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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World Suicide Prevention Day 2016

** Trigger Warning **

She looked into the mirror - her eyes were blank... hollow, her heart was heavy, and her hope was lost. She was tired of struggling and of fighting... She was simply exhausted and had lost her ability to cling to life.

She had heard it all and she hated the words, their voices of encouragement, and their stories of recovery; it wasn't worth anything... she couldn't feel anything. Once the pull of death's comfort, peace, and ease had infiltrated her mind - there was no going back... No other way out... Nothing could change her decision.

She sat in the tub, filled to the brim with water and with a hair dryer in her hand: she crouched in the darkest corner of her room with the razor at her wrist: she sat on the patio with the pills poured out into her hand. Once death had claimed her mind, it was far too easy to know what came next, to follow through.

She didn't expect the moments of clarity that would take her breath away... It would be a few seconds at most as remnants of light blasted through the darkness - pieces of conversations surrounding recovery and hope and life, bits of memories filled with love and joy, reminders of hands reaching out - showing grace, friendship, support, and acceptance.

It was only a few moments and then the light vanished, the darkness and despair returning to cage her mind, filling the space, consuming everything except for one tiny speck... A glimmer... A sparkle.

Maybe, just maybe those moments of clarity were enough and still shaking she takes one last chance. She drives herself to the emergency room or she picks up the phone to call a trusted friend, a hotline, or emergency services.

She will be questionned - it will feel like an interrogation on why she is in crisis and she will have to repeat her story and her history to every person who walks into her room or tries to help her. She will fade to darkness and wish she hadn't made the choice to open up and let them in.

But that speck. Gradually it will grow a little bit brighter and so she doesn't fight them. She decides to stay, to muster any ounce of strength that she can find, to fight for that light one last time.

At her weakest point in life, she has become the strongest she has ever been. She faces anger, shame, guilt, and humiliation... She is stripped of her clothes, her freedom, and her choices. Still she sees that sparkle hanging there and she chases it, speaking up - revealing truth and suffering, voids and failures, grief and loss.

And as she does - that light, that bright speck, it becomes a star which gradually reveals the other stars, and suddenly the sun is shining and the world, her world, is brighter again; illuminating even the darkest places in her mind.

Once she is stable, she holds onto the light like a security blanket. It shimmers and flexes, fades and boldens as she mives forward, one small step at a time. She chooses to continue to speak about her experiences. She speaks and she listens, she accepts and she prays, and she helps and she seeks help. She becomes the glimmer in another person's darkness while she gains more sparkles to hold onto herself, in case the darkness ever threatens to return.

September 10, 2016 is World Suicide Prevention Day. Find your speck of light - it is never too late to find hope in the darkness as long as we never fall silent in our pain and our light, in our support of friends and family, and in sharing our own experiences.

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