Start at the beginning.
The summer before sophomore year of high school, when I was a few months shy of 16, I broke up with my first boyfriend. I was devastated; no one ever taught me how to deal with heartbreak and the emotions attached. I had a really hard time and lashed out in a million ways. I hit on my ex-boyfriend’s best friends. I tried drugs and drinking heavily. I skipped curfew and stayed out all night driving my parents insane and worrying them half to death. I chain smoked cigarettes out of my bedroom window and cut classes. I took a secret trip to the village in New York to get a tattoo without parental consent. I shoplifted clothes and jewelry. I was spiraling out of control. On my oh so sweet sixteenth birthday I tried to kill myself. Razor to the wrist. Two deep long cuts down the veins. My mother found me, scooped me up and hurried me to the hospital. There they loaded me full of sedatives, sewed me up and monitored me to see if I would need a transfusion. From there I went on my first of many ambulance rides to UBHC, an in-patient mental healthcare facility. See: Psychiatric Hospital. That’s where it begins I guess.
Looking back it’s so clear this was my first presenting full manic episode. Once hospitalized the shame depression quickly took over. An expert team of child psychologists labeled me with major depressive disorder(wrong) and put me on zoloft(awful). They watched me take it for a few days and sent me back to public high school only a week after my first suicide attempt.
(If this ever applies to your life, promise me, don’t go to school or make a young person go to school a week after a suicide attempt. Make them rest and watch their favorite movies, eat their favorite meals and always have a hug when needed for months if they have to. Let them heal. All. The. Way.)
A month and a half later I tried again. I took all the pills they gave me and let me regulate on my own at 16 right after trying to off myself (don’t do that); valium, zoloft, sonata, and a sprinkling of whatever I could find around the house. It was around midnight when I took them. My mom woke me up around 6 to get ready for school. No way; I rolled over. She came in again and pulled me by my arm out of bed. She said I was going to school whether I like it or not and she would dress me herself if she had to. She did. I don’t know if she thought I was just being a jerk or what but I truly had lost almost all motor function. I was messed up, slurring my speech and uncoordinated. I remember asking myself “How could she not tell?”.
I signed in late and slept at my desk through first period. My teachers all knew I had tried to kill myself a month before so they gave me a break most of the time and this time she just let me sleep it off assuming I was really in a bad way. Second period I had with my ex-boyfriend. Can you say triggered? I sat down, went to lean back and couldn’t stop myself I was down on the ground. I woke up next in the ambulance, school nurse above me asking me what I took. “Let me die” I told them. She looked scared. Maybe I really would. I woke up being moved on a stretcher down a hall in the hospital, a tube being forced up my nose and down my throat. My mom joined the doctors and nurses around me as they were walking. “Let me die” I said through gurgles while fighting off nurses. I woke up two days later. I was transferred again to a mental health facility and finally diagnosed bipolar 1 disorder.
Since then I have thought about suicide almost every single day. Don’t get me wrong; I have good days. I have amazing excellent near perfect days. On those days, I think about suicide, too. I don’t always want to die; it’s an intrusive thought. One I don’t particularly want ever; but nonetheless, it’s there.
This story has no profound meaning or uplifting message. It’s just my story. I’m only sharing to bring awareness. If you or someone you know is suicidal please call or text the number above. For what it’s worth, most days I’m glad I’m still here.