The Hardest Confession

By the time that I post this publicly, it will be four weeks and four days.

Like an addict trying to escape my prison, I count up the days it’s been since the thoughts took over my head… only my drug of choice isn’t chemical, herbal, or liquid. It isn’t gambling, sex, or pornography… it isn’t even really an addiction at all – or at least it’s not one that’s recognized, let alone spoken publicly about.

But like an addict, I also wait with my breath held in… watching myself, analyzing my thoughts, wondering when they will overtake me again. I’m constantly on edge, watching triggers, and making sure that I’m careful not to put myself into a situation where I’ll fall back down again.

Even though, for now, I feel strong… I’m doing my part, and putting things in order again… resetting my life one more time.

But four weeks and four days ago, I still had suicide listed as a viable option for my life… a way out of the pain and turmoil that I felt completely trapped inside of.

Four weeks and four days ago, I was not quite actively suicidal but I was close… and I thought about suicide almost daily, the thought always with me, no matter how stable I became or how wrong I knew it was. It’s been that way for at least ten years, and probably a lot longer than that… a daily battle, each and every morning waking up and feeling that presence with me – the voice that reminded me it was always an option, a way out of the chaos that has seemed to plague my life.

At least that’s how I saw it.

On my wrist sits a tattoo of a semi-colon, within a locket. For those unfamiliar with the semi-colon tattoo, the gist is this; an author uses a semi-colon within a sentence when they could have stopped but chose to continue instead. In life, we don’t have to stop the sentence… we can choose to keep going. I got this tattoo three years ago now, at a time in my life where I was still drowning daily in suicidal thoughts and intentions. At that point in time; it wasn’t a matter of if I was going to kill myself, but when.

It didn’t seem to matter how much work I did or who I spoke with, or even how ‘up’ my life appeared to be headed. I knew that suicide was wrong, and I knew it would hurt those that I loved… but the allure of an end to the pain was always glistening there in the back of my head, a way out… an escape – I was exhausted from trying to stay stable, and a part of me simply wanted to die.

A little over two years ago, I had my last admittance to the psych ward at our local hospital… a major milestone in the maintenance aspect of my mental health, and I am proud of the fact that I have for the most part managed the symptoms of my health to keep me home and able to pull myself out of any ‘dips’ that I’ve had. There were days, where a hospital stay would have most likely been the correct course of action, and which I fought… thankfully able to still level out following those backwards steps.

I’ve learned to manage those thoughts… the bursts within my head that remind me, that soothe me, and that trouble me. I’ve learned to keep them quiet or when they really get strong, transform them into a form of anger, directed at people who I love, to push them far away from me. But still, those thoughts were always there and hiding just below the surface… an end, an escape, a plan.

Four weeks and four days, seems like a short time – a blip in the continuum of my life – a period of little relevance.

Until it’s put into context – a bright yellow bar on the darkened graph of my life, where it hasn’t ever existed before.

Four weeks and four days is worth celebrating.

But it’s also worth talking about, because I know that it was talking, that helped me quench those thoughts and remind me of who and what I am. It was the people who checked in, who chatted, who failed to judge, and who saw through my anger and my frustration and my exhaustion. It was the people who cheered with me when I said, I’m okay… I’m actually okay today… and who checked in the next day anyways, open to hearing the truth – whether it was good or bad, or whether they agreed with me or not. It was the people who encouraged me to speak fully and honestly and who allowed my experience to be real and heard and valid. It was those who heard the words, made the time, and who stuck with their words to stay by my side. It was the voice I was given by friends, family, and even acquaintances.

It was the ability to confess without fear, or stigma, or shame attached.

Four weeks and four days is a lifetime… it’s a lifeline.

Talking about mental illness – especially the unspeakable thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and an inability to ever feel free from the chains of whatever disorder has been diagnosed – is hard. And as much as I talk about it… I still find myself whispering at times, wondering ‘can I tell this person?’ knowing that I might one day say too much, to the wrong people.

