am more active. I no longer feel like I'm sleeping through life. Things aren't perfect by any stretch, but I'm freer than I've been in years. Maybe ever. I highly recommend counseling, even if you don't have a mental disorder. Even if you don't think you need it. It's so worth it. We all need help at some point in our lives. We can't do life alone, and we're not meant to.

I've had my semicolon tattoo for just over a year now, and I'm ready to change it. I want it to say "STRONG" with the heart-semicolon as the "O." I also want to get the word "grace" in a script on the inside of my left forearm.

I'll leave you with this, written by my friend Ansley.

Suicide is the 2nd leading cause of death in adults age 25-34 in most states, and almost twice as many people die by suicide in GA annually than by homicide - one every 7 hours.

Suicide and self-harm CAN be prevented. Much of the problem stems from inadequate mental health awareness and education. Depression leading to death can be more than situational - it can be a symptom of another mental disorder that can't be treated by antidepressants alone. If you (or your loved one) feel like you're not being adequately treated for your depression, please please please look for a good psychiatrist and therapist (I'll give you great recommendations). I struggled through 7 years of misdiagnosis of major depression disorder because I was treated by general practitioners instead of someone specialized in mental health. Never believe that your situation is untreatable. Just look for a doctor who is well-versed in your symptoms. I promise there is hope! 💜☀️  Learn more at asfp.org.

If you ever need someone to talk to, know that I'm here.