Exposing the Darkness from Inside

Recently there has been a great deal of news regarding suicide, what with Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade recently taking part in the act. While that has sparked more conversation regarding suicide and mental illness once more, I know it will soon fade until another celebrity off's him or herself; a week or two will pass, and then the conversation about the prevalence rates of mental illness and how serious it can be will fade once more. The cycle will continue to repeat until society changes.

However, that is not the reason I am writing to you. I am writing to you because the two suicides mentioned above sparked someone I follow on Instagram to post about how it is impossible to know what can make someone feel so low that the only way they can escape is by ending a chapter in the book of human history. I am here to tell you that actually, it is very possible to know what can drive someone to suicide. Since I am writing this I have clearly not committed suicide; however, that does not mean that it has not been one of the things I have yearned for most at various times in my life, and that does not mean that I was not extremely close to going through with it. Below is my story for my most recent episode battling suicidal ideation (but to keep a long story short, I'll limit it to the worst days of it).

Note: Any names mentioned are changed from the original.

***

I awoke to another day of work. What did that mean? Another day of struggling to keep myself together; another day of hiding behind smiles; another day of coming home, unable to workout because I was exhausted to the point of almost falling asleep on the road. I awoke once more to the battle I will forever be fighting: the battle with my mind.

My cohort and I were anxiously awaiting our results from our comprehensive exams; it had been almost a month and no one knew whether or not they passed and if they didn't pass, what they were retaking. Even though I had studied a great deal for the exams, I still did not feel as though I passed. Everyone told me that I probably did fine and didn't have to worry about anything, but that didn't matter. It's like when someone tries to tell an individual with anxiety to "Just stop being anxious" or "There's nothing to worry about." Yes, generally people suffering from anxiety know there is nothing to worry about. Does knowing that help? Not in the slightest. In fact, it can make our anxiety increase, because if there's nothing to be anxious about, why are we so anxious?

In our group chat on Facebook, one of the members messaged everyone that x-number of people passed all three sections, while x-number of people only passed two sections. I was at work all day that day, so I was distracted with my students, which was good.

After work, I went to go get gas and while the tank was filling up, I was text messaging someone else from our cohort—Emma is what I will call her. We were talking about how we needed the results and that Dr. Sol was a jerk for leaving us hanging like that. That is when I first started breaking down. I remember crying in my car, feeling as though the world around me was coming crashing down and just crying. I had an hour drive until I got home, so I had to manage my tears as best as possible, but I remember crying even before the results came out.

A few hours after I got home I received an email, stating that I had only passed two of the three sections. I was devastated. I didn't know what went wrong. Academics were my life (in more than just being a student, since I am also a tutor). If I didn't have brains, to me, I didn't have anything. It's what I've always excelled at, even though I have never felt as though I have excelled at it. Yes, some may believe this to be an incredibly petty reason to get pushed over the edge, but when you attended an extremely competitive college-prep high school, were regarded as one of the go-to people in undergrad for academia, worked as a tutor for several companies, always been assumed to be smart (one of the assumptions I have a love-hate relationship with), have always felt as though worth is determined based on grades (even by parents), and have constantly lived with the knowledge that you're never going to be as smart as your older sister regardless of how hard you try, not passing a section on a comprehensive exam can definitely seem a logical push over the edge.

I was already drinking, so one negative coping mechanism was being used already. It wasn't enough. I went to my room and pulled out my blade. I needed it in my hand. I went back out to the living and sat with it in my hand, listening to the television but focusing on the silver glint. I steadily pushed the blade into my skin, unsure of if I actually wanted to go through with it. I had gone three and half years since my last cut, so questioning if I wanted to break that streak was circling through my mind. Eventually I broke the streak, but I won't get into the details of that event because it can be incredibly triggering.

Throughout this time I continually texted a few of the other people in my cohort—one of whom I thought I was close with, and one of whom I simply trusted. I asked how they answered, and both of their answers were incredibly similar to what I had said. I knew I was smart, even if I didn't feel it. I knew I attributed a great deal of my self-worth to how I perform academically, and I knew that I accurately answered the questions. I also knew that I was not okay. Not mentally. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not in any way.

I couldn't stop crying. I tried to go two minutes without crying, and it wasn't possible. I continued to drink, and after I talked with someone on the crisis text line (HOME to 741741), I knew the only way I would escape my tears would be by falling asleep. My mind couldn't stop racing, even though I was unable to focus on anything. I went to take a prescribed anti-anxiety medication since it has always helped me get to sleep. Yes, I knew the medication was not meant to be used with alcohol in any form and that it could potentially turn lethal. Did I care? No. I just wanted to stop crying and stop feeling the numbness that was running throughout my entire body.