And so, as long as stigma exists, as long as fear of judgement exists; I know that it will continue to be hard to talk about openly – to discuss over coffee, or in public spaces, or with people who ask ‘how are you doing?’

So for now, I’ll continue to share my story. I’ll continue to let you in on the bits and pieces of me – one step at a time, one dark confession at a time. Because I know I’m not alone… and I know I’m not the only one who struggles. Because I know, I can offer that ear for someone else who is too afraid to speak out, or too unsure of how to say it. I’m hear… I’m listening.

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2018

Sitting within the depths of my personal files, on a memory card I no longer use, buried in my basket full of storage devices, cords, and chargers; sit several letters, written in some of the hardest moments of my life.

These aren’t just any letters… they are letters for the future – one for each of my children, and a couple for other people who have impacted my life. People who I felt the need to explain myself to… to say goodbye, to leave a thought for.

In that basket, buried and hiding – are my suicide letters. Letters written with the intent to be left aside, not necessarily opened immediately after I died… but in the future, when necessary, to explain my actions – the pain, the turmoil, and the chaos. Letters written from a distorted, exhausted, and painful perspective.

Throughout my life I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I can count… some days, it was each breath that I took that reminded me, forced me to survive, and left me hating life. Some days were worse than others, and suicide became my only thought… my only desire. The thoughts developed life of their own, taking control, and leaving little room for rational thought. Even on days where it wasn’t necessarily a thought… the idea of suicide never fully left the back of my mind – an option, an idea always viable.

Recently, I had taken a break from blogging and writing out my thoughts on mental health, and in general I’ve pulled back from people. For a while, I felt lost again – not necessarily depressed, but lost. In writing, there was a period where I couldn’t call up a topic that felt whole, honest, and truthful.

In my personal life, I’ve been facing challenges that have left me reeling – spinning in many different directions, each and every day. Spending time focused on myself and putting together some of the shattered puzzle pieces, has been exactly what I needed to do - realistically, it was my only option. But it has also left me feeling just a little bit empty… and a little bit like a fraud.

As I’ve muddled this journey through mental health, trauma, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and suicidal thinking; I’ve tried to grow, learn, and change as I’ve researched, worked, and discovered the many aspects of the disorders that I struggle with. Combined with situational circumstances, I’ve tried to live this mental health journey with transparency and a desire to try to do my part to end the stigma associated with mental illness. It hasn’t been easy. In the past I’ve revealed thoughts and feelings that I never previously knew could be shared. I wrote blog posts from the Psych ward. I met with friends, family, and counselors and I let people in… I let them see at least some of my triumphs and some of my setbacks. Sometimes it worked out… and sometimes, I ended up hurt and left vulnerable – my struggles, my actions, and my words used against me.

But the one thing that I’ve held close, is the situational aspect to my disorders… the stigma attached to my experiences (and specifically, talking publicly about my experiences), has left me hesitant to share… to reveal some of my specific triggers, and the situations that send me spiraling.

Several months ago, I wrote out a series of letters.

It wasn’t eight years ago – the first time that I was determined to end my life – the first time that I spent time in the psych ward.

It wasn’t (almost) four years ago, when I tried to jump off of a waterfall.

It wasn’t two years ago… the last time that I was hospitalized for suicidal intentions and planning. 

               

It was just several months ago.

Right now, is not the time for me to talk about why I felt suicidal, or what those triggers were.

Right now is the time when I tell you why I didn’t kill myself… why those letters were never left out to be found and distributed.

Right now is when I tell you that I spoke about the situation that I was in, with people who genuinely cared for me. I spoke with honesty and transparency. I revealed the depth to what I was struggling with, and the pain and suffering that I was experiencing – without judgement, without feeling stigmatized, and without feeling like a failure. In safety with those I spoke with; I was allowed to feel, and express without being rejected or told that what I was feeling was ridiculous.

Recently, I’ve found myself repeating phrases such as ‘people think’ or ‘I can’t talk about this, because it’s not something that I’m allowed to talk about’ or ‘I try to explain but people don’t get it’. And each time I say these things, I find myself disappearing a little further into myself, wondering why I’m so afraid to speak the truth – to reveal my secrets, and to allow myself to admit my faults, failures, and fears – so that I can actually begin to heal.

