It’s Time to Tell My Story

Today is Mother’s Day, basically, my favorite day of the year. It’s not for the gifts, nor the appreciation that mother’s across the nation receive; although I do love to hear my children and their friends wishing me well and telling me how much they love me … but that’s not all.

Many don’t know this, but I almost didn’t get to be a mom. In a fit of confusion, impulsiveness, sadness and despair I attempted to end my life in 1992. Days later I learned that I was pregnant with my oldest child and chances were that the medication that I attempted to overdose on was in my system as my helpless child was beginning to grow.

The following is MY perception of what happened, others that were present may have a different perception and that’s fine, but that’s your story, this is mine.

I was 18 years old, in 3 weeks time I would be a wife to someone that I had committed to spend the rest of my life with. In a strange twist I began to see things as they were, I stopped looking at him through a lens of perfection and I noticed that everything that attracted me to him was built on lies that I excused when I found out the truth. Reality was that he probably didn’t have the motivation to do much with his life and everything that my mom warned me about was seeming to be accurate.

I was raised that your word is your word and you can’t back down. You stay loyal, you make a commitment and you follow through. Being a teenager I also had this hatred of proving my mom right … I couldn’t go to her and say, “You were right. Can I come back home?” After all, I had left when I was 17 and given up my car in order prove to my parents that I was an adult and could survive.

Now, 26 years later, I don’t even remember what our argument was about, but at that time it was obviously a life or death discussion to me. Quietly, I opened up my cedar chest (a graduation gift from my parents) where the medication was stored. I dug through the contents until I found a box of over the counter sleep aid, not melatonin, the real stuff, the stuff that takes you out in a … dream.

When he realized what I had done he went to tell him mother, whom we were living with. To this day I remember her words, “Get her out of here, I don’t want her dying here.” In that moment I realized that her words were a reflection of my worth; it wasn’t about keeping me alive, or getting me help, it was about her not having to deal with authorities coming into her home to remove my body.

I was taken to the hospital, I remember being to angry about being saved to talk to anyone … I just wanted to be left alone to die. A hose was shoved up my nose and fished into my stomach to pump out the contents of my wishful death. That hose cut off my ability to talk and I couldn’t have been more pleased, it was the closest that I could get to being isolated from the world.

Hospital staff were questioning my fiancé about the events of the evening, but he kept repeating the lie that he had told me to say on our way to the hospital. She has severe back pain from a car accident last year. She must have gotten her medications mixed up and in her tired state took more than necessary.

The nurse came to my bedside and told me that they would remove the hose leading to my stomach if I could promise to drink a glass of “charcoal” I agreed, not realizing that yes, they do serve charcoal in the emergency room.

I took a strong hard sip on the straw before I realized that I was drinking the real deal and charcoal is not a code word for a medicinal cocktail. I wanted to beg to have the hose put back in, that’s how nasty this experience was, but the nurse was too busy grilling me (pun intended) about what had happened to lead me to the emergency room half heartedly fighting for my life.

This poor nurse, she wanted to help me so bad. She asked me nicely, she asked me with compassion, and finally she tried anger, but I wouldn’t budge, I stuck to the story I was told to tell. If only the medical staff would have put a 72 hour psych evaluation on me, if only I had spoke up, if only, if only …. maybe I wouldn’t have spent years hating myself, and suffering in emotional turmoil.

When I left the hospital that night I still had a strong wish to die, I even said a bedtime prayer, “Dear God, please take me in my sleep tonight so that no one will ever have to tolerate me again.” When God didn’t fulfill my wish I spent days trying to find a way to escape this miserable world, but I had to plan better, I had to be sure that I wasn’t found until it was too late.

Before I was able to figure out a plan I found out that I was pregnant. Life became a gift, I was responsible for another human and the only way to take care of that life was to take care of me. This didn’t end my suicidal ideation, it only made them easier to fight back. Some days, even 26 years later, I wonder why I’m here or how worthy am I to have oxygen to breathe. I go on because I know that my experiences in life can help others to go on.

My Mother’s Day wish is for anyone that feels like I did, or sometimes do, to seek help, because you have a purpose. If you are reading this and know or fear that someone you know might be feeling these things, ask! Don’t be afraid to discuss suicide, you don’t have to understand the thoughts and you don’t have to get angry, just being there and breaking down the wall of fear regarding the word “suicide” can help someone get the strength to get help in surviving and overcoming their feeling of being unworthy.

; Sequitur Historia Mea;

;My Story Goes On;

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Mental Health Then and Now

Written by me on March 27, 2015

I smash my face into the pillow, grabbing at my husband’s pillow I cover my head and ease the mental pain with the distraction of physical pain. My head sandwiched between two pillows, the bottom one catching my sobs.

No, not today, I don’t have time for this, my sobs go unheard by everyone but me. The thoughts continue to bluster through my mind. Exactly how does one tie an effective noose? Who will find me? Would they care? Medication, where is my medication?

Welcome to the world of bipolar, coupled with severe anxiety. This is my world, the world I love and hate all at once. It was passed down to me by my ancestor’s, whom chose to self-medicate with copious amounts of alcohol and other illegal substances.

In their time of living the choices were simple, be the town drunk, or be in an asylum. I choke and sputter on my tears, imagining life without proper mental health treatment; and I realize this very state that I hate so much is what it would feel like at the end of a noose. My body swinging in the breeze as my mind does daily.

If only my forefathers had understood, could they have gotten the appropriate help? Could their actions have saved me from this Hell that I live? Probably not.

I pull myself from my bed, my body weighted with exhaustion. I rifle through the filing cabinet for the newspaper articles I have carefully collected from the Internet. Possession of marijuana, corrupting the morals of a minor, attempted robbery, drunk driving, and assault, just a few of the charges logged against the family members that came before me.

And then there is me a law abiding citizen that suffers daily. What makes me different? What makes me the same?

My father is the answer, he fought a long hard battle of being clean, of being the sailor that defied the “drunken sailor” stereotype. The man that brought me up to understand others, to treat others well. The legend that still, at 88 years old, tells me he loves me, tells me he’s proud, and loves me unconditionally. He is the teacher of all the lessons that keep me around, for him, for my husband, children, and yes, even for me, because I deserve a life worth living.

I fight daily, to live the life that I deserve, knowing that one day I will attain a better understanding of who I am and what I am here for. Never giving in, never tying the noose, just getting by in loving memory of those that have suffered before me, and teaching those that come after me, what mental health is really about, the person and the heart within each of us.