Day Of
Most people don’t know the day they’re going to die, and the people who choose to kill themselves are rarely the exception.
I’m sure books and TV series have caused an unrealistic expectation about planned suicides, interpreting them as carefully crafted deaths to hurt others or become a martyr. I’m sure the idea of leaving as part of a lesson seems sort of thrilling in the most morbid of ways.
But, truth is, I woke up one morning, and I didn’t know I was going to kill myself that night.
I had wanted to die long before that night. I had already begun to entertain the notion of death and dying years before. But you never really expect you’re going to try to figure out what’s on the other side, certainly not when your whole life is ahead of you–when there’s school the next day, tests to study for, and rooms to clean. When there’s still so much life to live, you don’t expect to choose death.
Therefore, I can only say this: it only takes a moment.
For me, that moment was alcohol.
I don’t believe a lot people are sane and sober when they really want to die, when they feel it in their bones. I wasn’t exactly drunk, but I definitely wasn’t sober either when I decided my time was up. I also wasn’t alone.
I was with my housemates, drinking rum and piña coladas, and we were having the time of our lives. We played truth or dare and watched movies that wouldn’t have been half as funny if we were sober. I was finishing a dream-catcher and fumbling with the string. It was a nice night, a good night.
When everyone went to sleep – that’s when the thoughts really settled.
The thing about suicidal thoughts is that you have them constantly, insistently. They never really leave you, but they’re quieter sometimes. Other times they become louder and more persistent, determined to be heard. Those are the nights when depression gets worse. Those are the days when you realize that something’s wrong.
I already knew something was wrong, I had known for months. But psychologists and psychiatrists are expensive, and I couldn’t bother my parents too much. I suppose I should have before things got to what they did.
I had over two bottles of sleeping pills, because I regularly had trouble sleeping. So, once everyone was asleep, I was left alone to decide what to do with the bottles in front of me.
There’s little evaluation to be done. The pros and cons aren’t even matters to consider when you’ve hit rock bottom. It’s more of what do you want to do with yourself. That night, I wanted to die. More than that, I wanted to let it all go. My arms and weight were all far too heavy, my head hurt too much, and the voices were too loud for me to let them go on. I’d already cut myself, and it wasn’t enough.
I suppose that’s when you crave your own death, when hurting yourself isn’t enough, there is a need for a greater punishment.
And that was all it took for me to down four handfuls of sleeping pills with my last glass of alcohol.
I threw the empty bottles in the trashcan, and left for bed, hoping I’d never have to wake up with that feeling again.
Waking up, however, felt worse. All of us have nights we don’t remember, when we wake up disoriented, dazed and confused. But this time, the most confusing part – I guess – was waking up at all.
Day After It’s strange, I suppose. It’s not how you see it in the movies, or how its portrayed in books. Not everyone comes rushing towards you, and there’s no guarantee you won’t wake up alone. It’s also incredibly anticlimactic. While I did not remember any of the previous events, or if there were any previous events at all, and while I did not know where I was, I had one clear focus: my phone. And I suppose that’s the only sane thing that happened after I realized I was alive and well, in a too-lit makeshift room, alone.
I will say this: the feeling comes all at once or not at all. And when you expected not to feel anything, ever again, you don’t take kindly to the former.
Once I realized I was in a hospital bed, everything came a little too quickly. My feet were cold, my hair felt greasy, my eyes were watery, and my mouth had a particularly strong taste I couldn’t pinpoint. Part of me wanted to scream, and the rest of me wanted to go back to sleep and not have to think about what was going on.
Processing information tends to be tricky when you don’t expect any information.
The next step is being greeted, and, dare I say, this is the second worst part of waking up after a night like mine. My father came in a while after I had opened my eyes, and the only word I have to describe that experience is: painful.
Everyone has a complicated relationship with their parents, and I’m no exception. My father was the last person I wanted to see in that moment, and as soon as I saw him, I expected a fight. I expected reprimands, anger, frustration… attacks. His daughter had tried to kill herself, after all. Instead, he smiled and told me he was happy I was up, and that he’d brought a priest with him.
This is the worst part: a Christian priest beside your bed, praying for your condition, when you so clearly despise the Church. I only speak for myself when I say this, of course, but my emotional state only worsened at the sight of a priest at the edge of my bed, eyeing me as some kind of sinner. I had had enough pain.
The tricky part, I suppose, after waking up is dealing with the feelings. I woke up with fear, and my father sparked hatred. It is anticlimactic, but it also certainly is dreadful.
As soon as the nurses got word that I had woken up, the discharge was all ready to be set, and I still didn’t have my phone. My dad and I were both informed I was to go straight to a mental health facility, and that these cases were not to be taken lightly.
