*depression, suicide, suicide attempt, mental illness trigger warning*
September is suicide prevention month, as many of you I'm sure are aware. In the spirit of that and the walk I'll be participating in for the 4th year this Sunday, I think it's time to open up and tell my personal story. If for no other reason than I'm here to tell it.
I remember the first time I had the itch to escape: nine years old on a bike with a Justice gift card and a box of Triscuits on my back. I remember the conversation with my mom when I had to admit that I wanted to die at only eleven years old. I remember being admitted to the hospital for the first time...and the second, and the third, all in my sixth grade year. I remember turning 12 in the mental hospital with a cupcake the chefs cooked for me and a visitation from my parents that happened to land on the right day. And with over 4 years under my belt since I was admitted for the first time, I remember the date of my first attempt: August 28, 2015.
Little did I know, my journey was far from over. Then came months of intensive therapy that I was involved in 12 hours each week. Medications. Misdiagnoses. Lies. Minimal hope and low expectations. Everyone stopped thinking I would survive, including me.
And after the 6+ months of therapy and an outcome of something resembling stability, there was a divorce. And a dark depressive episode. And a twice a day self-harm habit. And a mother who was as suicidal as I was. And it was at that point that I realized there wasn't necessarily a light at the end of a dark tunnel as much as the ups and downs of ocean waves, throwing me every which way.
This isn't a story about how I overcame it, because it's likely going to be a lifelong process. And if I'm being honest, the last time I struggled with suicidal thoughts was at 15 years old. I'm 16 now, as of last week. And I haven't forgotten the feeling, either. When you spend the whole day wondering what the point of life is and fantasizing about how to end it, it's hard to forget those scars. During those months, the hardest thing was opening my eyes and breathing every day. It was choosing to continue breathing. Every day, choosing not to end my life.
So how did I get from that, to the person you guys know me as--inspired, accomplished, ambitious, and passionate? I woke up every morning. And I kept breathing, no matter how fucking painful it was. I put one foot in front of the other even when I had hundreds of pounds on my shoulders and my feet were bleeding, covered in blisters.
It's still the hardest thing I've ever done--opening my eyes each morning and inhaling another breath. Again, how did I get from that to this? It's simple. I had done the most difficult thing I'd ever have to, survived my own suicidal thoughts. So starting a business at sixteen years old felt pretty damn easy in comparison. And now, I guess we're here.
And you would never know how good it feels to be here.
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