Suicide: The Last Part of Someone’s Battle With Mental Anguish
Suicide. It’s such a heavy word; dark, scary, final.
September was National Suicide Prevention Month and September 10th was World Suicide Prevention Day. I missed it. I meant to write this then, but I don’t know what happened.
I just didn’t.
I was focused on more upbeat things, but now it’s time to get serious.
I completely dropped the ball and I’m sorry for that, but I am going to talk about suicide now.
Perhaps it will still make a difference for someone.
Here are some reasons this is an important topic:
- Suicide is the 11th leading cause of death in the United States.
- It’s the 2nd leading cause of death in children 10–14 years of age and the 3rd leading cause of death in people aged 15–24.
- Middle-aged white men have the highest rate of suicide.
- Men are more likely to commit suicide than women.
- Lesbian, gay, and bisexual individuals are 4 times more likely to attempt suicide.
- Transgender people are 9 times more likely to attempt suicide at least once in their life as compared to the general population.
- Everyday twenty-two veterans lose their life to suicide.
- There are usually signs before someone attempts suicide.
- Intervention can save lives.
If you or someone you know is in crisis or thinking about suicide call or text 988.
Maybe you know this about me, maybe you don’t, but I’ve been on the edge of a suicide attempt and it was very scary.
It’s the most out of control my thoughts and actions have been that I’ve ever experienced. I was in a mixed manic and depressed state with logic trying so hard to find a voice within the war raging in my mind.
This is my personal experience and the most unstable I have been when dealing with suicidal ideation.
I’ve dealt with being suicidal a number of times in my past, but this is the only time it felt like I was actually on the verge, minutes or seconds away from doing it.
This is when I almost lost the battle.
It was different than a depression progressing to suicidal ideation because I was experiencing a mixed state of bipolar disorder.
It happened like the flip of a light switch.
Stick with me if you want to know what it was like and how I saved myself and got help.
This is most of my story:
I was driving from my childhood home in Galveston to my current home in San Antonio when it happened.
I fell off the cliff into overwhelming hopelessness, sadness, and despair.
It was November 2016. I went home to celebrate my sister opening her new business, Flying Fortress CrossFit, and we celebrated a lot. I’d been trying not to drink because I’d been feeling a little off and having lots of mood swings.
That year, when I started feeling down or like I wasn’t stable and things were getting out of sorts in my mind, I’d try not to drink because alcohol can make mental health worse over all.
I’d been dealing with a lot that year: divorce, new job, sexual assault, not getting along with my parents, buried memories of molestation.
But I did drink that weekend.
I drank champagne Friday night to celebrate the opening of my sister’s new facility. Saturday, I drank cocktails with liquor, which at the time I rarely drank because it made me tipsy so quickly and suffering from undiagnosed PTSD at the time, I didn’t like to feel out of control of my thoughts, actions, body or surroundings.
This was a big mistake.
I think I was drinking that weekend because I felt good. My mood was up. I think I was manic, so I wasn’t really thinking about what was best for me or of consequences.
Bipolar disorder can make you a mess and make it hard to take care of yourself sometimes, especially when you’re unmedicated and handling a lot of stress, change, and trauma like I was.
For the past few weeks or so, I had been staying up late a lot and getting up very early to go to 5:30am yoga or just not sleeping at all, which is pretty unlike me because I really do love sleep.
Some nights I’d only sleep 2 to 3 hours.
I’d stay up organizing and reorganizing my apartment.
I generally had so much energy, I really didn’t feel the need to sleep or even feel tired when I went a couple of days with no sleep.
I felt like there was a fire burning within me made up of sparks of energy and excitement and everything good.
For most of those weeks I felt really really overjoyed about myself and life and handling everything on my plate, with a few dips of days here and there. I would feel so low on those days I couldn’t be alone and had to call a friend to come sit with me for awhile or go stay the night with a friend so I wouldn’t feel so alone.
It was confusing and aggravating.
Those sleepless nights when I was functioning on what felt like pure bliss, I’d bake a bunch of cookies and cobblers and pies and dog treats and make soap and paint and clean my apartment and do my hair and make-up exceptionally well and precise and go through things to give away. (I gave away about half of my wardrobe over a month, even after I got back on medication. This is one of the strange behavioral symptoms with mania and hypomanic states; getting rid of things and purging. Not everyone does it, but some of us do.)
