I’ve lived a lifetime in half a year
REMINDER: http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
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“To me — just letting someone else glimpse my complicated, fucked up psyche — was the ultimate turning point in going on the mend.”
I wrote those words on this site on May 3. I bit the bullet, took a deep breath, and published an incredibly heartfelt piece about my mental health.
I felt a lot of things in the wake of sharing my essay on Facebook. I felt relief for not having to hide something that affected me for so long. I felt nervous about sharing something so personal with friends, acquaintances and strangers. I felt useful to the dozens of people who reached out with encouraging words and to those who told me how my words resonated with them and their own experiences.
I felt like I had made a big step. The worst was behind me … right?
Fast forward 10 days. Friday, May 13, 2016.
I was weirdly calm as I penned a quick note and answered a text. When I closed my eyes and waited for the pills to kick in and consume me.
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Search the hashtag #WorldMentalHealthDay on Twitter. Read through the messages of love and support and encouragement that inundate social media today. Absorb them, really think them through. Let them take on a personal meaning for you.
Maybe they seem hollow, like some messages and cliches still do to me. Maybe, like me, they even make you slightly angry. Why is everyone expressing this support today? Don’t they know that some of us need these words more than one day a year, that we’re battered down daily with our thoughts that tell us we’re not good enough, we’re not deserving, we’re not wanted?
But maybe days like this help to keep the conversation going about how normal mental illness is, in a society where more often those that speak loudly and offend the masses grab the limelight and make headlines for no good reason. Mental illness should be treated as widespread as the common cold, but it shouldn’t be seen as such — a contagious ailment cured with chicken soup and a day off.
It’s been almost five months since my attempt at taking my own life. Each day I look at it and struggle not to be overcome by shame, not to view myself as a weak girl who looked for a cop out.
But what good am I doing by chastising myself for the past? For blaming myself for a chemical imbalance? For punishing myself for fighting so hard every day?
The (almost) 21 years I’ve lived thus far means 7,664 days where I’ve won against my inner demons. A 99.9 percent success rate isn’t too shabby at all.
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I tell my story to tell you — as much as to myself — that I’m not a failure, nor am I a lesser than. I still get nervous and shaky every time I talk about the personal meaning in the semi-colon tattoo behind my ear, or when I talk about the reasons why I’ve taken two quarters off of school and will be around for a fifth year.
But you’d be surprised in the goodness in others. When I have the balls to talk about it in passing and the person replies like I just told them what I ate for breakfast, I feel relief. I feel stronger. And when I get the courage to tell a friend about how the shadows are creeping in today, they don’t leave.
So:
Hi, I’m Paige. I’m a survivor. Depression and anxiety is not what I’m defined by, but just something I’m living with. I start my morning with a bowl of Cheerios and a cocktail of antidepressants, and I probably have 12 times more doctors in my contact list than you do.
I’m not okay, but I will be.
Let’s talk.
❤
REMINDER: http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/
