Note: I have chosen to share this post to reach out to others who might be suffering in a similar way. I do not wish to receive pity or sympathy from anyone who took the time out of their day to read this post.
Warning! The following story contains descriptions of suicide and self-harm. If you or someone you know is struggling with depression or mental health issues, you are not alone. National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988
January 18th, 2025. The day my depression won.
Anyone who struggles with mental health problems knows that they are unending, ruthless, and intrusive. Similar to that of an unending war, constantly draining supplies from both sides, existing only with the intent of causing as much harm as possible. Often times things seem hopeless, like the suffering is never going to end. Admittedly, it won’t. Extreme cases of depression and anxiety stick with you forever. We can only learn how to live with them instead of taking away that very life that all humans strive to keep intact.
On January 18th the thoughts of suicide had completely encompassed my mind. I had been struggling with this overwhelming depression since I was fourteen, and the years of suffering had finally taken its toll on me. When you seek therapy or psychiatric help for these issues they often won’t let you leave without a safety plan in place. An actual physical piece of paper that lists ways you can cope and emergency numbers to call. I have more safety plans scattered around my room than I can count, so I’ve been privy to a lot of different coping mechanisms for a long time. However, January 18th was different. As I settled into the familiar routine of ruminating on my life, having a panic attack, and eventually cutting myself I took notice of something strange. Something vastly different than the other hundred times this had happened. The cutting stopped working. I continued to slash and claw at my leg for hours, desperate for the feeling of relief I so desperately desired, desperately needed. Yet it never came. My last resort method had lost all effectiveness. That was the moment I felt my life had ended. I had run out of ammunition to ward off this horrible darkness that had been torturing me for so many years. I cried, wrestling with the idea that my next breakdown would surely be my last. With this, I saw no other option. I drove myself to the emergency room that same day, and they admitted me into an intensive in-patient treatment program. Despite volunteering, I was devastated. I cried in the ambulance on the way there. Then began sobbing uncontrollably, as I used my shaking hands to sign off on all the paperwork. Then once officially inside, having arrived at midnight, I slipped into my new bed and cried myself to sleep. My eyes had begun to burn from all the crying. When I awoke the next morning I had briefly forgotten where I was. I even for a moment thought that it was all a dream, but alas, it was not. Something is traumatizing about being treated less than human. That’s always the give and take of these kinds of facilities. Nearly all of my possessions had been taken away. My phone, nearly every article of clothing I had packed, the stuffed animal my mom had packed me, and even my shoes were taken away. Anything with strings was deemed a danger. The only things we could deem as “personal belongings” were a composition notebook and a small pack of markers they had given us. We were not permitted to use pens or pencils. I struggled to find joy in writing, something that usually captivated me and allowed me to express myself. Between using markers that bled through the pages and my now shaky hands thanks to all of the new medication, writing was difficult. Sleeping was even worse. We all wore Bluetooth-accessible armbands and staff would have to come into our rooms, scan our bands, and check on us every fifteen minutes. Not to mention the other poor patients who suffered from problems worse than mine. Multiple times someone would have a freakout, screaming, slamming things, and even attempting to fight staff. Not only was I scared of them but I felt as though a small piece of my humanity was taken away at the thought of the staff being scared of me. The idea that just holding a pen could frighten someone is haunting, and I fear that feeling will never go away. I felt like some sort of wild animal, under constant surveillance. There were small comforts though, at least to me. The most prominent being the fact that so many different folks from different groups were in the same boat as me. Folks in my unit were vastly different ages, races, and personalities. For the first time in my life, it truly felt like depression was just a disease that could infect anyone and not a dark presence hovering over me. While their program did grant me a lot of useful tools in my continued fight, there will always be a small part of me permanently lost from that experience. I sit at home now, content, yet… damaged.
We all strive to be happy. This is all we can do as humans. None of us chose to be here and yet we have this obligation to exist. My perspective and attitude have changed greatly since this experience but that doesn’t necessarily mean I have a positive outlook on life. I won’t lie, I still think existence is cruel, and life is not some “gift” that we have to cherish. Life for me is a war. A never-ending war. I on the one side, striving for happiness. My mental illness on the other, doing its best to kill me. I am now determined to live and I confidently say fuck anything or anyone who dares to stand in my way.
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