And yet… I’m sitting here alone tonight, typing these words… and still so afraid to speak out publicly.

“You’ll sound like you’re trying to play the victim.”

“Let the past stay in the past.”

“Sharing your story, is sharing my story too… I don’t want that going public.”

“Why do you feel the need to air your dirty laundry for the world to see?”

“Can’t you just get over it and be happy?”

“You need to take responsibility for yourself and stop blaming/wallowing/bringing up things that happened in the past.”

“You need to work through it and move on (but not talk about it openly!).”

“What does this have to do with your mental health?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You need to practice gratitude/thankfulness/happiness/finding joy.”

“You need to ­­­_______."

Several months ago, I wrote out suicide letters, because those words above, were the words that were spoken to me by the people that I tried to talk to (and sometimes even spoken BY me as a reminder to stay silent). Not just once. But repeatedly throughout the years.

Several months ago, I started talking anyways. I started re-assigning my thought patterns. I began the process of changing the way that I think about my life, my experiences, and especially the challenges that I have faced over the last several years.

Today I want to reach out. I want you to know that I am here. I am ready to listen without judgement. I am ready to have the conversations that nobody wants to have. I am ready to hear your situation, and the choices that you have had to make to survive. I am ready to be here for you.

And tonight. I challenge you. Be real. Reach out. Share. End stigma… not just with mental illness… but with all the taboo topics.

Don’t jump to conversation to judge the other side, or to tell them what they’re doing wrong, or what they should do next.

Talk. Listen. Be there. You don’t have to understand their side… but try anyways. Tilt your head. Cover your eyes and pretend to be them. Walk in their shoes. Feel their pain. Hold their hand. Let them share their secrets, and most of all: let them feel their pain.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day 2018.

This year, I’ve felt a pull to continue to not only share my story… but also to encourage those around me to share parts of their story as well. Only with open and honest conversation between friends, can we even begin to understand the fight that every person who battles with mental illness faces. Only then can we know how to help those who are struggling just to stay alive.

So today, in recognition of World Suicide Prevention Day, I challenge you to reach out to a friend who is fighting a battle inside themselves. Maybe they are isolating themselves – pushing you away in either a quiet, or what appears to be a nasty way. Maybe they’ve been missing work or school, or maybe they are filled to the brim with anxiety – panic attacks striking more often than usual. Maybe you’ve stopped to visit and noticed that the dishes are piled higher than normal, or that their hair hasn’t been washed in days. Whatever it is, reach out to your friends. Don’t wait for them to reach out to you.

Suicide is preventable.

My life was saved by people who simply reached out... checked in... and shared their stories, willing to listen mine.

**Adapted from a previously un-shared post.

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Weaving Words

Recently it came up in my life, that my words were something to be ashamed of once again.

It wasn't tangible... more so a feeling as I continued to navigate a downright messy place in my story.

Several weeks ago, I was hit with that familiar feeling as I sat and listened to a loved one who had recently discovered my blog. As I listened to the feelings that this person experienced as they had read through my words and processed some of my thoughts; the instinct was to huddle up into a corner and pull a blanket over my head. I wanted to hide.

As I heard about this person's second hand experience with my journey... the thoughts morphed from anger (how dare they judge my story!), to sadness and a feeling of loneliness, and back to this deep-seated root of shame, regret, and guilt.

For a while, I changed my settings so that my blog was private, and contemplated deleting every entry I had ever written. I wanted the words gone. I wanted to not be this way. My journey... it was stupid. I shouldn't be airing out my dirty laundry for the world to see... and besides... I should be better by now anyways.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've once again tried to make sense of the world around me. I've spent time diving back into a myriad of questions and problems and traumas... trying to restore some semblance of sanity to my life. In the process I came to realize that writing here... sharing my story is far more important than I had previously given it credit for. A safe place to share my thoughts, encourage others, and end the stigma, only the beginning. The shame that I was feeling, exactly the reason that I should continue to not only write about but to share my journey. Shame, stigma, and feelings of instability, are all fed by continued silence and secrecy.

