I haven’t written in a long while …
Well, that’s not true. I haven’t written publicly, but I’ve been writing. I’ve written so much lately that in the past … 28 days, I’ve written 45 pages for my new book. Well, not exactly. I’ve written more than 45 pages, but I’ve deleted quite a few because I’m just not all that sure what it is I want to accomplish.
The last book I wrote was published because I thought it might help other people the way writing it helped me. But, then I was hospitalized in April.
I thought I was doing really freaking well… I was engaged to my best friend. I had the job of my dreams- and more offers on the table. I had a book published and I was great. Why did I… no– how did I fall so quickly and so hard?
I was in the psychiatric stabilization centre for a week and when I was released I faced one of the hardest decisions I ever had to face.
Get better … for everyone in my life… or keep being the person I was so used to being?
I thought that if I just did a little bit here and there… it would be enough.
“I’ll take my meds.”
that’s enough, right?
“I’ll see a therapist every now and again.”
I don’t really need them.
“I’ll write and get out all of the things I’m feeling.”
I wrote what I wanted people to see.
“I’ll be fine if I tell everyone I’m fine.”
If I say it enough, maybe I’ll believe it too.
And, I was doing okay for a little while. I felt good.
I was admitted on April 23rd and was released on April 27th.
I bought my reception dress on May 4th with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.
I bought my wedding dress on May 20th with my mum and my sister.
I married my best friend, who also happened to be the love of my life, on May 28th.
I found out I might be pregnant with a honeymoon baby on June 8th.
I had my pregnancy confirmed by the doctor on June 24th.
I struggled for… a long while about what this meant for me, for my husband, and for us as a family.
I don’t want to lie and say that I was ecstatic about this whole thing. My husband and I already had a beautiful daughter in our life. Now, I know she might not be my blood, but she is very much my kid and has pretty much always had my heart, just like her father.
I didn’t know what this would mean. I have always struggled with my mental health. I spent most of my life not knowing if I could manage to keep myself alive long enough to see the next sunrise. I already felt like I wasn’t good enough for my husband and the little light of my life that was already existing… How was I supposed to be something more than what I was already struggling to be for those two… and now a baby? My baby?
My husband, confused and unsure about everything… Was more supportive than I ever expected he could be. We both believed similar thoughts on the subject.
I was terrified. Horrified even. I wasn’t this girl. I didn’t believe in adoption and abortion was something I could never forgive myself for. I didn’t believe in bringing someone into this world only to abandon them… I also didn’t believe in ending a pregnancy just because it wasn’t apart of your plans… But raising a kid that you’re not capable of taking care of?
I was the needy kid. I grew up hungry and moving between houses because my parents were too drunk or too high to function.
I was the adopted kid. I grew up wondering why I wasn’t enough for my birth family. Why they didn’t think I was enough to get clean for.
I didn’t want to have a child that grew up questioning why they weren’t enough for mommy to be happy. I already wondered why… even when I was happy… why I still didn’t think I was good enough.
There were a LOT of days and nights filled with tears and uncertainty. Eventually, we came to the decision that we would be okay, and our baby would be everything.
Some days were good, most days were really bad. I struggled a lot. Mentally, of course. But, physically… I had really bad motion sickness, I felt like I was going to pass out constantly, I was horribly sore and achy… My physical issues caused a lot of strain on my mental health, of course. But, it caused just as many issues with my marriage and with my family.
Then… the really bad hit.
I tried (and almost succeeded) in killing myself on September 3, 2018.
There is no excuse that I can give for what I did. There are reasons and explanations, but no excuses. That day- that event is definitely not something I’m proud of, but I am grateful for it.
I don’t want to get into detail because I don’t want to trigger anybody reading this, but, I do need to be specific about some of it if I want this to be as honest and true as I feel in my heart.
I hadn’t been feeling well for weeks, months even, but September 3rd… Well, I woke up knowing that it was going to be a particularly rough day. It had been a rough day every year since my birth dad died in 2002… I just never thought that it could turn into what I turned it into.
I was so miserable waking up, I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of bed, and all I wanted to do was sleep but I couldn’t even manage to do that. When my husband came into the room to check on me, I didn’t know how to respond. I wanted to lie with him and let the world slip away because it was all just too much for me alone. Even with him right next to me, however, all I felt was lonely, so I told him I was okay and I just needed space.