For awhile I thought an invisible person lived in my bathroom. And that’s what we call paranoia, my friends! Except I didn’t know this was something strange to believe, so later when the doctor asked me if I had had any hallucinations or paranoia, I said only audible hallucinations, no paranoia.
I didn’t even tell them about the person living in my bathroom because I thought it was real and not a problem.
My reality in mania is a tad bit off.
I knew the music and muffled conversations I would hear weren’t there most of the time, but sometimes I had to check with other people to see if they were hearing it too.
I knew that evening driving home that things were already going to be rough. I started crying on and off and felt panicky on the rest of the drive after my mood flipped and I was in the deep throws of darkness and pain.
As I got closer to San Antonio I kept telling myself that this would pass and I just have to get through it, which is what I always tell myself when I start feeling low.
I know it won’t last forever. Things will always get better and the darkness will always pass.
When I got home I unloaded my car and made myself go to the grocery store. While I was there I was wondering around forgetting what I was looking for, preoccupied with thoughts of “What’s the point to go grocery shopping, I’m going to kill myself anyway” and “This is all pointless” and “nothing matters, this doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” These were on a loop in my head, but I got what I needed and went home to my apartment.
I started feeling up again.
Like a flash, I was happy and on cloud 9.
I started going through my closet again to get rid of things.
Then, suddenly my mood would drop and I’d be on the floor crying.
Then a few minutes later, I’d be excited about baking something, then back down with the crying, and up again.
And then I felt like I was seriously losing my mind.
I had never experienced anything like that and I haven’t ever again and I hope I never do. It was so scary.
At one point it all started to mix and I felt happy and suicidal at the same time.
I think part of my brain was actually suicidal so the thoughts and demands came loud and repeatedly. Another part of my brain was pleading that I didn’t want to die. And still another part was screaming just to make it stop, which suicide would also be an answer to.
Mixed states in bipolar disorder are very dangerous for this very reason. You have the dark thoughts about killing or hurting yourself and the energy to do it. It’s not a safe space to fill.
I called a friend and told her I wanted to kill myself and I was scared. She told me to hang up and call a crisis hotline, so that’s what I did.
When I got through to the person at the other end of the crisis line, they asked me what was going on and I repeated that I wanted to kill myself; that I felt like I was losing my mind. He asked if I had a plan of how to do it. I answered “yes” as I held the pill bottle in my hand. He told me to take myself to the emergency room.
I got mad and irate and yelled at him and told him that didn’t help.
I think I was hoping he had some magic advice or words or a solution to share with me or just help me in that moment. But I guess there was nothing he could say, so he followed protocol.
I called the crisis hotline back and hoped to get someone else to save the day and my life. I got the same person and he told me the same thing again. I was yelling at him through tears about needing help and begging him to help me. He remained calm and said I needed to call 911 or go to an emergency room.
I hung up and I took myself to a crisis center instead.
I immediately felt better after I signed in and was waiting to be seen.
I was in a safe place and I was going to get help.
“They won’t let me hurt myself. They are going to make me okay,” I told myself. I figured I’d go to a crisis center because this is what they are for, people in crisis.
I knew everything could be put back in order if I just got back on medication.
Everything would be okay if someone could help me regulate these thoughts and emotions and chemicals going haywire in my brain. I didn’t want to go to the ER to be put on a 72 hr hold or put in the psych ward. I knew I wasn’t crazy.
I finally was seen and told the man evaluating me what was going on and how scared I was, but how I felt better already being in a safe place around people.
I texted my friend, Steven, while I was in the waiting room to let him know what was going on. He came and met me at the clinic and sat with me through the interview or whatever you want to call it with the crisis expert.
Steven told me he was surprised I was there and that he had no idea it was that bad. I told him it had been bad, but I didn’t expect this either.
The crisis intake man decided I was still a threat to myself and shouldn’t be alone or go home.
He told me if I didn’t admit myself into treatment they would have to do it and I would have to stay as long as they thought best. I didn’t want that, so I admitted myself.
Steven agreed to look after my dog while I was getting help. I called my best friend, Caroline, and told her what was going on, too.
They took my shoelaces and the string out of my hoodie so I couldn’t use them to harm myself and I was put into a bright room filled with fluorescent lights and cot after cot after cot.
