Opening the Door: The First Step in my Recovery from Suicidal Depression and Anxiety
Hi again and welcome to Part Three in my series of essays for Mental Health Awareness Month. Parts One and Two can be found here: https://medium.com/@vergemanyen/back-from-the-verge-f897b71c3d52
https://medium.com/@vergemanyen/lets-end-the-stigma-around-depression-cbb0c63617f1
Today I would like to talk about taking the first step in my recovery from suicidal depression and anxiety.
On January 13th, 2012, I was driven from my doctor’s office to the emergency room in the back of a police car. I had visited my doctor because I thought that I might be suffering from depression. I had had a series of unfortunate events all happen in a very short period of time and, along with some ongoing issues, they had taken a big toll on me psychologically.
I had been working a contract position, really busting my ass in the hopes of being signed on as a permanent employee, and found out in early December that my last day would be December 30th. I had not been able to find a new job, and was working in an empty building during the holidays to finish up the projects I had been working on.
On Christmas Day, I called my father to say Merry Christmas and discovered that his phone had been disconnected. Upon calling my uncle’s house to inquire about the situation, I found out that, not only had my father lost his home and gone missing due to severe mental health issues, my uncle had passed away suddenly and no-one had known how to contact me.
To top it all off, my partner of twenty-odd years, the mother of my only child, had been on a drinking binge and was abusing me both verbally and physically on a nightly basis. She was also homeschooling my son, and pulled him into all of our arguments, fully expecting him to take her side, which he had no choice but to do.
I was spending hours sobbing uncontrollably in the middle of the night, every night, in my accustomed spot on the sofa, where I now slept.
I felt ashamed and humiliated every time I interacted with neighbors, knowing that they had undoubtedly heard my extremely loud sobs. They never asked me if I was ok; they simply turned a bit red and said hello in passing when they saw me.
Finally, after much urging from my partner, I swallowed my pride and made an appointment to see my family doctor. I was hoping that something could be done about how depressed and anxious I felt.
I showed up to the appointment looking like death warmed over, with huge black bags under my eyes. Even the slightest bit of emotion would bring tears to my eyes. I had developed a hair trigger for crying.
Once I was in the examination room, I was asked to fill out a simple questionnaire to determine whether or not I suffered from depression. This questionnaire made me realize that it was not okay for me to have a detailed plan for my own suicide; a plan that I was perilously close to carrying out. When I answered “yes” to the question “Do you have a plan for committing suicide?”, the dam broke and I found it hard to hold back the tears for some time. I found it difficult to bring my emotions under control, but somehow managed by the time the police arrived. You see, I didn’t have insurance to cover the cost of an ambulance, and after learning of my suicidal intentions it was decided that I should not drive anywhere alone.
I’ll always remember being escorted through the lobby and out the front doors by the officers, searched in the parking lot to be sure I didn’t have anything on me that could be used to kill myself, and placed in the back of a squad car for the first time in my life.
Surprisingly, I did not feel shame or humiliation.
I felt relief.
It was like seeing light shining through the crack at the bottom of the door I had shut some time before; the door that kept the world from seeing what my life was really like.
The door that I felt would shut out the recriminations, guilt and shame the world would like to make me feel for being mentally ill.
The door that kept friends, family and neighbors from seeing who I really was and what I was going through.
I knew that I would have to open the door eventually, and this was the first step.
In the emergency room, I was taken to an examination room that was devoid of any objects that I could use to harm myself. I spoke at length to a psychologist and a psychiatrist, and I instantly felt a tiny bit better. I was told that I was too far gone to benefit from any form of psychiatric medication, but made plans to see a therapist. I was able to speak openly about all of the things that were happening to me, and it was an intensely liberating experience.
Between then and now, so many things have happened to, and for, me. I have learned many lessons and implemented many techniques that have been beneficial for me, and I will share these as I continue this series of essays.
But the biggest and most important step I took was raising my hand and asking for help.
Please, if you are suffering in silence, raise your hand and ask for help. It could very well save your life.
And if you know anyone who seems to be depressed or sad on a regular basis, check on them. Ask them if they’re okay. Let them know that you love them and will not judge them. Be there for them when they need you.
And be sure they have the Suicide Prevention Hotline number in their phone: it’s (800) 273–8255 or (800) 273-TALK. Ask them to promise you that they will call this number if they feel suicidal. Tell them that you would miss them if they were gone, because you love, respect and care for them.
And if you’ve had thoughts of suicide, please put the Hotline number in your phone now and call them if you feel you can’t go on. They saved my life, and they can save yours, too.
Stay badass,
Verge