On Saturday, July 11th, 2015, I attempted suicide for the third time in my life. Down to the hour I’m writing this, it has been exactly one week since then.The first two times in my life that I have tried this, I was much younger. Once at thirteen, and again at fifteen. Both of these attempts were cries for help that went severely unnoticed by the people that mattered most: my family. I come from a broken family, and the history of it all has buried itself quiet deeply into my psyche, making security feel as an improbable future.
My insecurities also stem from a long history of being bullied by my peers, for everything from my weight and height to my issues with anxiety. My teachers in school told me that I was smart, and had all the potential in the world to showcase my brilliance, but I let the drama surrounding my life distract and discourage me. More often than not in my life, I have been told—and have felt—that I was worth nothing. That I was destined to live a meaningless life because my existence was exactly that: Meaningless.
After graduating high school, I vowed to be better, I vowed to do better. I would find an outlet for my anxiety, I would escape the clutches of my depression. There was nothing to hold me back anymore… Right?
Finding a job was tough, at times almost impossible. I had more than one employer tell me that my seasonal stint as a Walmart cashier for my first job didn’t “count” as job experience, because I had only been there for three months. For two years, I had nothing but temp work to keep me going and I was barely afloat. Things at home weren’t any better from where I had been in high school, but most of my network of friends that helped me through the difficulty had disappeared, off living mostly exciting lives; whether it be at college or job promotions, marriage or children, my envy of their lives was impossible to deny.
Finally, in these last two years, things had started looking up. I found a full time job, I got an apartment with two people I was very close to, and I had a wonderful man who loved me. Everything seemed as if it was going to be okay finally. I was on track, ready to get my adult life started.
But something about all of it changed really drastically, very suddenly. A stomach ulcer that I thought I had rid myself of began to wage war on my body, making eating difficult and drinking anything other than water incredibly difficult. Yet somehow still, I gained back weight I had lost after high school, causing my insecurity to resurface in a very bad way.
That’s when the anxiety and depression came back with a vengeance, causing my emotions to spiral.
Then, my mother brought home for me one day a puppy to kick me out of my funk. He’s a dachshund, and his name is Jack-Jack. He brings my heart so much joy that I can’t help but cry when he curls up next to me late at night. I can’t remember a time in my life when I have felt so loved by another living creature. My doctor certified him to be my companion animal, and I was able to bring him home to my apartment, making life brighten again.
My roommates, or really just one in particular, hated having him in the house. I was accused of abusing him for not taking him out for walks or playing with him outside. Jack-Jack was in the middle of his vaccinations, and our complex was littered with other dogs. I was terrified of letting him outside anywhere other than my mother’s house (a place where he frequently visited then, for all his outdoor playtime needs) because I didn’t know if the other dogs there had been vaccinated or not. Losing a puppy to Parvo wasn’t something I was going to let happen. Instead, I worked with my boyfriend on box-training Jack-Jack, until his vaccinations were to be complete.
He took to it well at first, but as puppies do, right around six-months of age he fell back to accidents in the house. He was always cleaned up after, but having my baby at the apartment continued to be a sore spot for that roommate. I considered giving him back to my mom, just until November when my lease was up, but my mom said it wasn’t an option; I needed Jack-Jack, and now he needed me.
Things at the apartment continued to get worse, for reasons I won’t specify. Finally, it led to my boyfriend and I moving out, in a desperation to save our relationship and in hopes that my friendships would not be destroyed.
I hoped for too much, I guess.
It was a hard blow to deal with, losing two people I cared so much for. And for such petty and stupid reasons.
Moving into where I’m staying now, with the mom of a friend of mine, was overwhelming. I let as though I lost my independence, something I was striving so hard for. Watching my relationship fall apart made my heart break, a little piece at a time, every single day. I felt as though I was a horrible mother to Jack-Jack… I hated going home from work at the end of the day, but even being at work couldn’t distract me from the pain I was feeling.
Last Saturday night didn’t feel like any other night in my life. As I’ve said before, the last two attempts at suicide when I was a teenager were cries for help. This attempt… Wasn’t that.
I lunged for the bottle of pills I kept in my purse, wanting more than anything to swallow them all and fall into the deepest sleep possible… The sleep you don’t wake up from.
I felt alone. I felt scared. I was overwhelmed and in more pain than I could handle. Every awful thing everyone in my life has ever said played over and over again in my head. I wanted a way out, I wanted to be numb…
The only reason it didn’t happen was because a wonderful friend of mine found me, and came to me at the right time. She held me close in her arms and told me that she loved me, and that I mattered. The words stung in a beautifully painful way. She sat there with me and let me cry, saying those words repeatedly, drowning out the voices in my head.
If she had not found me when she did, I would not be here right now.
I attempted suicide because I felt insecure in my body, heart, and mind. The negative history of my past slithered its way into my flesh and bone, and every panic attack leading up to that day had felt like a heart attack. I was alone and everything was crumbling, from what I could see.
Last Saturday night, I attempted suicide because I gave in to the darkness in my heart… A darkness that I thought no longer existed.
Everyone has these moments, and I see that now. Everyone has darkness, and a moment where they surrender to it. I gave into mine almost completely, but I was saved by the glistening light of a friend.
It’s only been a week, and I have a long way to go before I can feel whole again. But in this week, I haven’t been alone even once, which tells me how much people care. That fact brightens my heart, and makes me feel better. I have an appointment set up with my doctor to see where I can go to find the right help, and I’m reaching out to people.
Yesterday, I smiled and laughed and felt really good. Some friends of mine and I saw “Ant-Man,” and I can honestly tell you that the excitement of seeing another great Marvel movie has put me back into a great frame of mind. I love comics and comic book movies, and starting a podcast and blog where I can unleash my inner nerd seems like the right step for me.
Today, I feel hopeful. And that feeling is really amazing. I want to keep it for as long as possible.
To anyone else out there suffering from depression or considering suicide:
You are not alone, and you are wonderful.
You are loved.
You matter.
To everyone who read about my journey, thank you. Just remember how much words matter.
prguitarman
kianamaiart
2087
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
theartofmadeline
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
