Inside the Mind of a Suicide Survivor

A Blog Series About a Young Girl's Struggle With BPD and Self Harm

The world is full of lies. Whether you tell them, or someone else does, that is the one certain truth.

Part 1

People walk around every day acting like they know what the hell is going on. We put on a mask as soon as we wake up and we go about our days as if nothing is wrong when there are plenty of things wrong. Or we go about our day thinking everything is wrong when there are still plenty of good things happening. We live from one extreme to the next and we are blind to the grey area in between, and in that grey area is the truth, and once you find that truth, you are able to better navigate this toxic and magnetic world because you are no longer watching through rose-colored glasses or through a black veil. How can you live your best life if you can't even see clearly? How can you heal when you cannot see the wounds for what they are and the environment around you for what it is? Radically accepting your reality allows you to enter this grey area. Radically accepting the trauma you and others have endured is the first step into not only recovery, but in developing a more honest society.

I drove that day, but waited until I parked on top of the four-story garage to start drinking. I did not want to drink and drive. My plan, at least in my head, was to just be hurting myself and no one else. I drank a whole water bottle filled with vodka and smoked fourteen cigarettes in a row. I wore a pretty white dress. I thought that if I looked nice, it would be less gruesome. I cried. I texted people letting them know that I loved them. They responded in polite confusion. I prayed. I remember standing on that ledge, the warm August breeze whipping at my face. I chose to fall backwards because I was too afraid of looking at the black concrete as I made my descent towards it. I hit the ground and I heard my bones snap beneath me. I was fully conscious the entire time. The pain was unbearable. People around me screamed. I just wanted it all to stop. The last thing I felt was my dad’s hand, the last thing I heard was someone yelling my name as they rushed me into the ER, then I went under my three week fentanyl trip in the hospital, on a straight drip. I came to and I had a tube stuck down my throat, no spleen, one kidney left, a multitude of fractures, a spinal fusion in my neck, and evidently, pneumonia. But the overwhelming feeling of knowing that my mom in front of me was no dream, and that I was really alive, and that we were both crying real tears of both joy and pain, will never compare to anything else.

I have made terrible mistakes in my life. I have lied, manipulated, and hurt. I have also been abused and hurt and manipulated by others—a vicious cycle, if you will. It made me begin to hate and resent myself. It twisted my vision and perspective, my morals and self worth, and it led me to a very dark place. When I finally came to the conclusion that I needed help, whether that be from a professional or from reaching out to talk to a friend or family member, was the day I finally gave myself another chance. And I've kept pushing forward since. Has it been easy? Absolutely not. Stigma surrounding mental illness, fear, and uncertainty laid waste before me. But this time, I was willing to put up the fight.

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Inside the Mind of a Suicide Survivor
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