Tuesday, July 28, 2015


Three years ago today I seriously contemplated suicide for the second time in my life. I held a bottle of pills in my hands for an hour before I emptied its entire contents into my mouth, but when I brought the glass of water to my mouth I couldn't allow myself to swallow. I spit the pills into my bedside garbage and cried; my second attempt at suicide had failed. There would have been no note for my family or friends to read which would explain why I felt I needed to take my life, because, in my head, I was not worthy of a note. I'd been bullied for a major portion of my life and I was made to feel small and insignificant. In the years that I was belittled, those words became my truth; I was small, insignificant, and the world would be a better place without me.

I remember going in to the kitchen where my dad was watching tv. My stomach was in knots and there was a lump in my throat that would not go away. I looked at my dad and said "I need help." He asked what I meant and I told him that I needed to see a paychiatrist and a therapist. He asked me what was wrong; it took me a little while to think about it and when the answer finally came to me I looked him in the eyes and said "everything." In that moment I released every emotion I'd been bottling up that day and cried hysterically. 

Since my dad works in the behavioral health field he got me an appointment right away. On August 9th I went to my first appointment with a therapist. Three weeks later I saw the psychiatrist who diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, PTSD, and Socialphobia. We decided that intensive therapy and medication were my best bet; I went to group and individual therapy once every week, and saw my psychiatrist every month.

At first it was a bit discouraging because I wanted that instant satisfaction; I wanted my medication to take away the pain and the memories and the nightmares, but it wasn't and isn't that easy. Every single day since three years ago I have battled my own mind and some days I wanted to quit and give in to the voices in my head that were telling me that I'd never get better. I am stronger now. 

I've lost so many people to suicide and addictions; I couldn't allow myself to be another one. The strongest thing I ever did was ask for help. Admitting you need help is not admitting weakness. Admitting you need help is admitting that you just need a hand to help guide you along this long dark tunnel you've been lost in. 

It will be three years in December since the last time I purposely harmed myself. Three years later I still go to therapy each week and take the medication that keeps me level. Life is still terrifying and I'm not healed, but today I am alive and that's all that matters. Some of my happiest days were lived in these past three years; days that I never would have known if I'd swallowed those pills. I don't know what it was that kept me from doing it, but I'm so happy I didn't.

Life gets better if you allow it to.

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