You Told Me To Sleep

Shaundra Lyanne
Jul 22, 2017 · 5 min read

Hello. It’s here again. Your timelines, walls, threads; your everything is being flooded with it. The messages, the promises, the invitations. Let’s talk about suicide and depression while the current window is open. This is a cycle, a facade. The open arms, warm words and pleas to call hotlines will cease to exist in a few days until the next famous face succumbs to the sickness that wrecks so many daily.

I understand the mayhem that ensues after tragedies like these strike and spark the conversation again. I understand how you want to open up and tell everyone you care about how you are there for them. It is so much more than a few words strung up on a social media post. It is so much more than sharing that number. It is so much more than just some calculated words or phrases. When you open yourself like this, you need to be prepared. This isn’t for the weak. It can be toxic to you if you’re not strong enough. Please don’t feel obligated to send these invitations to talk or help someone if you can’t. You are going to battle someone who is essentially fighting themselves.

I’m 28 years old. My depression comes in waves. I don’t talk about it. I’ve been conditioned to not talk about it. When I was a kid my anxiety was written off as a bad personality trait. I was just a rude shy kid. I was 19 when my boyfriend of 3yrs made the decision to move us back to my hometown because he was afraid I was depressed. I was 23 when my ex-husband accused me of faking my depression because I was trying to keep this front of having a dark persona. My depression has personally offended people because I couldn’t stop it. I have been accused of not loving people because my depression wouldn’t just cease to exist for them, as if they weren’t good enough. My depression isn’t the product of everything bad that has happened to me. I am not a victim. My depression is the product of me simply existing.

On a good day I can sense the wave coming. It’s simple. “You’re going to be upset. Everything is fine, you’re going to be okay. It’s going to pass”. I can tolerate this. Breathe. Eat. Distract. But when she consumes me, she consumes every aspect of my life. I start disassociating. I become completely disgusted by everything and everyone. My thoughts distract me to the point where I have to audibly tell myself to stop; to stop thinking about what I said or did last week, or 5 years ago. I have to force myself to eat even when I know my body will want to reject anything I consume. I become erratic. My alcohol tolerance completely plummets. At this point my reality starts blending with my dreams, my nightmares and situations I completely made up. I am simply a vessel. This is where you stop. This is where people leave. This is when people get scared.

I remember that night, and how my eyes were burning. The skin on my eyelids was so taut and smooth, I only had a sliver of visibility. I remember how the song I had on repeat was cliche and how it had been playing for so long that the lyrics were muffled. I remember how loud the clicking of the letters sounded as my fingers gracefully typed these words to you. I told you how I wanted to bash my head into the pavement I was laying on. I remember how effortless it was to say it because I thought the sound my head made when I simply laid it down was so loud and beautiful. You told me to sleep. I wanted to die, and everyone told me to sleep. I slept. I slept until the dew started blanketing my exposed skin. It must have been November. My clumsy limbs found their way home to my bed. I laid in bed for almost two days. I fought the sunlight. I was lucid, in and out of sleep for what seemed an eternity. It was Sunday evening when I finally fought my way into a functioning state. My body was drenched in cold sweat. I remember sitting in the tub with scolding hot water pouring over me. My fingers were trying to comb through my tangled matted hair. They ran themselves over my sore body, prodding at the fresh bruises and bumps riddling my skin. There were flashes of memories breaking through. There were scenes of every movie romanticizing suicides in porcelain tubs, girls adorned in white dresses stained by diluted blood. I heard the voice from my past scolding me, telling me how he was afraid he was going to come home to find me lifeless in this glorified tub. I remember giving my knives away for safe keeping years ago because I was so afraid. You told me to go to sleep.

I’m not here to garner your sympathy. I wouldn’t trust your invitation to talk if you were screaming it to my face. I am 28 years old, I have been subdued and dismissed for countless years. This battle is my own. I’m not okay, but I’m better. I’m stronger. What I want is for my story to resonate something in you. It takes so much to be an advocate for mental health. It’s grueling and a fight in itself. Please, before you open yourself up, understand that it’s not going to be easy. You told me to go to sleep, I had to wake myself up again.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry. — Ernest Hemingway

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