Infinity

Depression, what is it? It’s a ten-letter word that most people don’t take too seriously, a word that seems to have lost meaning, but a disease that so many people seem to be suffering from nowadays. Nobody seems to know how it originated but depression isn’t something easy. I should know. Depression makes you feel the lowest and causes you to reach rock-bottom. It’s not something that can be fought with a prescription and most definitely not a trend; people don’t make up depression for attention, it is real. Everything seems to be your fault and nothing you do seems right, or so to you it seems. The only way it can be solved is by taking your own life, or so you think.

Depression at some point describes you and how you are, if you let it happen. It isn’t the most beautiful thing in the world but it isn’t the most unimportant. People who are depressed are described as anti-social or overly sensitive, which I can surely assure each and every one of you that think this, is not the case. A lot of the time you can’t distinguish a depressed person because they mask it well. But they are somewhere out there and all most people do is ridicule them and add fire to the flame. If you think you’re helping these people you are beyond wrong. You’re only increasing their depression.

All it took for me was a week… a week in a psychiatric hospital to realize how low I had gotten. Overdosing can do that to you. A week with a bunch of other adolescents, as myself, to realize how sad I’d become, which believe me is sad. The sadness at watching your dad coming every day from work to see you during visiting hours with a plate of food ready for you. Your friends writing on your Facebook wall to see if you’re alive. The moment that for once in your life, you’re loved and not crazy.

To many people, the infinity sign is just a sign. To me, the infinity sign is my salvation. The infinity sign helped me in one of the darkest moments of my life. To me, it represents the message of never letting go and never giving up. It portrays the need to keep your head up and move on, even when people are still kicking their heels and trying to bring you down.

On October 27, 2011, I was hospitalized at North Shore Hospital in NY, the cause being that I had overdosed due to a suicide attempt and had been recently diagnosed with chronic depression. I had always assumed that the only person affected by all my decisions in attempting to end my life would be me. But the truth was, although I didn’t realize it because of my state of mind, it not only affected me but my close friends and immediate family.

The night before was my father’s birthday and we had gotten into a huge fight. On top of that, I had already fought with other friends and I hated going to school because of stupid reasons. I had lost a best friend and was having problems at home at the time, which was just a stupid mess honestly. My problem has always been that I act on impulses once something happens to me and I can never just stop and think about it; I just act, which is not always in the best way.

I grabbed a handful of pills and swallowed them down. I had already made up my mind. Before falling asleep, the last thing I remembered thinking was, “I want to die. If I were dead, there wouldn’t be any problems and I wouldn’t be so depressed.” Next thing I know is that I wake up for school completely disappointed that nothing happened to me.

Stomachache and lack of concentration is what I underwent all day. The dizziness and fatigue came much later in the day. By the time school ended, I was headed to my therapy session down the hill from my school. I had already made up my mind to do it again once therapy was over. I just had to go home and keep hurting myself. I didn’t care if I tried again and was unsuccessful again because I’d keep trying. The thought of having a slow painful death was the way I wanted to end my life; it was the masochist in me. I figured that over time, I’d cause myself internal bleeding or something to mess up my insides and that would ultimately cause my death.

When I got to therapy, the first thing I said to my therapist was, “Have you spoken to my father?” She gave me a confused look and shook her head no, wondering what I was talking about. Normally when my dad and I argued, he’d call my therapist to inform her of our fight and would tell her to talk to me about it. Then out of nowhere, I started crying.

“I don’t want to live anymore. I want to be dead. Nobody cares and they won’t care. My stomach is hurting me and last night I overdosed on pills!” She called 911 and my dad to let him know that I was being taken into the emergency room.

The ambulance came and I was taken to LIJ North Shore Hospital. There was someone in the back with me, trying to ask me questions, but I was zoning them out. We finally arrived at the hospital and I was taken into the emergency room where I was told to strip and change into hospital scrubs. Doctors came in and prodded about.

I remember falling asleep for like two hours after a few rounds of questions. I awoke when the sound of my door slammed shut and a short man walked in saying, “I’m here to ask you a couple of questions.” At that point, with the number of questions I had gotten, I wasn’t in the mood for more questions. I suppressed the urge to groan in frustration and simply nodded my head and waited for him to continue. The questions came back and forth, but one that I will always remember was when he finished questioning me and said, “I’ve badgered you with a million questions. Do you have any questions to ask me?”

To be honest, it came as a surprise because up until that point I had been profusely interrogated and it wasn’t something that I had been expecting. The fact that somebody I didn’t even know was asking me if I had any questions for them was shocking. I thought for a while and decided on, “Do you honestly care about helping the clinically depressed and suicidal people of the world or is it just another job to you?” To which he replied, “Not too long ago, I was in your shoes and was able to get help so it’s not just a job to me.” I couldn’t decide if I believed him or not so I just let it go. Anyways, it wasn’t as though I ever saw him again after that.

