When I was sixteen, I was depressed, lonely, had engaged in self- harm and was suicidal. The fateful day I admitted it to a school peer helper, I was picked up from the school by my dad and taken to a psychiatrists office. The psychiatrist, in his big office with heavy furniture and degrees on the wall, waited until my dad left the room and asked me, "What boy were you in love with that you did that?"
A BOY! I didn't do this over a boy. I did it out of desperation and loneliness, constant criticism from my dad, who I was living with at the time. A boy wasn't even in my scope. I knew at that moment, that I had to just be the "good girl" and promise not to do it again, and he let me go home.
That weekend I moved back with my mom and didn't speak to my dad for nearly six months. She wanted to ground me for not telling her and to keep me from talking to the neighbors...because what would they think. I was silenced. I learned not to bring up those feelings to anyone ever again. I threw myself into school, theater, church and other activities. Anything to get away from where I wasn't allowed to be myself.
For a while, it worked. I was keeping busy with things I liked, but the depression was still there, hiding under the three jobs, and going to college and working in the theater. I was burying it so I couldn't feel it. Then, I met my ex when I was 21, and you can read about our story
here. I didn't have time for any of my feelings. I was always too busy just trying to keep up with his. If mine surfaced and dared to show through, I was told I was being dramatic and attention seeking.
My anxiety came to an intolerable level when, not only did I kick my husband out, but the job I had for over nine years was closing its doors. I didn't know what to do so I sought out therapy for anxiety. It turns out there was so much more. When the doors finally closed, I lost all the friends that I had worked with over the years. They were just suddenly gone. I couldn't find another job even though I tried. Over time, depression started creeping in. Soon, the realization that I had PTSD hit me as well. I spent the next twelve months trying to balance everything and to not lost my cool.
Finally, in January 2015, I had too much. I was numb. I was beyond just depressed. I had started drinking because all I wanted to do was die. Over the course of a week and a half, I attempted suicide three times. Each time, no one caught me. No one came upon me. I just woke up because I didn't take enough pills or drink enough alcohol. After the final time, I admitted myself to the local mental health hospital. I tried to hide it from my family but a friend went behind my back and told my mother what had happened. When she called me, I fell apart. I didn't want her to know. I love my mom and am grateful for all the help I have received from her, but she just didn't understand. She took it onto her self, invalidating my pain and my heartaches. And I hated that.
I was in the hospital for nearly a week with the initial 72 hour hold plus three extra days, with a diagnosis of Major Moderate Depression, recurrent, PTSD, and anxiety. It wasn't the brightest hospital. The rooms were plain but the people working there were descent enough. They tried several different med combos before settling on one that seemed stable. I had been attending groups and engaging with the social workers so once the medication was stable, I was set to go home. Home is not where I wanted to be. My children thought I was in the hospital for other health reasons. My ex never found out since I knew he would use that against me in getting divorced. My mom and I hardly mentioned it. But going home didn't mean I was okay. Far from it.
My therapist dropped me because she said she couldn't do enough. It was out of the blue and unexpected. Though I found a co-pay therapist group, where I was finally being seen twice a week, I had a hard time trusting my new therapist. I couldn't stop feeling suicidal, and whenever I felt suicidal, I would drink. Not every day liquor. I went for the 99 proof stuff. I wanted to die still. All my therapist did was put me on contracts week after week. Then, they switched therapists on me and I had two, one for each day of the week for a while. This was hard. I never felt I could trust either one and I didn't know what would be expected from one session to the next and Still, I felt like I wanted to die.
My meds were adjust a couple of more times because my anxiety was still so high. We finally found a combo that worked. Medications that I was happy with and so was the psychiatrist. But where I live, to access mental health services when you are on state aid requires you to go through county funded non-profits. The first one just wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible and put my medical doctor in charge of my psych meds, which my medical doctor had told me he did not want. So I transferred to a different service. One where I still see a psychiatrist every three months, period! I also was attending two different mental health support groups, one the specially dealt with depression and a
NAMI Connections meeting.
Once the meds were stable, I felt a little better but suicidal ideation was always with me. Always in my mind. I felt worthless. I felt lost and despairing.
During this time, I began writing affirmations. I would write little positive thinking poems and other little sayings that made me feel good. I shared these with other people, and they loved them. I began to get a little of self-esteem back. Not a lot. It was another six months before I started not feeling suicidal every day. I wrote more. I crafted more, making cards for sale too. I was blogging again, off and on. But on good days, I would be able to write. I stopped drinking. Though I have had a couple of relapses...other suicide attempts that I kept to myself, I have been slowly doing better. Not one hundred percent. I finally went down to one therapist two times a week. I find refuge in creating positive affirmations and cards with my photographs. I find peace in writing.
This past December, just after a relapse attempt, two days later I was in the hospital with another health condition that was potentially life threatening. And it got worse over two weeks. Here I was feeling suicidal and I also felt the universe was trying to kill me. What bigger sign from the universe to die but though I felt desperate and lost and lonely again. I even refused to take any meds for any of my conditions for several days. But now I am getting through it. My health condition will take another 3-6 months to heal. I haven't had to write a no harm contract in a few months. I am starting to believe my therapist and my friends when they say I am resilient. I am still a work in progress. But I started this blog to bring awareness to mental illness and domestic violence because I know that I am not alone. And, I don't want anyone to feel alone in their experience.
