Warning: This piece discusses suicidal ideation and mental illness
It’s been 375 days since I hit rock bottom. On April 9th, 2018, I considered suicide for the second time in my life. For reference, I wrote a precursor to this piece, Stop Lying to Yourself, which overviews my history with suicidal ideation. My goal in writing this is not to say that I’m totally out of the woods. I know that I’ll have to deal with mental illness for the rest of my life. It’s going to be an uphill battle that requires consistent effort. But instead of living in constant fear of my own mind, I’ve chosen to accept what I can never change—that my flaws are a part of the climb.
In the early afternoon of April 9th, I saw a counselor on my college campus for the first time, as friends and family of mine were growing concerned about my mental health. Though I didn’t make anyone fully aware of how deep my downward spiral was, I promised that I’d try to get help. After talking through the sheer terror and hopelessness that my suicidal ideation was causing, the counselor determined that I was a danger to myself. She escorted me to a local emergency room.
In the first paragraph of Stop Lying to Yourself I said, “There is nothing I hate more than letting down the people I love.” This was and still is true, but my definition of “letting people down” has changed. I’ve come to understand that in order to tackle mental illness effectively, I must put myself first. The only way I could ever truly let my loved ones down is by losing the newfound respect I have for myself. As the saying goes, self-love isn’t selfish.
After being poked and prodded by nurses, doctors, and crisis workers for nearly seven hours, I was transferred to an inpatient psychiatric hospital in Philadelphia. Feeling like a 19-year-old lab rat, I was trapped within the same confines and under constant surveillance for five agonizing days. Quickly stripped of technology, clothing with drawstrings or laces, and even the ability to use forks, I was no longer a daughter, a sister, a friend, or a student. To the hospital staff, I was nothing more than a flight risk. To myself? I was an empty void, a woman I couldn’t recognize no matter how hard I tried. Utterly exhausted, I slept for 16 hours straight before reawakening in hell.
I’ve been restless for as long as I can remember. Whether I was refusing naps as a toddler or sneaking under the covers with a book and a flashlight in elementary school, it’s clear that sleep was never a priority of mine. As terrible as my hospitalization was, it taught me how to slow down. After devoting years of my life to running around like Usain Bolt on a hamster wheel—to classes, swim practices, multiple jobs, musical rehearsals, and club meetings, all while trying to remain sane, it’s no wonder that I passed out as soon as my head hit the run-down pillow I was given. Upon returning to school, I learned how to manage my time more wisely. I began resting whenever my body needed it and stopped staying up all night to complete course assignments. Not being so burnt out led to an increase in the hours of sleep I was getting per night, less unnecessary stress, and higher rates of productivity. These skills have become a part of my daily routine and have worked wonders for my mental health.
It was during my second night at the hospital, while staring at the barren, white walls within, that my intrusive thoughts changed their tune. I came to realize that if I didn’t or seemingly couldn’t fight for my own sake, I had to for my parents. For my brother and sister. For my friends and teammates who gave a shit. I was far from the pathetic person I had made myself out to be. My heart was capable of dominating my warped mind, I just had to prove it to my toughest critic…myself.
When Stop Lying to Yourself was published, I’d only been out of the hospital for two weeks. In order to cope, I numbed myself, acted as if my stint in the psychiatric ward was a farce. If people asked questions? I’d tell them that there had been an emergency in my family. I wasn’t ready to face my trauma yet, so I repressed it. No surprise here, but this was not healthy. Having no idea where life was headed, I pushed through the end of spring semester and returned home.
This past summer was transformative for me in more ways than one. I got in a car accident, and though no one was seriously injured, I was reminded of how fragile a human life is. My car was destroyed, but I wasn’t. My heart pulsed at 1,000,000 beats per minute, but it remained safe in my chest. This experience gave me the strength to remove toxic people from my life, because, in all honesty, they didn’t deserve to be a part of it. I hold no resentment towards these individuals, that would be a waste of time. Rather, I’ve accepted the fact that they only came into my life to show me what I didn’t need. Through reconnecting with some old friends, one of whom has since become my significant other, I’ve experienced love, support, and kindness like I’ve never known. But the most important part of those 3 months? I learned to love the woman I am, flaws and all, by taking care of myself.
I’ve learned more about myself in the past year than ever before, but life hasn’t become a walk in the park. As I said earlier, it’s been an uphill battle. My mental health ebbs and flows and it will never be perfect. I still have my fair share of sleepless nights, anxiety attacks, and depressive episodes that leave me bedridden. But, ultimately, I’m beyond proud of myself for the progress I’ve made and will continue to make. I’m continually thankful for my amazing support system.
The best part about hitting rock bottom? To escape it, you can only climb up.
