This article is the first of a multi-week article series exploring my experiences with suicide.
Before I even start this article, I want people to know that I am no longer in a place where I think my only option is to cease to exist. I am happy to say that I take every day as it comes and am truly grateful to be alive, on both the good and bad days. Although some of the things I write may be hard to read or even imagine, I think it is important to share these details, because they are true, and they are the reality of what a lot of people face.
Suicide.
Don't say that word, it's a bad word. A scary word. Society tells us to be careful around those who are suicidal, to walk on eggshells around them, because we wouldn't want to "set them off." Oftentimes, people don't know how to act around friends or family members who are suicidal, because they're scared. They don't want to lose their beloved friend or family member, but they don't know what to do to help, so they become careful. They shelter their friend or family member from negative things, try to be consistently positive around them, and stop sharing what is going on in their life with this suicidal individual because, again, they don't want to set them off.
But what about you? What does suicide mean to you?
I wonder what enters your mind when I say the word suicide. Do you think of someone standing on the very end of a bridge debating whether or not they should jump? Or do you picture a "crazy" person, who is so clearly out of their mind because they lead a good life, and you are not sure why they would want to end it? Whatever image or judgment comes to your mind, I want you to put it aside for a moment, just until you finish reading the rest of this article.
I don't remember when it started exactly, but I know that it got very bad, very quickly. I remember stating at the beginning of the 2017 school year, "I don't know what I would do if I lost my mental health." And then it happened, right out from underneath me, without my permission, without my consent, without my control.
I have a good life. I have always had a good life. Yes, there have been some bad times, but by no means have I had a bad life, not by a long shot. I am surrounded and supported by love from family members, close friends, kisses from my dog and even encouragement from those I hardly know. My parents have worked hard and still continue to work hard, all to give me more than I deserve. My fiancé constantly reminds me that he loves me, and I have some pretty amazing friends that would do anything for me. From all of this, you may gather that my life is pretty great, and, if not great, at least pretty neutral. Yet, only six months ago, I laid on a bed in a crisis center wishing that my friends would have let me kill myself.
But it didn't just "happen." Those thoughts and feelings of not being good enough had been building up for a long time, and, eventually, I just started to believe them.
I've written articles previously about how I don't ever feel like I am "enough," and, while I'm sure everyone fights those thought almost every day, they started to take up more space in my brain. Eventually, I believed the lies that I wasn't enough so deeply that I turned to food and exercise to try and compensate for what I thought I was missing, which only made hurled me deeper into darkness and sickness.
I started to believe the lies that said eating dessert would make me fat, so I cut out sweets completely. I believed the lie that said, "You are only as good as your body looks", so I went to extremes to try to change it. I tried to change everything about myself until I was left staring at broken pieces in the mirror, simple reflections of what I had become: sick, malnourished and lost. For me, this was the beginning of the end.
To be continued.
