Today I want to get real and personal with y'all, it's not just any other ordinary day for me. On February 25, 2012 exactly four years ago, I had attempted suicide. I am still here.
You're probably thinking why I would have felt so driven to do something that extreme, or how. If you're curious as to the how: pills. Moving on from that, the reason being was I was depressed. I had been depressed about a lot of things going on in my life for so long, and my self-esteem was in the shitter. No confidence in myself and always second guessing about everything that I was doing. Sitting right next to depression was his cousin, anxiety. I felt as if I couldn't breathe, that everything around me was suffocating and a blur. I wanted to run, and I wanted an escape out of this rabbit hole.
It was right around ACT season and I was a junior in high school drowning in all my art assignments, core content work and balancing some other things on my head regarding family matters while I was at it. That night, I was hitting peak stress-levels and I had gotten into a major argument with my parents over something. Can't seem to remember what the argument was anymore, but at that time and place it had felt major to me. Always feeling the pressure and having my buttons pushed, I gave in. I felt like that maybe it would be better if I eliminated the problem, which felt like it was me. So I chugged a bottle of ibuprofen and went to say my goodbyes to my friends.
I said a goodbye to one particular friend, who had felt something was wrong and felt uneasy so he and my other friend rushed over to stop everything. Next thing you know I'm sitting in an ambulance on my way to the hospital. I owe those friends my life.
This is where you start to open your eyes about everything though, once I landed in the hospital the nurse made me drink a bottle of liquid charcoal. If you think that sounds absolutely vile, you're right. Nurse wouldn't even leave until I finished the whole entire bottle. When you throw up liquid charcoal all over yourself in the middle of the night, you'll really start second-guessing things. What really got me though, was laying in that bed and waking up in the middle of the night seeing my mother with blood-shot eyes crying to herself and blaming herself. That shit will break you.
Not to mention the mental institute they'll ship you off to after they get the drugs out of your system, a week of no phone or contact with the outside world. Cameras in your room, and being in secure sectors for adolescents with other patients. I was stressed before, but that probably stressed me out even more. A week of therapy and social workers probing my mind, and hearing the not-so-quiet patients in the "quiet room".
I fucked up. I was fucked up, and that's what mental illnesses are and that's what they'll do. I never talked to people about things going on with myself, I kept the worst of it bubbled up inside of me until I popped. The thing now though is that I've grown and changed over those 4 years, and if I didn't stick around I would have never known about those changes. I wouldn't have had time to grow, and I wouldn't have done a lot of things. A permanent solution to a temporary pain won't fix anything, but tangle shit up even more.
It has been four years, and there will be many more.
If you, friend or family member feel suicidal, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline and get help. From a person who's been through it, it's not worth it. 1 (800) 273-8255