*Sensitive Content Regarding Suicide*
When I was 19, I drank so much that I ended up taking a bottle of pills and trying to die. And I can’t say I didn’t think about doing it again in the years to follow. It’s so terrifying how depression can take over your brain and make you think the worst of yourself and others. I had it all when I attempted suicide. I had a great relationship with my mom and family, I was at college in SC with the best roommates, I had a car, a job, school was easy for me, just finished up the cheering season and my freshman year, and to any outsider, I seemed happy. But I was really struggling inside with all sorts of twisted thinking.
When I went into psychiatric treatment for the suicide attempt, I was misdiagnosed with bipolar, taken off my ADHD/ADD meds as punishment for swallowing a bottle of pills (understandable), put on a bunch of new meds, and sent on my way. I got out of treatment and was right back to the college grind. Class, work, friends, party, repeat.
First of all, “only crazy people” took meds so there was no way I was about to continue taking these pills they gave me. The stigma behind the meds was enough to get me to stop taking them 3 days out of treatment. And since I had been taken off my ADHD/ADD meds, focusing on anything productive became impossible.
Plus I was still drinking. I used to drink to try to make myself feel better… which worked. A lot of the times. But then it didn’t. Drinking for me resulted in more irrational thinking and behavior… leading to making conclusions like dying is better than living… or drunk dialing everyone I know and deflecting my own pain onto them. Hmm if only I knew then that the drinking was literally feeding my inner depression, grief, and anxiety monster.
Point of me saying all this is my cousin unfortunately succeeded in her suicide attempt in 2016. In the most brutal way possible. She was 34 years old, newly married to an awesome guy, had a nice house, great job as a nurse, and was genuinely the most beautiful person inside and out.
That year we had already lost our Uncle Jimmy to an overdose, Papa John to an alcohol related fall, and her father (my Uncle David) to a lung cancer battle that was diagnosed and lost all within months. We used to go to visit Uncle David at Tufts in Boston. I remember walking to his favorite place with my cousin in Chinatown to get him lobster to try to keep down. That’s all he could think about eating.
My cousin was sick then. I could see it. The sadness about her. But I figured of course she’s sad. Everybody’s sad.
At Uncle David’s services, I could really see it. She was frail. Grief was clearly eating her alive. She was still so sweet. So caring about everyone else and how they were handling everything. We made plans for me to come visit her and her husband. I blew off those plans to continue drinking with my friends. I never saw her again.
Somewhere within those months, one of my best friends passed away also. I was basically getting punched in the face with grief that year. Uncle Jimmy, Uncle David, Papa John, Pat, now my cousin.
My mind threw out any and all rational thinking at that point. Rachelle killed herself… I almost killed myself… am I gonna do it? I legitimately thought like this. I took the meaning of YOLO to the extreme. I fed into the fact that I could die at any moment and began acting even more reckless than before. All I wanted was “a good time” that would end in explosive episodes after enough drinks.
The reason I’m sharing all this is because there’s a lot to learn here out of some really tragic situations. I don’t want sympathy and I am definitely not making excuses for mine or anyone’s actions. I just want to share my experiences to hopefully prevent the past from repeating itself as much. I do not blame myself for anyone’s death… I’m just using my situation as an example..
When I was 19, if I had accepted help and didn’t consider myself crazy for trying psych meds, I would have been sober and alert to pick up on some of my cousin’s red flags. I wouldn't have been ripping nips on our walks to Chinatown from Tufts. I wouldn’t have been shitfaced at her dad’s wake. I could have listened more. I could have not ditched her to continue drinking at a bar.
I could have been there for my sister after that, but instead pushed her (who has never done anything wrong to me) and my Dad out of my life for years at a time. I never even thought about how my sister felt about all this until I was sober. My brain wasn’t even capable of truly caring about other peoples feelings at that point. I was too in my own head with how to process my own feelings. Instead of trusting any professional help, I self-medicated with alcohol… pushing everyone I loved away from me… unknowingly feeding my depression. There’s so many could haves and should haves. Things could be very different.
No one talks about it. And I feel weird or like I’m exposing deep family secrets by talking about it. But why? People publicly talk about their other medical diagnosis’s all the time. If mental health was more openly talked about or there wasn’t a stigma about medication, some other 19 year old in a psych ward may be more open to further treatment. Therapy. Cutting out alcohol/ substance use. Getting to the root of the problem at baseline instead of diagnosing based off someone experiencing withdrawal symptoms. Maybe if that someone sees this, they will think twice about throwing out the meds and accept help. It’s hard, but it’s worth it.
If someone’s acting out of control, try to understand why and offer help or an ear to listen. They’re probably in a lot of pain inside. No one will accept help until they’re ready, but anything is better than gossiping about how crazy they’re acting and doing nothing. Hannah Wilson saved my life. She saw the good in me when I couldn’t even see the good in myself. The combination of knowing that someone didn’t think I was the complete piece of shit and me feeling like absolute death was enough to finally accept the help I needed and stay sober and properly medicated for these past 4 months.
Family members do not need to feel responsible, guilty or ashamed if their loved one is struggling with mental health issues or addiction. Maybe that’s half the reason people don’t want to talk about it? Maybe there’s shame of “failure”? Depression is a disease. Addiction is a disease. Medication helps. Having a mental health diagnosis does not mean you are crazy. Get help. My brain told me to kill myself and now my thinking is so clear that I could never even IMAGINE thinking like that. If I knew I’d feel this good working through my problems instead of running from them, I would’ve done it a long time ago. It’s terrifying how quickly things can spiral out of control.
#breakthestigma #talkaboutit #mentalhealthawareness #SuicideAwareness #yourenotalone
