A couple of months ago I was sitting in a therapy group with
a bunch of people with assorted diagnoses. It was during a break, a few minutes
where we could grab water or use the facilities that somehow the casual
conversation turned serious and one of the group members spoke up, ‘I don’t
understand how anyone could get to the point of suicide, how they can get that
low and depressed that suicide becomes their only option.’ I didn’t speak up.
Nobody did. There was a room full of people who had all been hospitalised at
some point for one type of mental illness or another and not one person
continued the conversation, all of us letting it drop off uncomfortably,
changing the topic as quickly as possible.
At the time, the woman and her lack of understanding didn’t
upset me and while I don’t know that I could have changed her outlook on it, I
do regret not using it as an opportunity to educate her on what it was like for
me personally to reach that low point in my life. In two weeks (and a day) it
will be one year since I last tried to end my life by suicide, and it is
something that has been on my mind for the last few days – particularly the
idea that while I have been open, and I have spoken about it quite a bit, I’m
not sure that I’ve gone into why I became suicidal or how I reached a point where
I was so low that I couldn’t convince myself to live.
November 6th, 2014 I made my way to the waterfall around the
corner from my house and attempted to jump to the jagged rocks below, a razor
blade cutting into my wrist as I let go of the wall. Two police officers
managewall and to the ground, saving my life. Deciding to jump from the cliff, to end my life and to ensure my success with a backup plan was not something that I came up with that morning – it was not something that I woke up with and simply decided, ‘hey, today’s the perfect day for a suicide attempt!’
For months leading up to my final decision the thoughts had
been invading my mind – and it wasn’t the first time I had come close. I was
off meds for the bipolar disorder, isolated, alone, depressed, and feeling
invalidated – worthless. I was working part-time but fairly steadily and every
day that I went to work I put a smile on my face and I dealt with customers and
the public the same way I always had – the only difference being that I was now
running on autopilot. I was robotic on the outside. I spoke to the kids if they
spoke to me. My husband and I were fighting over several things at the time and
if we weren’t, I continued on auto. Days where I was not working, I sat on my
couch in the living room, not really doing anything but the basics, and even
then I couldn’t always complete the simple things. I was severely depressed,
which lead to a lack of energy, which lead to further depression, which lead to
a lack of ambition, which lead to further depression, which lead to feeling of
disgust, hatred and inadequacy. It was an endless cycle that with each round
became darker and darker.
I remember it being early October, the leaves just beginning
to change as I sat on the stairs by my front door, still in pajamas as I
watched the kids leave for school; the bus pick them up at the end of the
driveway and I simply sat there, unable to get up, to move to do anything.
Tears sprang to my eyes and before long I was crying uncontrollably and for the
first time in a long time I felt that I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t keep doing life.
I was completely crippled with anxiety – whenever I had to go anywhere
or do anything, make a decision of any kind, I would have panic attacks and experienced
heightened and uncontrollable fear. I couldn’t use the phone and I certainly
wouldn’t go out of my way to try and build friendships or a support system
within the community that I was brand new to. My thinking became distorted
early on; every move that anyone made became a mode for them to control me, to
isolate me further. I looked around me and saw that my family was happy – the only
people who I regularly interacted with and I wondered what was wrong with me.
Why couldn’t I be happy, why didn’t I have energy, why was I so worthless, why
should I keep pulling them down with me? How could I go on, when every day was
a struggle – when panic attacks controlled my life, when I felt that the world
would go on if I could just escape it.
And so, on that day in early October I began to fantasize
about dying; but I still continued to live. I still went through life
robotically, working and running the kids around, and fighting with my husband.
I experienced extreme anxiety that would grip me at all times of the day or
night, disrupting my sleep patterns and causing a sense of paranoia to begin.
The depression got deeper – everyone around me was happy, making plans for fall
and then Christmas; life was happening and I was being dragged along unwillingly.
And then I crashed. A fight with my husband was my snapping point. I left home.
I was angry and bitter and most of all in extreme emotional pain. It hurt
immensely to see everyone around me smiling and laughing and living the way
that I felt I would never be able to do. The pain became physical, making me sick
and weighing me down. I slept in my car in a parking lot one night, texting my
husband and telling him that I was done, I couldn’t do this anymore – I meant
life.
The next morning I went home, I couldn’t do it – I was terrified not of
dying, but of failing. I got changed and went to work that day. When I left
work I again didn’t go home, my husband knew I wasn’t well, he and I texted –
him trying to get me to go somewhere safe (home, the hospital, anywhere that I was
with people and wouldn’t hurt myself). I refused. He called the police. I tried
to sleep in my car that night when I finally couldn’t stay awake any longer – I
was already determined that I couldn’t keep living, but again – I was terrified
that I would fail and that I would be taken away, locked up in a mental
institution for life. I had a razor blade in my hand and I had already taken a
few pills I shouldn’t have taken when the police banged on the window. We had a
short conversation and despite my worrisome text messages to my husband, they
let me go as long as I went either to a woman’s shelter or a hotel. I chose the
hotel, staying there all night, awake – my paranoia now out in full strength as
I envisioned them circling the lot, keeping an eye on me. I believed that they
were out to stop me and that my husband and others wanted to control me, keep
me trapped and isolated when all I wanted to do was end the pain and the
suffering I was experiencing.
The next day was November 6th and I was set on my
path, completely convinced that it was the only way that things were going to
get better. It wasn’t an instant decision. It was something I had thought about
and envisioned for weeks and could only see the positives of, that I was
convinced was the absolute and only way to end the pain I felt. When I arrived
at the waterfall, I felt peace and comfort and I was resolute. I was ready.
I can’t speak for
others, but I can speak for myself when I say that suicide is not a selfish
decision, not something that is decided on a whim and taken lightly by the
person in crisis. For me it was something that I agonised over, fighting as
long as I could before giving in and letting the decision happen. It was
terrifying and sad, peaceful and confusing, angry and frustrating coming to my
low point. I envisioned it and chastised myself, tried to listen to logic and
find reasons to live but heard only twisted truths and outright lies, my own
mind working against me. It was a long and exhausting path and by the time
I looked down at the water and the rocks, I simply just wanted it all to end.
Talk truth, listen openly, reach out, give hope, and find
reason. It sounds easy enough, but those are the things I needed in the days, weeks and months leading to my decision, and yet I could not
find them anywhere.
I don’t have a problem with people who don’t understand; but
it’s just one more reason why I’ve felt the need to share my story, my feelings and
my experiences. It's about stopping stigma, breeding empathy and understanding, and learning to give hope. It's about giving even one person something to grasp onto when they are in the throes of despair, sinking and about to give up.
Life gets better... sometimes it takes time. Hold on, keep your head above water, and grasp someone's hand. You are worth it.
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