I really did not want to write this. I did not want to write this because it seemed very opportunistic after two celebrity suicides, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain.
But if I didn’t talk, I would still continue the stigma of mental illness. I would be part of the problem.
Something really bothered me with the media coverage. It’s all the talk about suicide prevention. That’s not the answer. The people who don’t suffer from mental illnesses don’t understand the everyday struggle.
I don’t like that wording, “suicide prevention.” Because once you do it, it’s all over. It’s not like other types of illness prevention — “cancer prevention,” “heart disease prevention.” Suicide isn’t a disease. It’s an act. The focus is on the act and not the disease.
It should never get so bad that a person is committing suicide. We will never have to prevent suicide if we don’t let people slip that far down.
The answer to this is more focus on mental health in general. Encouraging people to go and seek out help — no matter their age, race, financial status, etc. The grips of mental illnesses is not discriminatory.
The worst part is that even with help, the battle with mental illness is an every day struggle.
I called the suicide hotline a couple days after my 24th birthday. It was a great party. I have great and supportive friends and families. I go to therapy and take my medication regularly. But then something happened. I did something I wasn’t particularly proud of and felt immense guilt and shame. Depression and anxiety can make you do some shitty, unexplainable things to other people but that doesn’t excuse the action. I had hurt someone I cared about. I didn’t know what to do. I felt helpless.
I had been doing so well. But for all of the hours of therapy, countless pills, the walks in the woods or motivational quotes I had read, it was no match for the triggers that occurred.
It all came coming back. The whispers of doubt, self-loathing, guilt and shame. I felt like I did not deserve to live. The pain was so unbearable. I had no means to kill myself. But in my desperation, I called the suicide hotline.
A woman named Delia answered.
I laughed and told her I didn’t know how these worked. I had never called before. She asked me to tell me what was wrong. I told her what had happened. I just started crying and she said I did not really want to kill myself because I called.
She was right. I didn’t. I just needed someone to talk to. Because I felt alone in that moment and I did not want anyone I knew to know I was hurting — because if I told them, that would hurt them. I don’t want to hurt people anymore.
These are the thoughts of someone considering suicide. I had considered suicide when my depression was way worse, back in 2015. I did not call the suicide hotline then. I just went straight to my parents’ room, looking for my dad’s glock, intending to blow my brains out.
I think they knew because it wasn’t in the case and they must have hidden it from me. I just sat there and cried all night in my underwear.
I’ve never told this story to them — and if Mom and Dad are reading this, I’m sorry.
So, suicide prevention wouldn’t have even worked then. I didn’t even call the hotline. I was taking antidepressants. But I just felt alone and as if I didn’t deserve to live.
I still struggle with these thoughts everyday. Even with my antidepressants taking away most of the thoughts, even with my weekly therapist, even with meditating, even with a privileged comfy life, even with parents supporting me, even with the talents I’ve been blessed with, even with all this, I still feel worthless and unworthy of living… sometimes.
But I’m proud to say I can say “sometimes” now. I can say sometimes now because I don’t feel like that all the time. I can say sometimes now because I told my parents I was diagnosed with depression and they understood. I can say sometimes now because I asked for help even though I thought it wasn’t there. It was. And still is.
Suicide prevention is hard work. If you’re suffering from mental illness, I know it’s hard. It may seem like it will never get better — as. cliché. as it is — it does. But you need to seek help.
Once you get help, that’s only the beginning. Next comes the hard work of finding a therapist, worrying about how to pay for it, going to it regularly, trying out one medication, having bad side effects from that, trying new ones, remembering trauma, journaling your feelings, buying things you don’t need, hurting people, getting hurt, getting frustrated with yourself, getting better, then getting worse again, then getting better. It’s an uphill climb. But I swear, it is worth it.
If you are thinking about suicide and reading this, please, please, please, call for help. Write a response to this. Call a friend. Call 1-800-273-8255. Go outside and talk to the first person you see. I want you to live. Because you deserve it. You deserve to live.
And to those friends and family of people with mental illness, be understanding. Things they do might not make sense much. But you just being there to listen means the world to them. In their world of not being heard or understood, you were there to hear them. You might not think that helps, but it does.
Anthony Bourdain’s suicide made me realize something. I’m sad it took me this long to realize it. This is going to be a lifelong struggle. The dude was 61 and had an infinitely better life than I do. But he still did it. My recent breakdown was proof that I still have a lot of work ahead of me.
But I know I don’t have to do it alone. And you don’t have to either. Reading the countless brave pieces on Medium, there’s hope for change. I believe we can save people from committing suicide. It takes a community that helps each other to do that.
Let’s help each other until “suicide prevention” is a phrase we’ll never have to see again.
