海角在线

Sometimes my life feels so impossible and surreal, like all the events in my life could not have possibly occurred together in the same lifetime. When life feels this way, I imagine myself in a large conference room, with versions of me at different stages of my life meeting together. 鈥淵ou won鈥檛 believe what happens next,鈥� an older me will say to an 8-year-old me, grieving my own father鈥檚 death by suicide. 鈥淥ne day, you will be the one contemplating suicide.鈥� 鈥淭hen one day, after that, you鈥檒l go to your state鈥檚 capital city to receive an award for your work in suicide prevention in your community.鈥�

Other times, I have these strange moments of what feels like extreme clarity where the way my life is unfolding doesn鈥檛 only seem 鈥渘ot impossible,鈥� but feels inevitable. For a moment all of my cynicism is melted away and replaced with the whimsy of a divine predestination I have never even believed in. In these moments, nothing is absurd or surreal or impossible, because everything in my life has happened in the only way it possibly could. Usually, though, I鈥檓 just here, existing as whoever I am in this moment.

People act like suicide is contagious. I was just an 8-year-old girl grieving my father, but my friends were no longer allowed to talk to me. To my 8 year old mind, the lesson here was, 鈥渋f I talk about suicide, people won鈥檛 like me.鈥� Looking back, it鈥檚 no wonder that I thought all of my anxiety and depression accumulating over the years was mine to bear alone.

There can be something very frustrating about having your dreams realized. I wanted to escape my small town, move to a big city, and work for the government. This is exactly the life that I created. When I was 23, I had what was supposed to be my dream life. I couldn鈥檛 even enjoy it. I would get home from work at 6:00 pm and immediately go to bed without eating or showering, praying that my coworkers wouldn鈥檛 notice when I did this day after day for weeks on end. They didn鈥檛, of course. I have something of a curse, though others have told me they envy it: I always look like I have it together. I鈥檓 one of those people for whom ceasing to smile feels unnatural. There is a dance in my step even at my worst. People find even my chaos charming and my eccentricities fascinating. I鈥檝e always loved hearing people refer to me as a happy person.

Often, the perception others have of me bears more weight in my mind than the reality I face within. I am not proud of this. My pride nearly killed me. As much as I would like to twist the narrative here and act like I have always been an advocate for suicide awareness, I think doing so would be harmful. We have to be honest because our experiences are not unique. I鈥檓 not the only one who has experienced fear that asking for help would hurt more than death. I鈥檓 not the only person who cares about how people see me. I was suicidal, but it felt like suicide was a vague concept that only existed in my mind. Asking for help would make it real. I grew up with the stigma of my father鈥檚 suicide looming over me, and there was no way in hell that I was going back to living that way. I could get through this. Other people did it, and I could, too. I could continue to manage this alone.

At this point, I could never imagine myself living to see the next day. I didn鈥檛 want to, either, because I knew that when tomorrow came it would be the same as today, and the day after would be the same as today, as would the next, ad infinitum. The happy memories I had with my family or friends were just that鈥� memories, and I would never be able to live in them again. The future I saw for myself was bleak. I couldn鈥檛 keep living like this, but my own internalized stigma made it so that I couldn鈥檛 ask for help, either. Daydreams of suicide became increasingly tangible, turning into more concrete plans鈥� no matter how much I tried to stop them.

A night came that I only remember in pieces. I called my mom. I couldn鈥檛 even speak because I was crying so hard. I didn鈥檛 have to speak, my mom knew what my tears were. It was the middle of the night, and she got in her car to drive across the state to me. She begged me to get help, and the guilt was overwhelming. I kept thinking to myself, how did I ever let it come to this. I鈥檓 just. Like. My. Dad.

My loved ones were crying and begging me to stay alive, and I barely felt attached to the earth at all. I started to feel like my longing to keep my friends and family safe was doing just the opposite: I was putting them through this same pain all over again. That was the realization I needed. Life felt so foggy, so nothing else felt clear and nothing else mattered. If I didn鈥檛 go into inpatient tonight, then I would die. My mom鈥檚 broken heart seemed to be visible in her eyes. I knew I needed to stay alive, that nothing else mattered. I would figure out the rest later.

I spent a little over a week in a psychiatric hospital, and though this was just the start of my journey, it was by far the best choice that I have ever made in my life. I remember waking up early in the morning after my first night in inpatient and seeing the sunrise. The sunrise was beautiful. I thought to myself, I almost wasn鈥檛 here for this. My best friend came to visit me. She reminded me that winter would soon be over, and we could go dance in sunflower fields forever. I almost wasn鈥檛 here for this.

Things were calm for a while. I activated my short-term disability, and for the first time in my life, I permitted myself to rest. I prioritized finding contentment in myself and escaping my performative happiness. Meaning returned slowly, and not in the ways that I expected. Meaning came through mindfulness, through trying to see each and every moment as a lifetime in its own right. Meaning came through sunrises and sunflowers that I had once neglected, knowing that had I chosen differently, I wouldn鈥檛 be here to see them. Most of all, meaning came through the realization that I was not alone in my experience.

People always tell me that asking for help was strong. They say they envy my bravery. This breaks my heart. I strive for honesty, because I no longer want people to see me as just an inherently happy person. I don鈥檛 want people to see me as brave, because bravery feels intangible to a soul in crisis. I am just me. I am here. I asked for help, and I want everyone else to know that they can do the same, too. The worries they feel about asking for help aren鈥檛 insignificant because stigma in our society is real, but it鈥檚 a journey worth taking, even if just for the sunrises and the sunflowers. Asking for help isn鈥檛 just for the brave and broken. I continue to ask for help constantly.

I know everyone鈥檚 story will be different, but I hope that someone finds hope in hearing how asking for help saved my life, it didn鈥檛 ruin it. I鈥檝e always been bothered by stories that give a definitive, enlightened ending to a story that seems like it鈥檚 still being told, so I am not going to do that. I am young and my story is not over. There are no easy fixes, and five years later I am still fighting for my mental health. My life is not a completed journey that I look at in hindsight. I still struggle. Individual, isolated days can still feel impossible, but there is no doubt that on average, I am in a better place in life than I was five years ago. Recovery isn鈥檛 linear, every day is different, but the overall arc of my life now bends toward healing. My life now has healing, meaning, sunrises, and sunflowers. And you know? That鈥檚 enough. Even if sunrises and sunflowers were the only beauty in my life, that would be enough to live for. During the nights, hold on, because come morning I get to feel warmth on my face from a giant, nearby star. I get to watch color bloom from the ground after cold winters. What more could I ever ask for?