On November 12th, 2017, or what I like to call ‘The Sunday’, my body and mind set into motion a beautiful and necessary collapse of spirit, joy, and health. Simply put, I was on the fast track to a mental breakdown that would lead me to finding the sort of clarity and urgency needed to make some real changes in my life.
Depression and anxiety are no strangers to me, but the magnitude and the severity certainly were unfamiliar and horrifying. On ‘The Sunday’ I came face to face with the darkness I was living in, and sadly my days would get much darker before I was able to find some light. The reason this day stands out to me is because when I was laying in bed in fetal position and crying my heart out, I realized that maybe I wasn’t going to be able to pull out of this all on my own, and maybe what I had dubbed as moderate depression was actually quite severe after all.
I promise, my story does get better, but first I need to take you to a place that is gross and uncomfortable. I want to be as open as I can to help ward off any old stigmas that have no place or home in this day and age. That means shining a light on all of the details of my depression – whether beautiful, ugly, or uglier.
First, the uglier
I had no desire to do any of the things I used to love.
I had no energy.
I overslept, and when I wasn’t working I was most likely laying down on the couch or in my bed.
Everything seemed to overwhelm and irritate me.
I felt hopeless.
I felt like a burden.
I wanted to be alone always. I had distanced myself from many friends and family members.
I felt ‘dumbed down’ like my IQ had made an abrupt and swift descent. My problem solving abilities and people skills had seemingly dissolved into thin air.
Making any sort of decision was beyond me. I mean, every single sort of decision possible. Husband: ‘Do you want to go to see Thor tonight?’ Inside me: ‘It looks like a good movie that I would like to see. But also, I don’t want to do anything. I never want to leave this couch again. Why don’t I want to leave this couch? Wow, I hate my life. WHY IS HE PURPOSELY STESSING ME OUT? I HATE HIM. WHY AM I SUCH A FAILURE? I DON’T WANT TO FACE THIS QUESTION. I AM GOING TO RESPOND IN THE ONLY WAY THAT IS PROPER WHICH IS TO ABRUBTLY STORM UPSTAIRS TO THE BEDROOM WHERE THIS ASSHOLE WON’T ASK ME ANYMORE INSENSITVE QUESTIONS!!!!!!!!!’ Outside me: ‘I don’t know, but I’m really tired so I’m going to go lay down now.’
This is how I looked most of the time. I promised myself that if I ever climbed out of this hole that I would burn those 49er sweats I wore for months, but would that be bad luck for my husband’s favorite football team?
Okay, here’s the part I really struggle with sharing. After seeing firsthand how suicide impacted the very people I love the most, I carry a lot of shame in what I’m about to write. I find this hard to share, because I don’t want them to be triggered or feel hurt, but I can’t skip over this part no matter how uncomfortable. The truth is, I wanted to die. I knew how I wanted to do it, and I had even determined the best time in the day to do it so I wouldn’t be interrupted. My belief that I was a burden to those around me was dangerously reassuring, and swiftly removed any of the guilt you’d think I would have felt over my decision to take my own life.
Being a bit of a closet analytical, I began to research the best way to execute my plan. I realized my method of choice wasn’t as painless and easy as I had previously assumed, and so I mulled over the pros and cons of my other ‘options’, and did my best to determine the least gruesome and painful way to do it. For a few days I was desperate to end it all. I day dreamed about it. I obsessed about it. I’m still here, so I didn’t find a technique that fit my criteria, or maybe my inability to make any sort of decision at all saved my life, but if you are in the same place please reach out to someone and talk about it. Don’t let this damn thing kill you.
Again, bear with me friends! My story gets better and I am whole heartedly routing for yours to get better too.