I alluded to a previous suicide attempt without saying there was an attempt back in Memory #24. Well, I wish I could say the darkness ended there. It did not, though I did really well at curbing and dealing with those feelings. Not to toss stats around but…
In Canada, men and boys have higher rates of suicide, as do survivors of suicide loss, and those who have attempted suicide previously. Sadly, and not surprisingly, members of the 2SLBGTQ+ communities are also at considerably higher risk, as are people of Indigenous, Inuit, and Metis ancestry. Women and girls are more likely to self-harm1. For further information, fifty percent of people who have one major depressive episode are likely to have a recurrence of their depression2. In a country that has no national health program for mental health, this is alarming.
If you, or someone you know is thinking about suicide, in Canada, you can call or text the Suicide Crisis Helpline at 9-8-8. This service is available around the clock and is a free service. Additionally, for children under 18, there is the Kid’s Help Phone 1-800-668-6868.
The teen years were hard for me, but I launched into my twenties and while I wasn’t the picture of perfection for mental health, I managed not too badly, and actually went off my antidepressants. I did really well for a number of years. For the first time in a very long time, I felt I had my sh!t together! I had my son, did really well postpartum, returned to work and managed just fine. For a while…
Then, like the stats say, things went south. Really south and I’ve been fighting my way back ever since. Where did things go so wrong? I changed jobs back when my son was young. It was 100% the correct choice. I have no doubt of that, but it was a difficult adjustment. Much harder than I was anticipating and the first position I took was the wrong one, but it led to the right one. However, I was set on the path and the depression was set in motion and sometimes, I feel like I was just along for the ride.
I’ve encountered many who feel depression can be managed naturally, and I believe everyone should walk their own way. I tried for many years to handle my depression through diet, eating the right things, trying to exercise, and moving my body the right way. In the end, it did not work. My mind was just too fractured to be whole. When things took their second turn, I knew that I would need help, so I sought it out immediately. Walking home from the bus in tears daily for weeks, showed me that I could not manage on my own.
With my health challenges rising, I sank deeper and deeper. The worse they got, the further I fell. More medications were added, in hopes of stabilizing my mood, but it was only a stop gap. I did therapy as well, but finding the right counselor is a bit like finding the right shoe. Sometimes, you have to try on several pairs before you find one that works for you.
Enter Covid and everyone was hit hard. I started riding my bike! I said I rode until I rode my crazy out. That was about fourteen kilometers, five to six days a week. It worked pretty well at keeping me level, along with the medications. I felt like a person possessed. As much as I enjoyed it, I felt like I couldn’t stop. I dreaded the idea of winter. How would I cope?
Then one day, everything felt like it turned to black. I had been doing some telephone therapy, and it had been a difficult session. I don’t recall knowing what it was even about, but I remember getting off the call and feeling empty… Abandoned. Void. Cancelled. Vacant. Like I just should not exist. Like I didn’t want to exist. It was a terribly hollow feeling and one I knew was riddled with false feelings and half truths, but it was swallowing me whole. The touchstones I used to ground myself were rendered powerless.
I struggled for a couple days, trying to pull myself up, journaling as much as I could write, trying to expel all the feelings. To no avail. The negative voices were growing and winning. And then the thought came. It was a whisper on the wind. Part of me knew that it was irrational and stupid, but part of me saw it as a relief. A release from the pain. A release from the trap that was my body and the mental anguish I was in. A way to let go of the garbage I was holding on to. A sweet release.
End your life.
It seemed a practical and reasonable solution. Though I knew it was the wrong answer, the mixed-up part of my brain grabbed on to those three words like a life preserver and floated down this special river of hope. I seemed to understand that this was the way. This would be the way I’d find the answers I was seeking.
Friends, I knew this was a lie. I knew that the depression was lying to me, but I wanted to give in to it. Just for a moment. So, I did…
I had a pill bottle of pain medication that would take me away from this planet. There was enough medication in it to end it all and I had it in my hand. I had offhandedly asked for help from those close to me, but perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. At a loss, I phoned my friend Chris. He answered his phone. I wasn’t in the habit of calling randomly, so I am thankful he picked up that afternoon. Quietly, I explained to him what was happening.
He stayed on the phone with me until the worst of it passed, until I found the strength to put the bottle away, hide it from the voice in my head. It took many months, more counseling, and an adjustment to my medications, but we got through it. We chose life.
I wish I could say that was the last time, but depression is a battle. An ongoing battle… One that I’m still fighting and again, this past January, I had the same conversation with my brain. It hit me like a freight train one cold day. Those three words ran through my brain, and I felt crushed, empty, hollow. Again. The overwhelming urge to end everything returned and nothing had meaning. Thankfully, this time, I was able to more effectively communicate with those close to me and get help to get through the worst days with support. I got to the doctor and had yet another adjustment to my medication and I now have a counselor I click with.
Friends, depression is a terrible disease. It is something many do not understand, and it is a disease that many do not survive. I am fortunate that I have a support system, that I recognize my own triggers, and that I am still here. There is a lot of good work being done to support mental illness but there is a long way to go. I debated sharing my story because there is such stigma, but one deciding factor for me was the idea that it happens to so many, even the most ‘normal’ of people. That if it happens to someone ‘like me’, that perhaps sharing my story will help everyone understand that depression and other mental illnesses are as common as something as diabetes or any other illness that affects people. Take care of yourself, and those around you. You never know who might need you.
The Voices In My Head 