I've been thinking about this blog for a few days now, knowing I wanted to write about a specific *personal* subject. Now that I'm here, I sit, staring at the screen not knowing how or where to begin. (Random side note...the last time I blogged was December of 2010...5 years ago!!!) Back to the subject. Where to start.
I have a mental illness.
Okay, so that is most likely not news to anyone. In fact, if anyone is reading this who knows me, you are probably yawning and thinking...Just one?? Not everyone knows just how deep, though. I don't know why I have been thinking so much about putting it all out there, or how this post is going to end, but here it goes!
I've always been depressed. I've never been happy with myself, nor have I ever even liked myself. But when I was younger, I always told myself that I shouldn't be depressed. I had no reason to be. I'm part of a family with parents who stayed married. Parents who have loved me. That alone was enough to be happy and grateful, right? (Well, yes. Many people aren't so lucky). But that doesn't mean a person can't also be sad. I had convinced myself otherwise. I was embarrassed and ashamed. So I kept it to myself.
The summer of 2002 came. My aunt and uncle were going on this awesome road trip over 5 weeks, through 16 states, stopping along the way of family, friends, and NAUVOO, to name a few. I don't know why, but they decided to invite me to go with them. I was about 6 weeks from turning 21. So I flew to Texas, which is where they live, as well as our starting point. To sum it all up, it truly was AWESOME! By the time we made our way to Utah, I was on an emotional high. Then, my aunt and uncle left for home; back to Texas. I felt like I had been dropped off at the side of the road. My high ended. I realized my life had no meaning. I was completely lost. I was completely and utterly depressed.
My co-workers took notice. So by the time I decided to move, not long after returning home, they weren't surprised. They knew I needed to go. That was in July. By the end of October, I was in my car, packed with whatever I could stuff into it, headed off to Texas with my dad. It wasn't easy, but the first time I worried about it, was at the airport in Houston, after sending my dad back to Utah. It didn't last long. I found myself approximately 1500 miles from immediate family, no job, no insurance, no friends. But I was HAPPY. I couldn't believe I went through with something. I got a job right away, made lifelong friends quickly, and settled right in. My high was back. I floated for close to a year.
I can't say exactly when the depression started creeping back into my life, but it did. Somewhere along the way, my primary care doctor suggested I start seeing a psychiatrist. I obeyed, but I was scared. Right off the bat I got multiple diagnoses. ADD, Biploar 2, major depression, generalized anxiety...I was to start seeing a therapist right away, and of course, medication. Finding the right medication is tricky and time consuming. It took a long time! And so much trial and error! I started self-injuring during all this, in the form of cutting and drinking. In August of 2006, I was hospitalized for the first time. Again, I was so embarrassed and ashamed, that I didn't even tell my family until 6 months later! Not one member of my family! And only my closest friends knew...that was about 4 people...for 6 months.
In October of 2007, I felt like it was time to move back to Utah. After some time, my LDS bishop suggested I get back into therapy. Being in the field himself, he knew just who to pair me with. Between my bishop, my therapist, and my dear friend John, I continued on. Things were going good, then my life spiraled out of control. It started with an eating disorder. (Think 5' 11', 135 pounds). I also started my journey into becoming a bit of an alcoholic. Cutting was rampant. I was hospitalized again early in 2013 after mixing prescription drugs and alcohol. My boss called me and let me know that he would be getting someone to fill in for me while I was out, but that I always had a job with them, and not to worry. That brought me comfort, as I was happy there, and loved those I worked for and with. I started doing ECT (electroconvulsive therapy, or better known as shock therapy) 3 times a week. When I was able to go back to work, there wasn't any. I called every week to get back on the schedule. It never happened. So though I was never technically fired, they no longer needed me, after working there 4 1/2 years. I finally accepted my 'bad luck' and moved on. I was hurt, especially since only 1 person that I worked with keeps in touch with me. Sure, there is facebook, but there is no communication between us. They are just there to remind me of the friendship and laughter we once had.
