“Before you know it, you’re 20 years old and wondering what happened to that 13 year old girl and why did she spend so long hating herself? But you realize that 13 year old girl didn’t ever see herself to be 20, she didn’t think she would make it that far, but she did, and oh God, she’s so proud of herself for doing so.”
On September 12th, 2016 I turned 20 years old. Twenty.
Wow.
I have been on this earth for 7,304.84 days, 1,043.55 weeks, 240 months, 175,316.3 hours, 10,518,975.3 minutes, and 631,138,520 seconds. It would only take minutes - if that - to make a life-ending decision, and probably at the most only days to die.
I really, truly never planned to live past 20. I never said “well, I need to be dead by 20.” It wasn’t like that. It was more like every year for the past maybe 3 or 4, there were several episodes where my constant thinking about suicide became planning my suicide. But there was always something that stopped me - whether it was an attempted cry for help via an outgoing phone call from me to my high school JV basketball coach that she couldn’t answer, which would have made her feel immensely guilty had I gone through with my plans and I didn’t want to do that to her, or hanging out with my little cousin of whom I would always realize I didn’t want to leave behind, I could never follow through.
I was going to say something about my depression. I swear I was. I used to go to the guidance office everyday of my senior year of high school with my sister to get her FM unit, a device that helps her with her auditory processing disorder. I would stay in my guidance counselor’s office for 5-10 minutes after the bell would ring. Every night, and I really mean every night, I would rehearse how I would bring up my depression the next morning. But instead I would complain about my sister’s boyfriend or whatever it was that I got in trouble for the night before (it was always something). I just couldn’t do it. I was afraid of stigma. I was afraid of change.
I began to think that suicide was the only way to make the pain go away. Actually, I decided that it was the only way. I came to the conclusion that after the basketball season, which was rough to say the least, I would make the permanent choice to die.
The days came and went. It was finally time. I was ready to down the pills and go to this supposedly magical, pain free, place called Heaven. I would be happier there, I thought. I hoped, anyway. But I fell asleep. I fell asleep waiting for my dad to go to bed so that I wouldn’t have to worry about being caught and saved. I woke up absolutely pissed and went to school anyway, as to not look suspicious. “I’ll just have try again tonight”, I thought.
The following morning the head of the guidance department informed me that my high school JV basketball coach, who had been working at a different school for that year, was coming back to work at my high school. I was ecstatic. I practically ran to class afterwards I was so elated. Something said to wait until she came back. Something said to put off suicide, and so I did.
From that point on, the suicidal thoughts were never ending. Some days it was hard for me to fill up my pill container. Some days it was hard for me to look at tall buildings. Some days it was hard for me to use a knife. Some days it was hard for me to drive. Because sometimes I thought of jumping off of tall buildings, a knife piercing my heart or slicing my wrists, dumping all of my pills down my throat, or taking a slight right turn into a tree at 65 mph.
In just the past year I have had the director of the counseling center come all the way to my dorm room without my knowing and sit on my bed (talk about awkward) and have a very long and hard conversation with me about my being suicidal. I have been hunted down and escorted by public safety in a police car to the counseling center for an emergency appointment. I have been threatened to be pursued by my hometown police if need be. I have been threatened to be admitted to a psychiatric ward. I have been threatened to be sent home from school for some unknown length of time. I have made plans to die. I have abruptly stopped taking my antidepressants. I have been too sad to go to class. But most importantly, I have gotten better.
I learned to let go of the people in my life who made no effort to be in mine, while I went above and beyond to be in theirs. I let go of the people who walked away, even when everything inside of me wanted them to stay.
I vowed to give up on reaching out to people who never reached out to me. I vowed to stop buying birthday presents or pizzas or “this made me think of you” gifts for the people who never even bother to say thank you. I vowed stopped asking how school or sports are going or saying good luck this year/on finals/on midterms/etc. to those who were never and would never be the first to say it to me.
I got rid of people who were emotionally draining and wearing me out and bringing me down when typically I’d put up with it.
I decided to go medication free (even if it wasn’t psychiatrist approved. Oops.), and I personally feel that being off all of my psychological medication is doing more justice for me now than when I was on it because it gives me a feeling of pride and independence.
I changed my major and am so unbelievably happy with what I changed it to. I go to class with a smile and leave with an even bigger one.
I may not be “happy” quite yet, but I am feeling the best I ever have at this very moment that I am writing this. For the first time in my life I am making decisions for me, and only me. I am putting myself first, and that has made a world of difference.
I did it. I made it to 20. And I am damn proud.