Last week I restored my blog to a public setting and I worked through some of my own feelings of shame. Right now, it is a chaotic and tumultuous time in my life. I've been dealing with facing my own failures, unraveling a further depth to my trauma than I ever before realized was present, and working hard to set, maintain, and enforce my own personal boundaries.

In the process, I've begun to once again open up and my goal is to continue to share with honesty and humility... for myself, and for others; because our stories are not something to be ashamed of.

This week I faced another moment in the quiet. Alone, I faced the revelation that my posts... my public words and the journey that I have shared in an act of healing; might one day be used against me. A place of safety, healing, and comfort, once again filled me with the deepest sense of shame and regret. This very blog felt like an anchor weighing me down.... evidence in any future case against myself. Look at her! She admits her guilt! There is no question, that she is unwell!

And once again, I choose to halt those thoughts.

Once again, I choose to reach out and take a leap and believe that it's okay to share my story and my struggles. Once again I feel the shame as it lays it's heavy burden upon my shoulders and I reject it. Not today.

This morning I shared a post on Facebook, and I'm going to share it here today. (I do not know who to attribute this meme to, and although I wish I could credit it appropriately, I can't.)

I've been sharing my story for a while now... bits and pieces as thoughts need to escape my head. To talk to me in person, I'm pretty open overall and will gladly answer (most) questions about my journey through not just mental health, but these rough patches in life.
Our stories weave the world in which we leave... strand by strand; coming together to form a beautiful picture. Sometimes we are being woven in the same pattern as the person standing next to us... and though we may both feel alone and unable to see the similarities, a simple conversation could be all that it takes to make things snap into place, so that both sides may realize that they are not alone after all.
Stigma, shame, and instability are all fed in secrecy.

Weaving words into stories. It sounds fantastical... like a fairy-tale author creating new worlds and new lives... a work of fiction. But the reality is that this is our life. Each person has a story... and though the details may differ from one of us to the next, it consistently amazes me that there are so many people that I know who experience similar struggles to me; and yet we oftentimes feel so alone. Unimportant. Filled with shame, guilt, or regret; our own words, admissions, failings, and struggles so often used against us... that we expect nothing else.

And so instead of opening up and sharing our journeys, we hide our experiences and our own unique story under the pillow, close to our hearts; guarded... afraid of the repercussions.

And shame and stigma grow stronger with each whispered word, or hidden struggle.

Today, I'm weaving my words into a single page of my story. Each page is being woven into a chapter, and each chapter a unique experience along my journey. And today I am standing up and speaking out against the shame associated with sharing my trials and my successes.

It is not a weakness, but a strength to be able to open up. To be honest... to show your vulnerabilities, your trials, and your failures. It takes courage and strength to say that I have struggled with suicidal thoughts, mental illness, and general rough patches in life... it takes strength to say I'm not okay, but I'm going to keep trying anyways.

And with each admission of a fight within myself; I feel the power of secrecy and silence dull down. I feel the strength inside of me grow stronger when I whisper those dreaded words of 'I'm not okay', and someone reaches back and says 'It's okay. I've been there. Let me tell you my story.' With every word woven into another part of my journey, I find freedom. No longer trapped by stigma, fear, or judgement, the story becomes just another part of my life; a part of who I am... a human.

For me, this is my safe place. For you, it might begin with a single friend or an anonymous post in a support group.

Shame keeps us a prisoner, a black smudge across the page that we wish we could recant. But sharing our journeys brightens up the page... and brings our stories together. Words woven into beautiful tapestries that show trials and resilience and a fight to not only heal the wounds, but to thrive despite the struggles.

Sharing is not shameful. It is our strength.

* I am currently beginning work on a project that I've been planning for quite some time (details to be announced), if you live in Ontario and would like to find out more and possibly become a part of this journey into sharing our stories; feel free to contact me through either Facebook or Email and I will gladly discuss the opportunity to participate in this amazing project.

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