Then… Sometime after that, I went into the worst dissociative fugue I’ve ever had. I apparently said some awful things to my husband and my mother- and then I kicked my husband out and instead of taking a couple sleeping pills (which is all I remember happening)… I took all of my previously prescribed medications and drank quite a bit of alcohol. I’m told that they found a knife and my husband’s gun next to me.
I was rushed to the hospital and was in and out of it the rest of the night. When I finally fully came to… I couldn’t figure out what happened.
The doctors kept asking … But I was so groggy and my memory was coming up blank. I told them that the only thing I could remember was telling my husband to go and then I was taking my sleeping pills. The doctors told me that I didn’t just take sleeping pills and that I was just lucky to be alive.
The three days I was in the hospital were awful. I was scared and alone- except for the nurse on suicide watch- and the couple times my mum was allowed to see me. But I knew that the three days in the hospital were nothing compared to what was in my future.
I was released from Grady into Emory’s psychiatric centre on September 6th.
Being in yet another psychiatric centre within 6 months of the previous stay… I was pissed and confused and hurt. Mostly with myself, but also with everyone around me. I didn’t know how I was going to make it out of there alive. I didn’t even know if I could… I wanted to, though. That was the only thing I was sure of.
For the first time in my entire life, I knew that I wanted to be alive, no matter what was going to happen in life, I knew that I wanted to be a part of it. I had so many reasons to- reasons that I didn’t know I had.
Not because I didn’t love and appreciate all of my reasons, but because I was too far gone before I could really understand them and see them for what they are– were– and hopefully would be.
I spent every day going through the motions. I took my medications, I spoke to the psychiatrists and the counsellors, I did the groups. I prayed every night and was journalling religiously. I cried more than I thought possible. I didn’t know how to cope with what I had done and I was terrified of losing the people I love… all because I couldn’t figure out how to love myself.
My mum and sister visited a few times during my stay, but I didn’t see my husband until September 12th.
He didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t blame him. But losing him on top of everything else? I didn’t know how I was going to get through it.
There were a LOT of dark days and even darker nights while I was in the facility. I felt like I lost everything. I lost my family’s trust, I lost my husband’s love, I lost my independence… And then I lost my apartment, my car, and I even lost people I didn’t know I had.
I was released from the facility on September 18th.
The first month out of the facility was all kinds of crazy. Some days were good, a lot of days were bad. That seems to be the only constant on this road to recovery of mine. But, it is my road to recovery.
I’m going to reiterate what I said previously. I’m not proud of what I did, but I am appreciative of who it’s pushed me into being.
It has been ten weeks and one day since my suicide attempt. (9/3/18)
It has been four weeks and two days since my last suicidal ideation. (10/14/18)
It has been one week and two days since my last desire to self-harm. (11/04/18)
This may not be a big deal for anyone who has not been in this situation… But, until this happened, even on my happiest days, I didn’t know if I
would could make it through to the next day.
I’m nowhere near where I want to be. But, I’m on my way.
I love my parents, I love my sister, I love my husband, I love my daughter, I love my in-laws, I love my friends and I love my soon-to-be-born son … and they are all incredible reasons to stay alive. But, they’re not my only reasons.
My parents are not always around, my sister and I don’t always see eye to eye, my husband and I are currently not together, I don’t have any rights to my bonus-daughter, my in-laws may not be mine much longer, my friends will come and go throughout life… and my son, though he is my whole heart, he is not my sole reason for living.
I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, and a friend.
But most of all, I am ME and I am going to continue to fight to stay alive because I DESERVE to live.
Even when I don’t think I do… I KNOW that I do…
And on the really bad days… I see my belly, and I am reminded. And it’s always nice to be reminded.
I love who I am, I love who I am turning into, I love who I have the potential to be and I love the future I have waiting for me.
I tried to end my life but God graced me enough with people who wouldn’t let this be the end of my story, but it is the end of this post.
I beg of you… if you’re struggling… take the steps you need to take to be better.
Do what you NEED to do- even if it isn’t what you WANT to do.
Say what you NEED to say- even if it isn’t what you WANT to say.