*TRIGGER WARNING* This blog post talks about suicidal ideation and suicide attempts in my life. I will not go into detail about my suicide attempt (I was saving that for my memoir, and this isn’t the place.) I am hoping that this story is about hope in the face of hopelessness. Please read the whole piece.
How A Second Change Changed my Mental Illness Life
I was sitting in my hospital bed, it was the second time in two weeks.
Just a week earlier I was at the end of my rope and lost in hopelessness. I couldn’t fight anymore, and I just wanted life to end. It had been weeks of struggling to get a grip on my depression. I had hit my lowest I have ever been on this journey. I wanted the emotional turmoil to end. I made the decision no one should–I tried to take my life.
Darkness is the last thing I remember.
I woke up in the ICU three days later, and it was so close to going the way that I wanted, to end the pain. I spend three days in a coma, and the doctors told my mom that I might never wake up again. I thought it was the end. When I woke, I felt terrible. How could I let myself get this bad again? Why couldn’t I reach out and tell someone that I was not okay? Suicide had become my life, and I was not great at it all.
After two days of deep thinking in my hospital bed, I made a promise that this would be the last time. I would never put my family in this position again. Suicide was not the answer. I wish the story ended here, but it doesn’t, but I went home after a week.
Two days later I was really anxious all day. I felt so sick and nauseous that I thought that something was wrong–I had no idea.
I was sitting on my mom’s dining room table watching a movie on my computer. I don’t really remember what happened next, and this recount comes from what my family remembers.
I collapsed on the floor for a time. Next thing I remember is laying on the floor with a plastic spoon in my mouth, medics, and fireman shining lights in my eyes. I was panicked and had no idea what was going on. My family explained that I had a seizure. The next 48 hours was the worst ordeal that I have ever experienced. I had more seizures, several spinal taps, and what seemed like endless tests. I spent another week in the hospital and the scariest thing about my experience, they could not definitively tell me what had caused the seizures. It was most likely the delayed reaction of a significant overdose of Seroquel.
The most vivid memory is me laying in that hospital bed late at night on that second hospital visit. It was dark in my room, and I was listening to the steady beat of my heart. My mind was racing about a million miles a second. I thought about all that I had been through over the past three and a half years. How much pain that I put my mother threw on a daily basis. The people no longer a part of my life. How I could not remember a happy moment in four years. My soul was all but gone, the flame barely illuminated. I made the decision to live right then and there, I haven’t looked back since.
Everything that has happened since came out of these two weeks in my life. The Bipolar Writer persona. Working on my mental health. For the first time in my life, I admitted that I am Bipolar and that I needed help.
My blog. My memoir. Everything that has happened in my life since that moment has been based on truth–I truly believe that I was saved by God. That I was saved so that someday I could help others. No matter how down into the darkness I go nowadays, I will never let myself get to the point of suicide.
There is always hope. I tell people that contact me when they are suicidal that there is always an option other than suicide. You are worth it, and you have to love yourself first.
Always Keep Fighting