How it feels to wake up alive.
A memoir of a lifetime of suicidal thoughts.
The first time waking up disappointed me, I cried for hours. I was only thirteen years old but I’d already known that I didn’t want to live to adulthood. For three years I’d wondered what would solve this utter despair I was experiencing and I found the answer in a bottle of Nyquil hidden in a drawer. Whenever I could hear my stepfather beat my mother, whenever I thought about the constant occurrence of death in my life, whenever I missed my grandparents — I had a shot, or two, and fell asleep.
Sleep solved everything at that age. No one ever asked questions about a teenager staying in bed. Nobody noticed that each day felt worse and worse. If I were in a bad mood, everyone said it was normal for a teenager. I could go to sleep, but I couldn’t avoid the internal need wake up. I couldn’t escape my life forever. But for those few hours, I was willing to take it.
I’d looked in the medicine cabinet for pills that would kill me. I read the labels: do not take more than four every eight hours. I’d think, “I’ll take eight.”
I realized that I wanted to die at fourteen. My friend “Tracey” wanted to die too, or at least she said she did. I never told her how I felt or what was going on at home. I would sit quietly and listen to her talk most of the time. She didn’t eat. She thought she was fat but she was thin as a rail. I didn’t eat — but it was mostly for support. She would show me her wrists and her legs, and she told me how she cut herself to get rid of the pain she was feeling. I wondered how harming yourself could bring any sort of pleasure.
One night I stole a razor from my mother’s bathroom. I sat in the closet, adjacent to her bedroom, and listened to my stepfather beat her again. I would listen to make sure that she survived. He often threatened to kill her. I was afraid to call the police because I didn’t want my sister and I to get taken away. I was afraid to tell my mom I knew because I was afraid she would hate me even more than I thought she did. I wondered if I were a bad person for never saying anything. For never stopping him. I wondered why she’d never told me or my sister. How she kept it so quiet. But then I thought about my own pain and how silently I was suffering. I’d stared at that razor the entire night. In fact, until my alarm went off to get ready for school. I realized that night that cutting wasn’t my thing, but sleeping was. I wished I could sleep forever. I wished I could die.
I’m a mess but I’m awake. I’m alive. It was probably the most disappointing day of my adolescence.
After school the same day, I’d looked in the medicine cabinet for pills that would kill me. I read the labels: do not take more than four every eight hours. I’d think, “I’ll take eight.” Anything in a prescription bottle I couldn’t pronounce? Yes, please. The cocktail of death I made would have made a stage three cancer patient throw their hands up in defeat, but I was ready for it. I was ready to die.
I went upstairs and closed my bedroom door. I had a glass of water and swallowed each pill one-by-one. I drank half a bottle of Nyquil, write a note in a notebook I’d used to write my troubles and waited. The next thing I remember, it’s two in the morning and I’m vomiting. I’m a mess but I’m awake. I’m alive. It was probably the most disappointing day of my adolescence. If I hadn’t felt like a failure before, I surely did then.
For years, my behavior went unchecked. I was too afraid to tell anybody anything. Instead, I blogged and wrote poems. I got into fights at school, sometimes I skipped, I stopped doing homework, I got in trouble a ton. My grandparents told me it was because I was too smart and bored. My aunt told me it was because I didn’t have a father. My mother, despite everything going on in the house, just couldn’t understand. Since none of these answers seemed to fit what I felt was indescribable at the time, I agreed with them all After all, I did feel kind of bored, I didn’t have a father, and if my mom wanted to pretend to be clueless, I decided I would too.
My checks hardly paid for anything. However, I was probably the happiest I’d ever been. Life was new and exciting then. For a little over two years, I never felt the urge to die.
The first small sense of happiness I got was when I moved out at seventeen. I’d ran off with a guy I’d been “dating” for two years and gotten a townhouse with him and his friends. The night before, my mother and I got into a terrible argument. I’d told her I was depressed and she told me, “Back people don’t get depressed.” She said I’d learned about depression from my White friends and now I think I have issues where there were none. Never mind the four years I’d endured of her unhealthy relationship with my stepfather, or her ripping me from my home and placing me across the country around people I didn’t know and couldn’t relate to. She never thought of those things. She’d only thought about herself.
After swearing to never see her again, I packed my things and left while she was working and never answered her calls again. Living with my boyfriend at the time wasn’t a cake walk at all. I worked for $7.50 an hour three days a week, five hours a day. v I escaped my family and didn’t speak to them. Especially my mother.
Things changed right before my twentieth birthday. I realized the relationship I was in with my boyfriend was neither going anywhere nor healthy. I wanted to be a doctor and he didn’t want to do much of anything. He could hardly read or do simple arithmetic. He cheated on me with other women constantly. I started to feel unhappy again. I remember a time I grew so frustrated with the situation I found myself in that I screamed into a pillow until I fell asleep. Things began to look dark again. I would drink all the time. I hardly remember being nineteen because of all of the liquor I’d drink from dawn til dusk.
For a variety of reasons, I’d reconnected with my mother and asked to move back home. The old boyfriend was no more and a new boyfriend was in the picture. I started focusing more on school because I was surrounded by people who focused on school. My weird teenage alcoholism was replaced with obsessive studying, weed and Red Bull. Lots of Red Bull. The rush from the caffeine made me feel less sad. The studying made me think more about where the heck pyruvate came from in the Krebs cycle than my personal life. The weed took care of my anxiety. Everything seemed like it was going okay.