The Hospital
Shock has a way of numbing the mind. Remembering it now, everything felt too vivid. The coldness inside the car, the brightness of the hospital’s lights, all too invasive, too strong. Being forced back when you’re not ready has its consequences, and, truth be told, the system has ways of making sure you’re stable before going back to the real world. Mental health facilities help with that, as long as you let yourself be helped.
The hard part about letting yourself be helped, however, has a lot more to do with the system, and a lot less to do with your desire to get better. Getting to the hospital is easy, but it’s only after checking in that the need to leave becomes desperate.
There’s a reality not many are exposed to, and mental health treatments and facilities are included in that hidden reality. I wasn’t aware mental health hospitals existed in Puerto Rico, much less ones with a teenage division. Apparently, this is the case, and they even include a pool for good measure.
I arrived there in pajamas, and a blanket. I still wasn’t over the cold that I kept feeling, so I had decided to stick with it. Once there, I actually got to see my family. My mother was there, and my uncle and sisters. This is the moment when family greets you, before you’re taken from them.
Being checked in is a heavy process, to say the least. Only one adult per teenager and there are stages you must go through alone. The laces of my sweats were cut off because they represented some sort of danger, and I was not allowed hair ties.
People ask a lot of questions, I suppose that’s their job. I wasn’t able to answer most of them because apparently two days had passed since I had taken the pills, and I wasn’t aware of anything that happened afterwards. My mother answered most of them, I answered the rest, and I was rushed into a room for some sort of inspection.
This is the hard part, when you have to stand naked in front of a nurse, bend forward cough – just to make sure you’re not bringing any drugs. In a piece of paper with a human silhouette they mark all the parts you’ve already cut, hurt, or bruised. I’ve never felt more dehumanized in my life.
To be entirely fair, things aren’t so bad once you’re inside. You’re not allowed phones or visits (except on Fridays). The movies and books have to be reviewed before being let in. All therapy is group therapy (which sucks when you’re surrounded by people who haven’t had similar experiences). And the boys and girls each have their own separate wing.
You’re given meds, forced to socialize, and participate in all group activities as part of the qualifications for your discharge. It is both draining and humiliating.
The nice thing, I suppose, is that you’re safe from the outside world. Nothing can come in and nothing can go out – so you’re entirely isolated. It brings some strange version of peace and serenity where you don’t need to worry about anything other than the cold room at night.
The bad thing about it is that you learn to carry your suicide attempt with you, it defines you somehow. Every time you tell the story because someone asks, or when they insist you share with the group, they teach you to define yourself by your experience.
But everyone that has gone through it agrees – the best part is when you get to leave, and finally get some decent food.
What I Learned
The first couple of weeks back in the real world, you take pleasure in the small things you were deprived of while trapped inside the hospital. Little things like good food, your parents, your phone, and music that’s not constantly on the radio, suddenly become sources of joy that you weren’t aware could be so vivid.
The first couple of months, life is still hard, and you’re still forced to walk around with your “I tried to die and I failed” badge by re-telling your story to those that ought to be of help. It is during those months that you learn to let go of that badge, and replace it with one that says Survivor – because you’ve survived every day since then, and will continue to do so.
It’s been over a year since I tried to kill myself, and it’s safe to say that life is a lot different now.
I still don’t remember those two days in the hospital after I took the pills, nor am I completely clear on everything I was thinking that night. I still resent both hospitals for the lack of tact when dealing with the situation, but all in all, it is safe to say that I am not the girl I used to be.
They say that every experience is a learning experience, and while this past year hasn’t been the kindest, it has been one of growth and perseverance. I’ve learned that it’s not about regret, because although I don’t regret what I did, I am responsible for the aftermath. That sense of responsibility is what has inspired me to learn from all that happened, and share the things I’ve found. My greatest discovery being, how life has plenty to offer, even when you grow blind to it.
My friends, even as they were the ones who were most affected, have been my guidance and support; they have taught me how friendship means that you stay through the struggle because you choose to, not because you have to.
My family, even as they resented me and cried themselves to sleep, have taught me that they’re there to help and that my best interests are their best interests.
My university life has kept me sane, and reminds me every day that even if all else fails, I have one thing to live for- myself.
Life goes on, regardless of what I choose to do with mine. It is imperative to remember that I am important because the things that I will do in this world are meant for me. Regardless of whatever individual notion of destiny we all have, my strongest anchor is that the world wouldn’t be the same without me. I say the same to you: even when it feels like life is just walking through mist, understand that you are important because whatever you’re going to do in the world – no one else is going to do it for you.
In the end, it all comes down to you. By changing your own life, your own view, you change the world. I’ve learned to change my own world every day, and yes, life is kinder now because of it. Do what you will with your life, just know that your life happens to you, and others, too.
In light of Suicide Awareness Week, we will provide our readers with articles displaying narratives of thought, self-reflection, and the reality of the emotions, actions, and struggles we face as students but don’t often discuss. If you or a loved one are going through a difficult time, you’re not alone.
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