Trigger Warning: Depression and suicidal themes
There was an article that I wrote before my eleventh psychiatric hospitalization that may never see the light of day in regards to this newspaper. At least, never as it once was in all its raw formalities. To describe the article as weird would be the greatest understatement of the century.
It was the first article I ever wrote that in its rawest form was edited to attempt to represent a past occurrence of a few months ago rather than a few days ago. But it never really flew right. I knew if I published it, I would get one of two responses from staff: either no one would notice its red flags or someone would be giving me an intervention.
Even my end of the article spiel about suicide prevention was written more out of memory than actual truth. I no longer believed the words I was writing and they felt hollow and unreal to me.
I thought maybe I would get away with writing a foreboding article without anyone raising an eyebrow. And maybe I secretly wanted someone’s attention to fall to my wayside—I do not know for sure. All I know is that it was written as a goodbye rather than an actual article.
I had never done that before. I had never, well, almost, written such a potentially public suicide note. I say almost because I have written blog posts and tweets that have ebbed along those lines—especially during that time.
But this was different. This was… wrong. And yet it felt so right. I never had such a heightened suicidal crisis before that my terror of dying transformed into adrenaline and I felt so utterly and absolutely happy. Everything felt like it was going to be okay. I no longer felt the emotional turmoil that suicidal crises have plagued my life for for three years. I finally felt as though I had entered some new form of acceptance. I felt calm and blissful.
It was honestly the strangest paradox of being so suicidal that I no longer felt suicidal. I would have strolled my way into the start of the semester if my parents had not called a suicide prevention hotline while I was out of the house on a Sunday. I do not know if I would have been able to keep up the charade of overcompensating happiness for the two months I planned on staying alive for. I did discover that overcompensating happiness is like genuine happiness, just with a shadow.
Instead of going to school, my parents held an intervention. They gave me the choice between voluntarily going to the emergency room or being sent by ambulance. I decided to pack my bags even while a part of me inside wanted to give them hell.
I stayed a week inside the same psychiatric hospital I had been in last September. I learned while being there how to throw all of myself into other people’s stories whether that be through reading books, writing fan fiction, or watching TV and films. In this way, writing articles again, after about three months of silence, I find myself moving towards a path that will lead to healing rather than one of self-destruction. By writing articles, I am given the opportunity to play with my thoughts in the metaphorical sandbox. There is almost no danger with doing this and it causes me to provide self-assessments and insight into my struggles.
By playing in the sandbox I can recognize the irrationalities within my thoughts that I am unable to do while they are holed up in my head. As I build sandcastles I am reminded that I do not know yet where this path will take me. Depression whispers reasons why I should still kill myself; its abuse is seemingly neverending. I know that I hold more trepidation to reaching out for help more now than ever before.
I am afraid of being hospitalized, of re-entering the revolving door of being inside and then outside of them. I do not know if my story continues with a semicolon or if it just ends abruptly.
I wish I could say and believe that it gets better but the words still feel hollow. I can say that as of right now I do not have any plans to act on my thoughts. And if that should change, I know where I will be heading: a hospital rather than a casket.
I guess I just keep living for now. And I take another week from school to attend a partial hospitalization. And I learn how to cope more effectively, and maybe, maybe it gets better before it gets worse.
Stay safe.