Suicide Prevention Month

 September is suicide prevention month. Every year it comes around, and every year I have a new story to tell. This year my story is darker than any before - I want to say, "but also more hopeful," but I don't know just yet if I believe that.

In June of this year I was admitted to a mental hospital. I was planning to kill myself and reached out to my doctor as one last chance at life. She didn't let me go home. I could either drive myself to the hospital or be taken by ambulance. Suddenly my life was spinning completely out of control and I grasped at what small bits of control I had left. I chose to drive myself. 

I think that was the worst day of my life. 

Everything went by in a blur once I arrived at the hospital. It was a whirlwind of paperwork and talking with nurses and social workers. My belongings were taken and locked up. Everything I had with me and everything I was wearing was checked, my naked body was examined, my shoelaces and the string of my hoodie were taken away. I frantically texted family and friends to assure them of my safety before having my phone taken away. I cried through the whole process. I knew my life was going to end, it was the only way for the pain and emptiness to end. But I was absolutely terrified of dying and these people said they could keep me safe, and maybe even help. 

My  room was sterile and unfriendly. Everything slanted, built into the ground. Nowhere to hide under or behind, nothing to hang off of. The whole room could be seen from the hallway and the bathroom had just a curtain that didn't even reach the floor so some part of me could be seen at all times. The sheets and blankets were thin and breathable to reduce chances of suffocation. Nurses checked in every 20 minutes for safety.  I wanted to laugh - this couldn't be real - I felt like I was looking at my life from the outside, watching a character in a TV show get swept up in things outside their control and land somewhere they were comically out of place.

Everything hit me suddenly, my consciousness jerking back into my body, the shock of it all sending me into a fit of sobs. 

Another blur of meeting other patients, going to meals, outside time, and attempts at sleep went by all while I shifted back and forth between crying uncontrollably and going completely numb. At some point I saw a psychiatrist, a doctor, a nutritionist... 

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, acute depression, borderline personality disorder, PTSD, and acute anxiety.

At first I felt like I was just being covered in labels, like my self was being erased. Eventually I would come to accept the diagnoses 

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I started this post in September 2023 but was still a bit too raw to finish it. I was still just learning to cope with the diagnoses I had recently been given. I was still recovering from the chronic fatigue that came from being utterly emotionally and physically drained. The toll of my experience in the hospital was significant physically, emotionally, and financially. But I was catapulted into healing in a way I had not thought possible before. 

Living with the mental illnesses I have was scary when undiagnosed. The feeling of instability, of having emotions that I just couldn't get under control no matter how hard I tried, was terrible. I didn't like getting diagnosed, it felt like my identity was being reduced to a bunch of letters. But getting the help I needed, the right medications and therapeutic treatments, has been completely life changing. The experience of stability and the ability to control my responses to intense feelings is something I am wonderfully grateful for. 

Getting help is... helpful. I am so grateful that I got the help I needed. I don't want to discourage anyone from getting the help they need. But my actual experience in the mental hospital was terrible. I wish there was another way I could have been helped out of the "acute distress" (as the hospital people called it) I was in. The staff was overworked and under equipped to help the variety of patients they oversaw. There were two daily mandatory group therapy sessions and several times the tech who helped monitor our vitals and had no mental healthcare training was called in to help cover. I was physically safe and getting the medical treatment I needed but emotionally and mentally I was not well cared for. When I hear people joke about "going on a grippy sock vacation," it makes me furious. The mental hospital, in my experience, is a stressful place that did not even give me socks. I was stuck wearing the jeans and sweatshirt I checked in with for three days until the clothes a friend dropped off got cleared by security. 

My mental health journey has been a messy one. Getting help for my mental health has been difficult, painful, and expensive. I think when we talk about things like suicide prevention it is important to talk about how much better it gets. But also, perhaps for the sake of the people who are supporting our journeys, it is important to talk about just how difficult the process of getting help is.