In the morning I woke up and remember my first thought being, 'Well, guess I'm still here.' I laid in bed, not able to move. My body was exhausted; my mind was exhausted; I was exhausted. It wasn't just because of the crying, it was because I knew what the day had in store for me: pain, crying, and numbness. I wanted to go back to sleep—the one place I can most often escape the tortures of my mind.

I worked a double that coming weekend, for both Saturday and Sunday. I was happy for the distraction. One of my coworkers said that she could do a task, to which I responded "I don't mind." Yes, it could have partially been my Midwestern-ness coming out, but deep down I really did not mind. I needed distractions. I needed anything to take my mind off of what had happened. When I wasn't occupied by some task at work, I was in the bathroom, crying. Since (at that time) my job had a lot of downtime, I found myself in the bathroom a lot that weekend. No one seemed to notice how upset I was. Why? Because I've been practicing hiding it for years. I do not often show emotion. One of my past psychiatrists said that she didn't understand me because I have no effect (among other things). Since I didn't trust that psychiatrist and she made me feel even worse about myself after seeing her for basically every visit (I stopped seeing her after a few visits because I couldn't handle the emotional stress on top of work and school), I did not open up that my lack of affect, or visible emotion, is most likely a defense mechanism.

That night I got home and continued to cry. I couldn't stop crying, and so I reached out to the two people I texted the night before. My mentality had collapsed, so I sent a potentially-seen drastic message. I'd rather face months of intensive chemotherapy again than be told I failed comps.

Yes, that may seem drastic and as though it was an overreaction. After all, I was able to retake the section I didn't pass. Did I care? No. Why? I have allowed myself to be defined by academics. I have never allowed myself to be defined by cancer. No, that's not because I've never had it. I have had it, several years ago. I just graduated high school and was diagnosed with stage 2 cancer. Yes, those following months sucked. Yes, it was a horrible time. But you know what? It's still more acceptable to face a physical-based illness than a mental illness. Both can result in death, so why is it more acceptable to have one over the other? I didn't say I'd rather go through chemo again to get some sort of sympathy response. I said it because it was the truth. I didn't care if I died. I mean, I had woken up that morning with my first thought being 'Guess I'm still here.'

One of the two people I texted responded by saying she was worried about my mental health and wanted me to talk to somebody. The other person (Oliver) yelled at me. He couldn't comprehend how I would want to face such a debilitating disorder over not passing a test. Yes, he also had some family members that were currently undergoing chemo and hated the pain they were in, so I understand how I pinched a nerve. But you know what? Just because I'm not losing my hair this time or going to the hospital on a weekly basis doesn't mean I'm not in excruciating pain. Each day hurt, but this type of pain was one I had to hide. It wasn't okay to "throw life away," even though this was a time in which I didn't feel as though I was living anyways. I was just taking up space, crying, using resources others could be using and surviving on, being a burden on others (which was definitely driven into my psyche by Oliver yelling at me), not feeling as though I was helping anybody around me—not my students nor my residents, and overall just not adding anything to the world.

I haven't talked to him since the end of that semester, even though there have been plenty of times in which I've wanted to do so. I've accepted that, and I've accepted that he was never a true friend. Yeah, it hurts, but that's a part of life. I just don't really think I needed that added pain at that particular time in my life, especially from someone that I thought was my closest friend in my cohort. Needless to say, I went to bed crying again that night.

The rest of the weekend was much of the same thing. Wake up, cry, go to work, cry, try to avoid my thoughts, cry, come home, cry, self-harm, cry, go to bed crying.

The next week wasn't much better. I had class on Monday, where I tried to go to Dr. Sol to get answers, but he didn't help me at all. At the start of class, Dr. Sol and another professor went through the answers to try and give those that didn't pass some insight into where they may have gone wrong. Did that help me? No. Everything that was said in that review session was something I wrote in my answers. After the session, someone said, "Well at least I know what I did wrong." I quickly responded, attempting to hold back tears, that I still didn't know where I messed up. I was incredibly annoyed and upset, which I'm sure clearly came across in my voice. No one responded, which was fine. I wouldn't have accepted anyone's words anyway. It did, however, still make me feel incredibly alone.