I also tried dating that year, only for it to end after 9 months. He left me because he wanted to get married...to someone else...but to continue dating me. So I guess us breaking up was mutual. (This was also months after he tried hitting on my best friend, in my apartment, while I was sitting in-between them. And also some time after he told me he would most likely "step out" on me, but at the end of the day, he would always come home to me). So that relationship was doomed to fail anyway. There was a good thing that came out of the relationship
though...he helped me out of my ED, since I was too embarrassed and
didn't want him finding out. (Now I'm at the opposite end of the
spectrum!). I had moved to North Salt Lake, just to move back to Grantsville 3 months later. Also during this time, I pretty much pushed my bishop into a corner. I continually tried to convince him that I was a lost cause, and that he should give up. As a result of my decisions, I was excommunicated from my church. (Not as a punishment...it's never about punishment. It's for starting over, with a clean slate).
I filed for bankruptcy that year. The medical bills were piling up fast and I had no way to pay for them.
I also had to get a new therapist, as mine had taken a job at the VA hospital. Summed up: 2013 was a lot of changes.
The beginning of 2014, my best and only friend*, Stacie, moved in with me and my parents. (When I say 'only friend', I mean the only person who actually wanted to talk to me on a regular basis, let alone hang out with me on a regular basis. I have many 'friends' whom I know I can talk to, if needed. Many people who care and love me. Just not one who helped me laugh on a daily basis). But the downward spiral continued. In May, my bishop, who I met with on a weekly basis for our own one-on-one spiritual therapy, was released. I knew it was coming, but it happened 2 months earlier than expected. I went back to my coping method of mixing my own cocktails of alcohol and pills. I found myself inpatient, yet again, after forced to drink charcoal. That is how my new bishop entered his calling. Poor guy. Why not toss him into the fire right off the bat? During this hospital stay, I went back on ECT.
I was also raped, while inpatient. In the tiny bathroom stall with no cameras.... In between the 15-minute checks. I panicked. Which means, I was struck with silence. I couldn't breathe, let alone speak or think. Probably thinking I would keep quiet, he told me he would be ready again the next hour. I didn't keep quiet. After talking to staff, and reporting to cops, I was taken to the ER for the dreaded "rape kit". It was confirmed, but because the guy said it was mutual, nothing was done. Evidence was inconclusive.
Jump ahead a few months to September. It was the 11th. The pressure and panic was growing strong. I was doing more for Stacie than I was for my parents. The deal had been to stop working and help take care of my mom. To stay with her until my dad could retire. It wasn't working out that way. Since I had worked so hard on giving up the booze, I couldn't turn to it for a sense of calmness. So I took a bunch of pills. Much more than before. I was passed out just as Stacie got me to the ER. I was sent to Payson to be admitted. I was released after 3 days. The day after I got home, the panic attack that took place was the father of all panic attacks. The big one. Two of my newest prescriptions were benzodiazepines and blood pressure meds. Twice a day=60 pills each. I took them all. Every last one. That's 120 pills. It was easy. Too easy. Done in a matter of seconds. Even though it doesn't work immediately, I still felt instant relief. Though it was late at night, Stacie was still up. She walked in. This time, I was unconscious before we got to the hospital. I was told the doctors tried to get me life-flighted to the U, but ended up having to take me in to intubate. I barely woke up the next day as the doctors were removing the breathing tube from my throat. I had no idea what was going on, so I fought them, but went right back to sleep. I woke up after another day or two in the ICU, with my dad by my side. Well, I guess I did wake up before then, but I have no memories of those days.
