Depression Wanted to Steal my Will to Live
*Content/trigger warning: this post discusses self-harm/suicidal ideation.
Super Bowl night, I found myself in the ER again, squirming in a hospital gown with no underwear. There, again, of my own doing, chasing the Super Bowl drinks I’d had with pills, giving into the voice in my head that said I was better off dead, where I wouldn’t feel that deep, paralyzing emotional pain.
They asked if I wanted to admit myself, and I politely declined. Having been down this road before, I know that the psych ward is for stabilization and safety. I believed I was safe at the moment from doing this again, knowing I’d end up right back in that ER. But what about a month from now? A year from now? I feared I’d ultimately be successful at completing suicide. As much as I didn’t want to live then, I didn’t want to die, either.
After the first trip to the ER, a friend and her mom insisted I go to an inpatient treatment center. The hospital suggested I do an IOP (intensive outpatient program — it’s 3–5 hours of therapy a day, five days a week). I don’t need that, I told myself and them.
I thought I could manage my depression — or the diagnosis I later received, bipolar II — on my own, with therapy once a week and monthly psychiatrist appointments. Meaning: doing the same thing I was doing. What’s the definition of…
