2013 & Not Dying
A personal essay
This personal essay contains mentions of suicide and alcohol that may be difficult for somebody to read if they’ve struggled.
Catalysts
Nine years ago, when I was 21 years old, my life felt worthless. My fiancé had broken things off over a plate of spaghetti dinner I’d made and I still recall the grainy 2013 instagram post that showed the pasta and white wine with a caption about gratitude just minutes before he came home.
I crumbled completely.
I moved back home to Ohio within the week to my mother's arms, so ready to try and fix everything, and selfishly left my belongings in the Seattle apartment to be picked up by a friend and by family.
I spent a week in my childhood bedroom (completely redesigned with a futon) rereading every book from Harry Potter and then proceeded to write a list on how to fix my life.
It included short term goals and long term goals like getting enough money saved to buy a ticket back to Seattle. I found particular pride in scoring a job in retail within the month and one month after hiring I was promoted to assistant manager.
I grew up in what they call “The Rust Belt” of the United States, which surrounds the Great Lakes on a map, but what I closely associated with “working hard and playing hard” until you retire or die from liver damage or heart disease.
This Midwest way of living was the theology I turned to when I came back to the small town I grew up in and I threw back my own brand of communion after every work day with self-assurance and relief.
October brought an onset of colder weather, frequent peppermint mochas, and me hiding behind the facade that being busy meant I was moving forward with my life. The reality was I was constantly self-medicating: caffeine would get me out of bed and drinking would put me back to sleep.
I chopped off my hair like most women do after terrible breakups but that act of “freedom” was more a maintenance decision; I had no energy to wash or style my hair most days.
Psychosis
By the end of October things were catching up with me in a bigger way. My desire to eat food was gone. My ability to get out of bed was diminished. It felt like the shadows inside my core where pinning me to the bed.
Things started to feel like a dream. I don’t mean this is in a positive or cliche way. My eyesight was blurred, my head was a fog, and my voice got quieter. Faking it for social interaction at work, with family, or at the bar was becoming a monumental effort.
The night before I tried to die I was standing next to the refrigerator.
Our kitchen was more like an L shaped hallway and I was in the doorway at the short end of it. I recall looking at the large desk calendar on the side of the refrigerator while my dad made dinner.
“Can you pinch me? I feel like I’m dreaming.”
My mom pinched my left arm and said “well you’re definitely not.”
I sent myself to bed, where I contemplated the types of pain or sleeping meds I’d find in my mothers bedside drawer. I decided tomorrow I’d look and fall asleep forever.
Red lights
I don’t recall most of the next morning but I remember suddenly finding myself driving myself to work. It felt shocking that I had been in bed and found my body in the seat while I drove on the highway. I had no recollection of getting there.
I looked at the metal side barriers of the highway and wondered if I’d die quick enough if I drove into the ditch below. I immediately felt guilty for causing my mothers vehicle damage.
I ran through two red lights without flinching. There wasn’t a thought to the action and consequences; my reflects we’re slow.
I found myself in the same Starbucks I always went to and realized in line that I couldn’t read the menu. I closed my eyes a second and tried again. Blurry.
I unlocked the car and locked myself inside. I looked out into the street and called my mother. She was already 30 minutes away in Cleveland headed to work.
The words came out slow like I had a mouth full of goo: I want to die.
Or maybe I said I needed to go to the emergency room, which is where she brought me shortly after the call.
Breaking down
I could write more but that’s for later…so why talk about this? Why not continue on and talk about the hospital ward or the therapy or how God reached into me told me enough lying about my depression?
The exhaustion still haunts me.
Some years hurt worse than others and often I have no idea why they do or don’t affect me.
In the next coming weeks I’m stepping back from my weekly writing. I’ve had a handful of friends and writers contact me to write about the hard topics. It is my belief that suffering can make for transformative healing.
In the following weeks you’ll hear from writers who get vulnerable and talk about topics related to mental health and motherhood. Please subscribe to stay informed on these releases.
At some point I’ll check back in but I’m taking it easy. I checked into the psych ward the day before Halloween 2013 and it was a nightmare indeed. But now I know the scarier thing was my loss of hope.
There is hope here now. There is community and compassion in our hardships when we share them. This is a safe space. Thank you for letting me be vulnerable.