I’ve been depressed a huge chunk of my life. I was depressed before I even knew there was a name for it. I was just sad. I felt hopeless. I felt like there was a big black cloud hanging over my head. I felt like I had a hole in my heart. When I thought about why I felt this way there never was a big defining thing that would cause me to feel so awful all the time.
I tried my best. I smiled and laughed a lot. I would hang out with my friends, wishing I was tucked into my bed. I wished I had a blanket up to my chin. I wish I was laying in my dark room, staring blankly at whatever was on my t.v. though I was retaining none of it.
I used to think it took a really strong person to end their own life. I couldn’t imagine someone killing themselves. The strength I thought it took to make that decision was beyond anything I could comprehend. Even though I’d been sad, I was never that sad. Until I was. I was that person who didn’t care to live anymore. It was a scary time. Imagine not even being able to trust yourself. I couldn’t count on even me to protect myself.
That’s when I learned that it takes a really weak, sad and hopeless person to commit suicide. There was nothing strong about me. I was a coward. I wanted it. I didn’t want to have to deal with my life and all the problems that came with it. I thought taking some pills, falling asleep and never waking up would be a hell of a lot easier than living my life for one more day.
In 2005 I did it. I took a bottle full of prescription medication. I can’t remember what it was but my logic told me that “too much of anything can kill you. This will work for sure.” I wasn’t crying out for attention like so many people think a suicide attempt is. As a matter of fact. I didn’t tell anyone. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t even kill myself right. I didn’t have the balls. Not long after I took those pills I went into the bathroom and threw up. They never got into my system.
After that day I woke up with this new outlook. I thought “Holy Crap! I could’ve been dead today!” I went into my living room and I ripped my 5 suicide notes into a million pieces and told myself I needed to get better. NOW. I could’nt leave my kids. I couldn’t miss their first day of kindergarten. I couldn’t miss the first day of school every year after that. I couldn’t leave my family. My parents would’ve been heart broken. If I didn’t have the strength to live for me, I was going to do it for all the people I love. I got through years, just for them.
I wasn’t living much of a life. When I wasn’t working I’d be balled up on my couch, while my kids layed right there beside me watching the same movie on constant repeat. I was staying alive. I was not living. I didn’t care about anything. If it weren’t for my kids I wouldn’t have been able to get out of bed just to go lay on the couch.
I was sleep deprived which of course didn’t help my mental health. I didn’t cook, I didn’t clean. My house was a mess, not “lived in” or “cluttered” but a MESS. My mom came to clean my house from time to time. She was angry that my kids were living in such a mess but I didn’t care. As long as I could see my floors and my counter tops I thought it was okay.
I was ashamed to admit how I felt or that I attempted to end my own life. I was extremely emotionally fragile. I was one breakdown away from cutting my life way to short. I loved my family and I loved my kids, I didn’t want to hurt them. My kid’s Dad was mostly absent and had a drug problem. I couldn’t leave them in his care for the rest of forever. No matter how much I wanted to.
I was scared to admit that I was going through this. “People will think I’m making it up. They’ll think I’m just trying to get attention.” I was worried I’d get thrown in the looney bin. I was worried someone would take my kids from me and I was all they had. They are who I was living for after all.
I don’t remember when or how I stopped thinking about suicide. I guess the thought just left me as time went on. I was still depressed but I had more good days than bad days. I got better. I cooked. I cleaned. I was a real mother and my kids were happy. They played baseball, they danced, they sung out loud. I was doing okay. They saved me.
By the time I got married and had my 3rd child it had been years since that day I tried to take my life. My baby was born at 28 weeks. She was very sick. She stayed in the NICU for 3 months. That was a long 3 months.
One day I was unable to make it to the hospital to visit my sweet girl. I had a cold and I was not allowed in the NICU. I was so devastated. I laid in my bed. I cried. I was sad. I was angry. I hated feeling that way. I was hopeless and helpless. I was no longer in control of anything including my sudden urge to stop all the hurt.
As I laid there, tucked in my bed once again with covers up to my chin. My blanket and pillows were wet from all the tears I had cried. I wanted my baby. That’s all. It’s so unfair. Why do other mothers get to take their babies home with them? Why do all these teenagers get to have healthy babies? I was mad at the world. I was mad at every woman who ever had a full term pregnancy.
I looked over at my night stand and saw a giant bottle of Tylenol. “I can end this! I won’t ever have to feel this pain again. I don’t have to do it. There’s my way out.”
My first child, my sweet boy just happened to walk into my room just as I was going to get up to grab that bottle. My son is a Mama’s boy. He came over and kissed my forehead and said “are you okay? At least she’ll be home soon.”
I don’t know whether or not I would’ve followed through that day. I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t want to live. I didn’t want to hurt anymore. My son saved me from a severe breakdown that day. Again. Before I knew it we were in the kitchen laughing harder than I had laughed in a long time. I thanked God for that child like never before that night.
2 years later I lost my sweet Lincoln. That was almost 4 months ago. I couldn’t imagine worse pain than losing an innocent angel. I laid in bed for months. Somedays I still don’t get out of bed. I got put on antidepressants almost immediately after he died. I didn’t feel better for a long time. I actually just started feeling better and accepting my reality.
I’ve never once in these 4 months thought about suicide. Never. I’d like to think I’m growing. I’d like to think I’m done with those dark days. I love my life. I’m so glad I’m still here. I would’ve missed out on an awful lot if I’d been gone.
Life is all about happiness and heartache. That’s the beauty of it all. It’s up and down, good times and bad times. I have learned that if everything was great all the time I’d never appreciate the things that I do have. You have to have rain to have a rainbow. It takes those awful, terrible, horrible days to make you notice when you have a good day.
I love myself. I love this life. I love my husband and my kids. There’s no way to predict the future but I do know I want to be here for as long as God will allow me. I want the good days, I even want the bad days. Everyday is a gift. We shouldn’t ever take one single day for granted no matter how awful it is. There is a tomorrow as long as you allow yourself to have it. Ask for help. You will get though this. Nothing is worth losing your life. Every 40 seconds someone dies from suicide. It has to stop. Life is too beautiful.
Suicide Crisis Help Line
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention