I first thought seriously about taking my own life at 15 years old. My mom was a single mom, and my alcoholic dad wasn’t around. I had one older brother who had issues; we were not close. I was a huge introvert. The girl that took a book with her everywhere so she didn’t have to interact with the world. What caused this intense feeling of wanting to disappear completely and forever at this young age? Was it the “druggie” girls in high school who constantly bullied me, who would call my house every morning at 2 AM to threaten me and my family?
I went to my locker one afternoon to change out for PE. PE—an embarrassing high school class where you wear incredibly unflattering clothes and try to not look like a total loser playing a sport that you really don’t want to play in the first place. Anyway, I noticed there were red words on my locker door. As I got closer to the locker, “bitch” was written everywhere. I was horrified. I opened my locker, and someone apparently thought it funny that they squirt mustard all over the inside. I didn’t tell my mom but I’m sure she could tell something awful was happening. I stopped talking to my mom and brother.
I didn’t have friends. I felt very alone. I didn’t go through with the suicide attempt but seriously thought about it and kept thinking about it. That was not the last time I seriously thought about it. Somehow, I kept going and decided that if I just shut down emotionally I would be fine. So, that’s what I did. I was an introvert so shutting down completely was not really that difficult. I didn’t get help but I should have. I just didn’t know who to talk to. I didn’t want people to think I was weak or crazy, inadequate.
At 25 years of age, ten years after my first thoughts of suicide, my mom ended up in a psychiatric hospital. She had something called “dissociative disorder.” The doctor’s said, “Her mind split into different identities, different personalities because of childhood trauma.” I found out that my family was not so perfect—my mom had been molested as a child. I fell apart. I was working full time as a real estate manager and one morning I could not get out of bed or get dressed or take a shower. I didn’t want to, really. It seemed much easier to just lay in bed. I was angry, confused, sad, and hopeless. I went to a psychiatrist. I don’t know how I knew that that was what I was supposed to do, but it is what I did. I left my job. I got on anti-depressant medication and tried to get better. In about 4–6 weeks I started feeling better. Whoo hoo!
I am 53 years old as I write this. I am still here. I am happy most days and healthy. It has taken me a long time, but I have figured out what works for me—don’t let other people’s baggage weigh you down—don’t take it on in the first place, remember you are a good person and the world needs good people. I eat a lot of vegetables, try to stay away from too much sugar, exercise regularly. I take CBD oil which helps anxiety TREMENDOUSLY for me.
I know this article is a bit of a drag. I did not write it to make anyone sad or sadder. My point in writing it is to let you know that there is hope! DO NOT GIVE UP! Talk to someone(s), surround yourself with people and things that make you happy. You deserve to be happy! Breathe. Get help. Just my two cents. Thanks for reading.