Then I got sick. I needed chemo. I didn’t know how to explain what was going on to my twenty-two year old body to my twenty-two year old boyfriend. My twenty-two year old friends couldn’t understand or wrap their heads around it either. For a long time I silently dealt with my issues. Misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis, treatment after treatment. Aside from my best friend, I went through it alone. My mood plummeted to the ground. I was attempting suicide every night. I was waking up every day. More upset at my failed attempts than the last.
My best friend, Dontay, always told me I woke up because I had a reason to be here. Neither of us are religious, but he always maintained that I had a purpose in life. That one day I would save someone’s life by telling my story. And I would spend my life saving lives in medicine. I hung on to his beliefs because it was all I had. He kept me alive. I’d call him when I felt the worst. He always knew what to say, or he wouldn’t say anything and we’d sit on the phone and breathe. To this day he’s the most reliable person in my life. He has saved me may times.
All I could think at the time was that I fucked up again. Even as a published pharmacologist, I still couldn’t kill myself.
My most recent suicide attempt was in October of 2014. I was in Chicago visiting Dontay. He’d just moved there for his new psych residency. I had shared my life story with him for the millionth time and told him I was tired of living for the billionth. That I might as well ended my life. He took my threat seriously. He quarantined me in his house and would not let me leave. He threatened to take me to his hospital in the morning if I didn’t change my act up. I was ashamed that I’d came all this way just to give him a hard time. The shame made me want to die more.
I resorted to my usual ways and went for the medicine in his cabinets. Knowing more than I did as a child, I knew for sure this was it. For a while, Dontay thought I was simply asleep, until he discovered his cabinet was tampered with. I woke up with his fingers down my throat, vomiting. All I could think at the time was that I fucked up again. Even as a published pharmacologist, I still couldn’t kill myself.
He admitted me to the hospital.
I stayed in the hospital for a little over a day. It was the first medical help I’d received aside from counseling in college. This was in no way the same. In counseling, they just listened to me vent. Here, I was a problem. I wasn't just having ideations, I made an actual attempt and they knew it. It was no longer a secret. I felt exposed. They refused me a fork or knife. I’d never felt so ashamed. They thought I was dangerous. And I was a danger to myself. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way.
About 12 hours into my visit, Dontay came into the hospital to tell me he’d called a rehabilitation facility. “You have to stay at least a week,” he said, “A week will be good for you. Promise me seven days of your life and you will never want to do this again.” He gave me a look as though he was certain this would be the last time I’d pull this stunt.
“I’m officially crazy,” I admitted. I felt embarrassed and defeated.
“You’re insane,” he smiled, “I’ve been telling you, people in this world need you. People who don’t even know it yet. I need you. So seven days.”
He introduced me to the social worker and we discussed my life. We talked about the things I had gone through. I saw true compassion in her face. Especially with the details of my stepfather. At first I felt like scum because of her pity for me. But as we talked more and more, I felt as though she really cared. She told me I was brave for agreeing to go to the facility. She told me that Dr. [Dontay’s last name] was surely a great friend. He was. He is.
I’d sit and listen to others tell their stories and realize how grateful I am to be in the position I am in life.
The week I spent in the facility made me realize how fortunate I am. Every day I found a new thing to be grateful for. Inside, there was a girl who was the same age as me. I could tell she was beautiful before her three month stay there had made her abandon all vanity. She shook as she tried to open her milk carton. Her short hairstyle was overgrown and made her look even more unapproachable.
She was my first friend in the facility. “Alyssa” had done spice and had a seizure that severely damaged her brain and spinal chord. She was fortunate to be alive, but was working on regaining her ability to walk, talk and use her motor skills. I put her hair in bantu knots, which gave her short fro a nicer, more defined look. She was pleased with it and hugged me for it. I was grateful for her because I don’t have many girl friends.
In group meetings, Alyssa and I would sit together for support. We talked about our depression and the things we used to cope. I’d sit and listen to others tell their stories and realize how grateful I am to be in the position I am in life. Some people had broken their families up, lost their homes. There were people whose children wouldn’t speak to them again. I was so grateful. More grateful than I’d ever been about my life.
Every day, I would call Dontay. He was the only person who knew where I was. I kept a diary where I talked about things going on in my life. I can’t reiterate enough how grateful I was for going, because without it I don’t think I would have known how much worse life could have been for me. Every group meeting left me feeling bad I felt so sorry for myself. I had a lot of life ahead of me and I vowed never to attempt suicide again.
I don’t think someone ever gets over the unwillingness to live; I can’t say I have. However, we learn to hope with the anxiety in different ways. I’ve since found healthier ways to deal with the emotions I’ve been feeling for nearly half of my life. I’ve learned a lot of my “triggers.” I have a book of them, and try to make sense of them and how I can better deal with the way I think about the things that set me off. My support system is still rather small, but I’ve learned to support myself by being kinder to myself when I feel my moods swinging.
As the weather changes and the days get shorter, I am reminded of how hard depression is and how important it is to work hard on loving yourself during this time of year. Fortunately for many of us, this time of year is full of family an friends reuniting with one another. For me, this time of year is a reminder of how detached I am from both of those things. To make up for it, I work overtime to be nicer to myself. I cook my own meals, I change my hair up and buy myself gifts. I write as much as I can to get the things that are on my mind out into the world.
Some days I still wake up and feel as though I’m going through the motions. That life is pretty meaningless and the joke is giving it meaning means nothing either way. I push these thoughts to the back of my mind when they are too hard for me to deal with.
