It was eight years ago today that I decided to end my life, obviously, it didn’t quite go as planned.
Eight years since I stopped being able to think of myself as someone that is just a little more sensitive, a little more prone to ups and downs, and maybe a little less resilient than other people.
Eight years since I became a statistic and one of 200 odd people that attempt to take their lives each day in Australia, one of around 65,000 that attempt a year (since then 520,000 have joined me in the ranks of suicide attempt survivor).
Eight years since I received a diagnosis of depression, paired with a little bit of anxiety.
Nearly three years since the diagnosis became bipolar type two and the definition that finally fit who I was and am.
Nearly three years since I began to question which part of me is real and which part is the illness, which mood is bipolar and is this real happiness or hypomania?
Nearly three years since I started to wonder which parts of my identity are even me. If you stripped away the bipolar (if it was possible to separate it from me), would I still be the same person?
See, my suicide attempt was not an ending for me, it was the beginning of life long attempt to try and understand my brain. Not in some fun new age, enlightened way, but because I am forced to, otherwise I might die. It is an illness that will be with me for the rest of my life, it may not kill me even though it has certainly tried. I will not ever get to stop taking the medication, I won’t ever get to stop being forced to be conscious of my thoughts, and feelings, and triggers, and diet, and sleep.
So this is how I live my life, and those who love me get to live it with me, because none of us gets to separate the me from the bipolar, they are linked.
And so, eight years on, on this day, I remember, because without that day, I wouldn’t have been able to stop pretending. I would have gone on living a half life not realising that, the pain and utter hopelessness, it could be fixed (well, managed).
Because on that day, I didn’t die. I lived.
Here’s what I’ve written on this in the past:
2012: The day I didn’t die
2013: 100 days of strength
2014: A funeral in my brain
2015: Four years of wishing
2016: A resurrection
2017: Six years to the day
2018: Well, I forgot, so it turns out I can have times where I don’t think about it.
If this post has brought up issues for you and you need help or advice, Beyond Blue and Lifeline 13 11 14 can offer support.
