Four days ago, I received a phone call that a good friend of mine had died by suicide. I wasn't really sure what to think. I have been hit with so many overwhelming emotions. There has been great sadness. Anger. Guilt. Anxiety. This has definitely triggered some of my own mental health symptoms. My friend Shelley lived with bipolar 1 disorder and had been dealing with that for over 40 years. I know what that is like as I also live with bipolar 1 disorder and OCD. When I'm in a depressive state, it is so hard to believe that it will ever end. I am inundated with intrusive thoughts that perhaps I'd be better off dead. I latch onto these thoughts with a grip so strong that it causes my knuckles to bleed. At first the thoughts race through my cerebral cortex, bouncing off of the inside of my skull. Then the thoughts turn to molasses, oozing slowly between the neural connections in my brain. My heart pounds in my chest. I can hear my blood coursing through my veins, sloshing in my ears, reminding me that I am in fact still alive, even though I wish I wasn't. The hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I flush, my skin turns red and I'm on fire. Then my stomach starts to churn, and I begin to vomit. Frantic, I scramble around to find something, anything, to ease my discomfort. I begin to stuff my face, which only leads to more vomiting, self-loathing, and guilt. Then I spend money, whether I have it to spend or not. All of this goes on at the speed of lightening, despite the fact that I'm moving at a snail's pace. It does not make sense.
Even though I'm doing well in general right now, it is in these moments that my mind turns towards suicidal thoughts. It's not so much that I want to die as much as it is that I don't want to experience any more pain. I would rather deal with physical pain than emotional pain. For many years I turned to self-harming behaviors such as cutting to give me that release. Like drinking, that stopped working for me and no longer brought relief. By working with a good therapist that I trust and with my psychiatrist and case manager, I have learned some coping skills to help me get through those difficult times. However, that does not always help when I'm in the depths of despair. Knowing that I have choices other than suicide doesn't occur to me in those moments. The pull to escape is far too strong. On Sunday October 2, 2005, I felt like I just could not go on any longer. Despite having mental health care and family and friends who loved me, I took 5 full bottles of my different psychiatric medications in an attempt to end my life. I was found unconscious in the street. Someone called for an ambulance, and I was intubated on the scene before being transported to the hospital. I spent several days on the ventilator, in a coma. The doctors had told my dad to call the family because they were not sure that I was going to survive. All I remember was that for a brief moment, before I lost consciousness, I thought to myself "Oh my God! I've really done it this time!". And I was scared. There was no "white light" calling me home. There was just blackness. I was lucky to have survived.
People kept asking me why I didn't reach out. Friends and family reassured me that they loved me and would have done anything for me if only I would have called them. I thought that when I heard that Shelley had died. Why didn't she call me first? Why didn't I see this coming? Even though she lives out of town, and I hadn't talked to her in about 3 weeks I felt like I should have known. Me, of all people, should have known. Why didn't I see this coming? I'm angry. Not at her. At myself. At bipolar disorder. At God. This isn't fair. None of this is fair. In fact, it fucking sucks. I'm hurting. I know myself well enough to realize that I have to reach out to others for support as I deal with my emotions. My therapist happened to be out of the office for the remainder of the week when this happened, so I called and spoke with the therapist on call. That was a big step for me. However, after that initial phone call and a Facebook post where I encouraged people to reach out, I find myself wanting to pull inside again. That is my comfort zone. I don't want to feel right now. After one sleepless night I've spent the last 3 days doing almost nothing other than sleep and eat. I can't cry. I'm afraid that if I do, I won't stop or that the pain will rip me open if I try to let a little bit of it out. Bipolar disorder is a daunting beast. I wish that Shelley would have reached out to me before taking all of those pills. But I get why she didn't. The pain just became more than she could bear the other night. Since moving to Lafayette in 1998 I've lost 3 friends to suicide. My serious attempt was 19 years ago. Was that the last time I had suicidal thoughts? No, definitely not. Sometimes I've felt that pull very strongly. Over the years, I've gotten much better at reaching out, even though it goes against my grain. My default is almost always to pull in. But as hard as it is to reach out, I've found that it is crucial in saving my life. It is my hope that others will find the strength to hang on. My therapist is always encouraging me to sit with the discomfort because it will pass. It is ALWAYS okay to call me, anytime, day or night! I'd rather get a call for help than another call at 4:00 a.m. telling me that you have died. I will miss you, my friend.
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