There were men and women of varying ages sleeping; some just laying and staring at the ceiling, floor, or wall; and some just sitting up on their cot.
No one talked.
This is where you were held if you were a threat to yourself. These were the other people in crisis like me.
This is where I waited to be seen by a doctor to figure out what was causing this meltdown. The doctor agreed that I was bipolar and in a mixed state.
I was put on an antipsychotic, some sleeping pills, and a mood stabilizer. I told her I probably wouldn’t take the sleeping pills because I didnt want to be on too much medication. She told me that was a bad idea, but I thought I knew better.
Flash forward a few hours and I was moved to a behavioral rehabilitation center as I was deemed out of immediate danger.
There were a lot of mentally unstable people at this place and lots of recovering alcoholics and addicts. Some were there before they went to a halfway house to get their medication in order and see a doctor for awhile to make sure they were stable enough to re-enter the real world.
It was in there, surrounded by severely bipolar individuals, a person with schizophrenia, and other people with odd behaviors and various mental health issues, that I realized I belonged with all these “crazy” people.
I was one of them, too.
I was pretty sick and needed to get better just like all of them.
None of us were really crazy.
I got my medications in order at this facility and talked with a psychologist.
I ate three times a day.
We did group counseling.
We had timed and regimented cigarette breaks, which at the time felt like they were saving me. (Yes, I use to be a smoker. Anxiety is a hard thing to handle and for me, cigarettes provided some relief. And yes, I know they are a stimulant so it probably made it worse, but I felt like I was alert and in control, so there!)
We also had time to do art and yoga.
I met a lot of interesting people in there with interesting and unique stories.
Anyway, I stayed there for a few days until I had to leave for my job.
The grand opening of the brewery I was working for was a few days away and I needed to get some last minute things in order. I couldn’t miss it or I was afraid I’d get fired since I was the event organizer and everything was weighing on me for it to be perfect and flow seamlessly.
I found out later I would not have been fired or even reprimanded.
My boss understood what was going on and was extremely supportive, but I did what I thought was best for me at the time and left against the doctor’s, caretakers, and social workers advice.
I was not better.
I wasn’t sad or suicidal anymore.
I was just a hyped-up, energy-frenzied, manic person.
It worked out though because everything went well for the opening and I was able to keep my shit together.
I just talked a lot and really fast and floated around the brewery constantly checking on things, until Steven came to check it out and I took time to focus on one thing for awhile.
I probably should have stayed at the behavioral facility until I was back down to my baseline, but manic Corey thought she knew best.
Luckily, I didn’t get any worse and was able to manage my mania without getting into trouble with the law or completely becoming psychotic.
The drugs were working, it was just taking a while to go into full effect.
I still thought someone was living in my bathroom for a few weeks more.
That’s the basis of my story.
I got a tattoo a couple weeks after getting out of the behavioral facility to make my bipolar disorder and what I overcame with the suicide scare a mark, like a scar on my body, to start a conversation or show that I made it through.
The writing is from a poem by Charles Bukowski. I’ve shared the entire meaning of what the quote represents for me and what the semi colon stands for in previously, but I’ll also do that again in a later publication.
I also lost someone very dear to me when I was 21 to suicide. I’ll share about that and his life at another date. But part of my tattoo is for him, too.
If you are still reading, thanks for sticking around. I know this was a longer one. And I even tried to keep it short and concise!
It was a journey and I wanted you to be there for it and maybe understand what some people go through before a suicide attempt or sadly dying by suicide.
The mind is a very strange place and we have to do our best to take proper care of our mental health and reach out when we are scared or need help. That is so vital for survival!
Remember, if you are reading this:
- Suicide prevention is a serious matter we should always pay attention to.
- There are usually signs of someone struggling with suicidal ideation.
- We have to be brave enough to have the hard or awkward conversations with the people we love and care about to make sure they are okay and surviving.
- Sometimes we have to pry.
- Love yourself most by reaching out when you need that helping hand, a hug, extra support, or someone to save your life. Your life is worth it and you matter.
If you are thinking about suicide, here are some resources for you:
Crisis Intervention Hotline: 832.416.1177
Text or call 988 if you’re in crisis or need to chat-for the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline & Veteran Crisis Line
NAMI HelpLine: 800.950.6264 or text “Helpline to 62640. The HelpLine is available M-F 10am-10pm, ET.