My dad and stepmom were then allowed to enter my room to which I refused to see them so they ended up waiting outside of my room. The next time I saw them was when I was being transported to the Adolescent Pavilion and they were signing papers to have me hospitalized, observed, and they agreed to the terms that if the hospital deemed it necessary for me to take medication, they’d be okay with it.

That same night, once they had left, I was kept on suicide watch. I couldn’t have strings, sharp objects, shoelaces, etc. I was kept in a room with another girl, who was already asleep, and a nurse was seated outside my room observing me. The whole night made me feel like a criminal as if I had done something wrong and nobody could trust me.

The shock of my life came the next morning when the staff made morning calls at seven o’clock. I had assumed that they’d keep us in our rooms until visiting hours came. They woke us up, made us get showered and dressed, and afterwards we were sent into the recreation room to get vials and breakfast. When breakfast had finished, I didn’t know what to expect but school was the last thing on my mind.

The day was boring when school began and finished (yes, we did have to take classes), and we then had group meetings. That’s when therapists, social workers, some staff, and patients gathered around the recreation room and shared something. Most people shared their stories or thoughts or whatever, but I didn’t feel like sharing. I sat in the back refusing to be acknowledged. I felt like a crazy person being hospitalized in a psych ward. I sat there trying to convince myself that I wasn’t crazy. I felt like I was being locked up with a bunch of crazies, which was very stereotypical of me. Don’t get me wrong, there were a couple of severely sick people, but not everyone was like that.

The truth is that not a lot were mentally insane; they just had their own issues they had to work on and deal with. You meet all sorts of people, people with depression, eating disorders, cutting obsessions, bipolar disorder, and so many things unimaginable. The common link was depression, that one enormous thing most consider to be the most minimal. Depression was the deadliest thing in us. To be honest, it took me some time to come to terms with what I had done and realize that while I was not crazy, what I had done was.

My entire experience out of being in this pavilion was not what I expected it to be. It was quite different from what I could have ever thought of. I not only realized that there were people going through most of the same things as I was as well; but we’re all alike than we are different. The main thing is that we don’t really recognize how alike we are until it hits us right in the face. The way that the other patients described their anger, frustration, and sadness mirrored my own thoughts and feelings. The memorable moment of those group meetings was identifying and meeting people who were practically my own reflection. Those who didn’t know who they were, who they expected to be, or what they wanted for themselves or their lives. It was honestly a grand life-changing experience for me.

I’ve met a lot of people that I connected with and continue to keep in contact with. They’re the people that I know will understand my random outbursts and moments of despair. Maybe not entirely understand my reasoning as to why I’m upset but understand the feelings that I have. The experience has made us a unit—where we can rely on and hold onto each other for support.

Webster's dictionary describes depression as “a psychoneurotic or psychotic disorder marked especially by sadness, inactivity, difficulty in thinking and concentration, a significant increase or decrease in appetite and time spent sleeping, feelings of dejection and hopelessness, and sometimes suicidal tendencies.” For the most part, I agree with it, but just to an extent. The definition and symptoms of depression varies from person to person. What I have gone through and have felt is completely different from what another person is experiencing and has experienced. What I came to realize is that there are a bunch of people who go off and do far worse stuff than I did, and for what? People who don’t and have probably never mattered or will never matter—they succeed in killing themselves and fail at living their lives and finding happiness. I shouldn’t be one to judge, because I was at this point once too, but nobody or nothing should take life away from you. There are and there should be reasons to make you want to live and want to be happy; you just must find them.

For those of you who are reading this and are shocked, well this is my story. This is the side of me that most people don’t know. I was once a very suicidal and extremely depressed person. I let more than one person define me and who I wanted to be. That should have never been the case but unfortunately that is what happened. I don’t regret a single decision I made. I am one of the lucky ones who survived. This very moment I could pretty much be in a coffin, buried under the ground. But… I’m not. I’m alive and doing a lot better. A week in that hospital with amazing people didn’t necessarily make me better but it sure was an eye-opener. That experience has made me a well-rounded person and I’ve finally come to the conclusions to all the questions I had when I was 16.

Not only is this my way to try to help people who are going through what I’ve gone through but this is my way of showing that if I can overcome an extremely difficult part of my life, anyone can. I always think back to that session that I had with my therapist almost 5 years ago and wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t opened my mouth, if I hadn’t told her the awful thing that I had done. To this day, I thank whatever it was that compelled me to say something, because had I not I would’ve gone back home and done it again and again until… well, you know. Years later, when I finally came to terms with everything, yes it does take time, I realized that was my cry for help. I’m glad that I got the help I needed because had I not, I wouldn’t had experienced a lot of things. I wouldn’t have met the annoying yet cute mess that is my sister, Mia.

On November 4, 2011; I was discharged. A couple of hours before, a nurse signing off my discharge papers had an infinity symbol tattooed on her wrist. I asked her what the symbol meant to her and she replied, “It represents faith to me. It’s limitless and happiness.” To me, infinity is a never-ending quality that gives me hope in helping others going through the same issues as I have.