When class was done I went to my car and began crying again. I just wanted to get home, which I knew was going to be difficult because of my inability to stop crying. I made it home, though, where I continued my routine of self-loathing, disgrace, and negative coping mechanisms. Looking back it's kind of funny; all of the signs were clearly there for someone that was clearly struggling and mentally not okay, but no one came to my aid.

I was sort of happy that I worked so much at that time, as it kept my mind distracted. Then the only challenging part was when I was on my own, which was basically whenever I didn't have a student.

The feelings of emptiness, intense loneliness, and helplessness continued every day. Each day I kept debating whether or not admit myself to a hospital to go on suicide watch. I wasn't sure what I wanted, and it didn't help that many of my options were limited due to my health insurance not working at many locations where I lived, since it was through my mom's employer which was in another state. I researched psychiatric wards near me; none of them accepted my insurance. The closest hospital that took my insurance was an hour away. The debate in my head for what I wanted to do intensified. I think the only thing that kept me out of admitting myself was not wanting to explain where I was after taking a hiatus from work, not wanting to have to deal with sick days or PTO, and not being sure where I would leave my car. Ultimately I knew that I should have admitted myself, because I wasn't getting better. I was just getting worse, and nothing was helping. In the end, I didn't go, though.

Later that week, after work (which was on campus), I remember sitting in my car, sobbing. I remember sitting at the steering wheel, unable to control the water that flowed from my eyes. I remember shaking and just wanting someone there to help me. Because of that, I reached out to my cohort member that lived semi-close and who I had helped out a lot throughout the program (even though we grew apart during our last semester).

Me: Would you be willing to go to a movie tonight if I pay?

Christi: I would be happy to go this weekend! This week is so hectic for me.

Yeah, but probably not as hectic as my mind right now.

Me: I can't this weekend. Can I at least come over tonight?

Her: [Extra text that is irrelevant] Do you want to talk about it?

Me: Not really. I just need distractions.

Her: I just have to ask...have you started cutting again? Or have any thoughts of hurting yourself?

Me: Some days.

Her: Some days what? Cutting or thoughts of hurting yourself?

Me: Both.

Her: So you started cutting again?

Me: Some days.

Me: Never deep

Me: Hence why I need distractions.

(At the time I sent these messages I could feel myself trying to minimize the situation.)

Her: Understandable. What did you do in previous therapy to stop cutting in the past?

Me: Butterfly project originally. Then whenever relapses happened I just stopped either the next day or soon after

Her: What's the butterfly project?

Her: Oh I just looked it up

Her: Have you tried that?

Me: Wouldn't help this time I'm pretty sure. I just need to talk with Dr. Sol which I'm doing tomorrow and hopefully, that'll help everything

Her: You won't know until you try though. I suggest trying it before it gets worse. Oh well, that's good! Hopefully, he will be able to clear some things up for you.

Me: Well I'm gonna head home so I won't be texting for at least an hour

Her: Okay text me when you get home!

Now, logically if someone tells you that they're suffering and have had thoughts of hurting themselves to a point that's more than self-inflicted injuries, you should probably not leave that person alone. Do I hate the person I had this conversation with? No. Am I still frustrated by her clear lack of caring after I had gone out of my way for her many times? Absolutely. BUT that is not what is being discussed here.

I finally got my meeting with Dr. Sol. I had written and rewritten a letter to both him and the other main professor of my program. I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to have an actual conversation without crying non-stop. The letter explained, to the best of my abilities, my situation and how I just wanted to retake the test at that instant rather than wait until retakes. Now, this professor is not the best at empathy. He kind of just says whatever is on his mind and that generally involves being incredibly blunt.

During the meeting, I could feel myself about to break down at any minute. I've noticed that my voice gets louder when I try to hold back tears, and after a while, I could definitely feel myself talking loudly. At the end of our conversation, I was starting to pull out the letter I wrote to him. However, I stopped mid-pull when he said that it was clear to him I understood the field and that he was going to change my grade to passing.

I was stunned. I didn't expect that from him, and I went in prepared to just try and ask to retake the test as soon as possible. Yes, I was happy, but after months of feeling empty, lonely, and as though not much matters in life, the happiness was only fleeting.