This time, I was transferred to 5 West at the University of Utah hospital. After that experience, and 3 days after with no meds, I went into withdrawals. Ho-lee Crap! I can't even tell you how unpleasant that was! I called my parents just sobbing! I couldn't control it! I was put in this little room after being naked-body searched by a couple nurses. Picture a small cement room, with a mattress on the floor in the corner. A tiny window up high so you can't look out. That was this room. The only exaggeration is the bed. But only by a little. It was a hospital bed, old and small. From being intubated, I had this cough. It was far from mild. It was horrible!...and it didn't let up. It was from deep down, and continuous. It was also freezing. That. night. was. horrible! When I finally saw my doctor the next morning, he started taking care of the withdrawals. The nurse also decided to raise the head of my bed to help with the cough. (Seriously...everyone there thought I was a heavy smoker!) Remember I said it was an old bed? The nurse had to go searching for the crank in order to crank it up. They promised if I was good, they would transfer me to the 'open' hall, where I could wear my own clothes. Believe you me...I was good.
The doctor was awesome. The therapist was blunt. He didn't sugar coat anything. He told me repeatedly that I was 5 minutes away from death. No returning. 6 feet under. The end. I'm sure he was trying to scare me into never doing it again. However, at that time, all I could think was, I was 5 minutes away from all this being over. I was so close!
After being released (finally!), it was obvious things had to change. After 3 weeks (which had turned into 7 months) after Stacie moved in, it was time for her to find another place to live. It wasn't immediate...she found a place a month later. So she was given time. Yes, I shut down for a bit as I tried to silence my mind. I kept to myself for the most part. Things were now weird out of the hospital. But things seemed okay. My dad and I helped her move all her stuff to Salt Lake where she could start her new chapter. All was well. But then, she stopped talking to me. She stopped everything. Soon, we found out why. The credit union called my mom regarding some charges. After time and investigation, it was proven, without a doubt, that she had my moms debit card information, and boy did she use it! From her storage in Texas, to purchases on Amazon, Ikea, Utah transit...you name it. We aren't talking a small amount, either. Soon after, I, as well as all of my family, as well as some mutual friends here in Grantsville, were all deleted and blocked on social media.
So there I was. Without a friend. Without religion. Bankrupt. Jobless. And lacking memory (darn ECT!) Some memories of mine are completely lost. People tell me things, or I find evidence of something, but I have absolutely no recollection of it ever occurring. Then there are things that family will tell me that I wish I didn't know. Such as my brother, who occasionally took me to my ECT appointments. They were always early in the morning, and on a fast. One particular morning, Russ and I went to breakfast afterwards and I didn't know what a PANCAKE was...and we were at IHOP!! Oh! I'm glad I don't remember that!
So...am I GLAD now, one year later, that my last suicide attempt failed? Not completely, but I'm getting there. I've developed a bit of social anxiety since then. I back out of activities and such. I stay home a lot! But I'm GLAD I didn't put my parents through burying a child. I'm GLAD I was able to get re-baptized. I'm GLAD I was around to be with my mom during her final days. There are memories with her I am so grateful to have. At the end of the day, 3 things are the most important; God, Jesus Christ, and family. I'm GLAD that I'm here with my dad, so he isn't alone. I'm GLAD to still be surrounded by smiling faces. I'm GLAD that I will be with my family forever for eternity.
Life is still a struggle. I'm still going a day-at-a-time sometimes. I'm still trying to get the hang of this life. The thought of losing my dad due to his heart SCARED THE CRAP out of me! I came so close to losing it. I was holding my breath until I knew he would be okay. Even then, it's hard to pick yourself back up. I'm sure God is keeping my dad on this earth for several reasons, but I know without a doubt, I am one of them. His time is not up yet. I am so glad. He is my only friend. I have grown to love him more than I ever thought possible. (again...my definition of 'friend' for the purpose of this post...). My dad is my rock...my hero. I know his time will come to an end before mine, and I will be forced to live on this earth without him for a time, until the day we can all be reunited. But at least I have that. Because of God and Jesus Christ, I have that.
If you made it all the way through, I thank you. It is time to not be ashamed. Time to break the silence.
#NEVER GIVE UP. #ALWAYS KEEP FIGHTING
Need help? United States:
1 (800) 273-8255
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
Hours: 24 hours, 7 days a week
Languages: English, Spanish
Website: www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
