I tried to kill myself three years ago today. I was miserable, and had been, for years. At that time, I had accepted that it was just who I was. Some people are outgoing. Some are funny and some are serious; I was/would always be sad. When I think of it now, I can’t fathom the pain I must have been in to make such a decision.
The attempt, of course, was unsuccessful; too much blood. The thin flesh of my wrist hung open, peeled away from the wound like plastic melts away from fire. Most people never see the inside of their body. I saw the network of ligaments and tendons, fat and (I think) bone; I freaked and called 911. I almost passed out from blood loss.
A few days later, after the hospital, the stitches, and the social worker, I was watching TV. Some psychologists and statisticians proclaimed January 23rd the saddest day of the year. The combination of cold weather, mounting debt from the holidays, and failed New Year’s resolutions add up to one crap day.
So that’s why it happened; a wrong place/wrong time scenario.
No. I, like 19 million other Americans, suffered from depression, which is ironic when you consider a huge part of depression is feeling alone; and not just feeling it, believing so completely you’re alone. But we are not. Thirty percent of all women are depressed; it’s a common disease, but often goes untreated. No matter how hard we try to push it below the surface, it manifests itself. And by the time it does, for some people, it’s too late.
There are so many ways to treat depression, but the first step is knowledge. Know you are not alone in feeling this way; these thoughts are not permanent. It took almost dying for me to realize this. It doesn’t have to come to that.