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.