Like a movie I watched years ago, the details are mostly murky except for one vivid scene. There had been crying and yelling. I retreated to the bathroom off our master bedroom – the most private spot I could find to howl with rage and pain – and curled into a ball on the floor. I couldn't take it. Not for another minute, let alone the days, and weeks, and years, and lifetime I imagined stretched out, one agonizing day following another.
I calculated the the number of pills available to me in a nearby drawer. A doctor had recently prescribed me some anti-anxiety pills and I considered their potential to stop my heart. Maybe if I washed them down with vodka.
I thought of my children downstairs. And of my mother, who spent five years in and out of psychiatric hospitals after various suicide attempts. No. I would not do that do my kids.
The rest of the scene grows vague again. I remember considering driving myself to the emergency room. Eventually I made an appointment with my therapist, which felt like a strong enough rope to hold me until I could see her. At that point in time, she felt, literally, like a lifeline. Her office meant safety.
She also convinced me to begin taking anti-depressants. I fought against it. Until she explained that chronic stress literally changes our brain chemistry. My brain, she told me, wasn't working like it would under less difficult circumstances. I needed to help it start working properly again. She drew me a picture with neurons and serotonin and dopamine receptors. And so I said yes.
Those pills might have saved my life.
But I know how tenuous that grip can feel, how tempting to just let it all slip away. To just...sleep. And never wake up.
We don't want to die. Not really. It just feels like the only exit we can imagine for ourselves. We want the pain to stop and we don't believe it ever will. We're suffocated by it. Rendered invisible in the darkness. Who is this stranger who used to be me?
I know.
I also know this.
It doesn't last forever.
Slowly, with time, sometimes with medication, and a commitment to not give up (except for those days when we give ourselves permission to rest), the pain begins to recede.
Our culture has such distorted ideas around suicide. Around medication. Around mental health. But let me tell you this: The strongest people I've ever met in my entire life are those who battle invisible demons just to get through a "normal" day.
My daughter who wished herself dead rather than face another day of paranoia and delusions and terror when she was first experiencing bipolar disorder. Lithium has given her back her life and she's happier than she's ever been.
My younger daughter who wished herself dead rather than face another day of relentless obsessive-compulsive thoughts that had her changing her clothes repeatedly, unable to eat "contaminated" food, terrified of touching "germs". She relies on mindfulness and OCD therapy.
My mother who wished herself dead rather than face another day of failing to resist the vodka and the pills. Twelve-step groups were her saviour.
All survived because all asked for help.
I asked for help.
It isn't easy. Our health care systems around the world fail far too many. The waits are too long. The medications too unpredictable. The doctors overworked.
My family is lucky. We live in Canada with a socialized healthcare system. Our city is noted for its hospitals. We are white middle-class with resources at our disposal. We have friends who are doctors and who gave us a roadmap for navigating the system.
I'm loud. When my kids are hurting and desperate, I can be very very loud.
Be loud.
Make your voice heard. You matter. I've never known anything with greater clarity than that. You matter. So do I. We all do. Every single sobbing one of us.
It doesn't matter if he thinks you matter. As I've said before, just because someone else doesn't recognize a diamond doesn't make it any less valuable.
If you need help, ask for it. Demand it.
If you need medication, get it. There is no shame is using every tool in the toolbox to put yourself back together.
And if you think you can't hold on another minute, do this: Call a suicide helpline and let them guide you to the resources you need.