After the meeting I went to the bathroom and then texted Oliver, saying that Dr. Sol passed me. Oliver said congratulations, which was good. Unfortunately, he triggered all my negativity once again. He told me he didn't understand people that weren't able to feel happy for others or be able to congratulate others. He stated that I overreacted and that he just expected me to drink, cry, and complain—not bring up chemotherapy. I asked him how that was any better when he knew that alcoholism ran in my family. He said it wasn't any better, but that that was what he expected from me. It's good to know that he sees a slow death where you destroy all of your organs is better than hoping for a quicker one or wanting to go through intensive medical treatments when your entire world, and almost your entire definition of who you are and your self-worth, are taken from you.

He ended the conversation with a message that has stayed with me for months (since it hasn't been over a year yet).

"The important thing is that now you are feeling better."

Oliver, did you not understand mental illness? Did you not understand depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation? Did you not get into debt from studying the very subject that deals with mental health and in turn, mental illness? Did you not work with individuals who suffer from severe mental illnesses, unless they were malingering, on a daily basis?

I don't think I replied to that text message. I'm not going to check, either, because frankly, I don't want to do that. I was still in a daze. Yes, I had just gotten my grade changed to a passing score, but did the feeling of hopelessness leave? No. Then I began to feel as though I didn't deserve the changed grade; that I should have done more; that somehow I tricked my professor into changing the outcome. The guilt steadily overcame me, but I then surrounded myself with other—positive—coping mechanisms, including exercise and video games. I made it through the rest of that semester, but only barely. My spiral down into terror was long and arduous (starting several months prior to these events), and my plunge into the ultimate darkness was quick. Recovering from that took time, but at least I was able to uncover who my true friends were from that cohort.

After a few weeks, I texted the one person in my cohort who I had sort of confided in (not Oliver and different from Christi), thanking her for being there for me. Her response, while sent with good intentions, did not make me feel better.

Me: Thank you for being one of the only people that actually gives a s*** (no matter how small) about my emotional health.

Emma: Of course. I never want you to be suffering or struggling. I understand how hard it can be when you get stuck in a rough spot and feel like there's no way out. Who's been treating you otherwise?

Me: Certain people. One who I told the same thing and basically just yelled at me for it even though I understand their reason but am still not okay with it. And another person who just kinda has been refusing to help.

Her: I know people are stressed and having a hard time this semester. I think everyone would truly be there for you if you need them, it's just messy and speaking out of stress. Not okay that they're making you feel alone but I still firmly believe that people in our program have each other's backs when the time comes.

Was the time not then? Was my inability to complete daily tasks not enough to need someone to have my back? I was still feeling horrible and still not wanting to go to work, but as long as I got my grade changed everyone assumed I was suddenly okay? Did no one in psychology actually understand psychology?

Anyways, that semester ended and so classes were completed for my Master's Degree. The following semester I got into a better mindset likely because I was acknowledging my limits, only working and finding time to workout on a pretty routine schedule. Ultimately, I don't know what got me through that time. Was it my cat? Well, I had someone who promised to take care of her for me if anything ever happened to me (different conversation, did not revolve around suicide), so my cat wasn't as effective a tool this time. Was it work? Probably, if I'm being perfectly honest. I don't think I wanted to admit to my bosses how bad off I was, even if I desperately just wanted to go to a hospital. It may have also been when my mom called me after I told my sister I was thinking about admitting myself to the hospital. Whatever the reason, I'm here. I survived to tell this tale, and I survived to potentially provide insight as to things that can make people feel as though they have reached the edge and the cliffs around them have crashed into the ocean.

If you, or someone you know, is struggling (or you think someone you know may be struggling), remaining in isolation is not going to help. There are resources out there. Here are a few listed for the United States:

Boys Town: 1-800-448-3000

Nineline: 1-800-999-9999

Child Abuse: 800-4-A-CHILD (800-422-4453)

Child Sexual Abuse: 866-FOR-LIGHT (367-5444)

Family Violence: 800-799-SAFE (7233)

Hearing and Speech Impaired: 1-800-799-4TTY (4889)

Help for Parents: 855-4APARENT (855-427-2736)

Human Trafficking: 888-373-7888

Mental Illness: 800-950-NAMI (6264)

Missing/Abducted Children: 800-I-AM-LOST (426-5678); 800-A-WAY-OUT (292-9688); 800-THE-LOST (846-5678)

National Hope Network: 1-800-SUICIDE (784-2433)

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (8255)

Rape/Incest: 800-656-HOPE (4673)

Substance Abuse: 800-786-6776

Youth in Trouble/Runaways: 800-RUNAWAY (786-2929)