Updated: Feb 18
I have been feeling sad for a while now. When I say a while, I do not mean a few days, weeks, or months. I have been sad for a few years. This does not mean I cannot laugh or smile, or even feel things. It just means equivocally that I cannot erase sadness from my mind and heart. I do not know what is that additive piece that can bring me peace. I have daydreams that I perhaps do not have the courage to pursue. I feel like I am stuck in this ongoing rut of a cycle that will not let me breathe properly.
I felt myself, over the past few months, heading towards a downwards spiral. I was crying incessantly every single day, experiencing panic attacks, and I felt desperation that perhaps someone at 33 living in the first world should never feel. For the first time in a year, I felt again that I did not want to live. I wanted my family and friends to find their peace, and to move on from my despair. No matter how much logic I tried to use against this desperation, the desperation was too strong. Everything would be easier without me, I would tell myself. I just wanted to die.
I felt like Saturday March 10th and the days leading up to the 11th were a mad dash to get everything done that I had wanted to get done. I absolutely wanted to soak up every one of the ‘last moments’ I had, not knowing what my 50-50 odds would be. I had written a letter a week and half earlier. It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to write. I could barely keep my composure writing it, and then re-reading it to make sure it made sense. I am sure it did not make sense. My brain was clouded already, and I felt like I had already left in mind and body.
The next morning, I was stoic. I would later tell the doctors when I woke up that I felt like I was at peace with everything, but almost robotic. I carried about my morning chores, and when the time was right, I sat down on the kitchen floor. I did not cry, I did not freak out. Like I said, I was stoic. The house was silent. I counted the pills out four at a time. I took the pills four at a time for what felt like hundreds of rounds until I blacked out. 50-50 odds.
Because of the particular pills I took, I experienced lots of hallucinations. I dreamed of meeting a blue-ish coloured God. I dreamed of being stuck in a room with a red screen coming at me back and forth. I dreamed of tackling fatal obstacle courses with partners, but we did not have voices to communicate to each other and we ended up dying. When I woke up, I saw fishes in the ceiling where nobody could see them. I saw text move on posters incessantly.
And with 50-50 odds and a bit of hope from all the amazing people in my life, I did wake up. I woke up in the mental health crisis unit, strapped up to machines. I could barely move. Everything hurt and I felt exhausted. For the next several days the doctors tried to figure out what went wrong. My doctors knew I was depressed, but they were not sure what triggered me to get to this place. I was broken in more ways than one, but in other ways it did not make sense. It was not that I did not remember everything I have that makes me so lucky, but it was that I let desperation get the better of me. I let sadness take over me. The outpouring of love I received from my loved ones reminded me for the umpteenth time how stupid I was.
So where do we go from here? My meds stay the same, but I need to figure out the source of my sadness. The doctors have encouraged and enforced me to use a safety plan at home, and to join a group for suicide survivors. I need to dig deep and figure out why I am so unhappy. And then maybe if I can figure that out, I can fight it and finally move on.
Maybe I can finally find happiness. Is it possible? Who knows.