It has taken me a while to really get into this whole blog thing. It's actually a lot harder than I imagined. Phrasing things in a way that is both honest and not "airing the dirty laundry" is a tricky balance, especially when this topic is filled with dirty laundry. This post in particular is difficult. I've tried writing it a thousand ways, but it never does it justice. I don't think I ever will be able to express it perfectly through words, but it's finally time for me to just do it.
I started to rip the band-aid off when I first posted about the psych ward. Yada yada- I am a crazy person. Except, I'm not. And somewhere, a part of me recognizes that I'm not. But another part of me still wants to recognize that I am a little bit crazy. We are all a little crazy in our own way, but my crazy is one that people can't quite understand until they have "walked a mile" so to speak. So as you read the rest of this post, try not to read this through your eyes. Read it though my eyes, because my experiences and thoughts won't make sense through the lenses of your own perspective.
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Two nights before I checked into the psych ward, I had a psychotic episode. That's what they called it. Leading up to that night, I had been struggling with intense depression. After months of feeling invisible, worthless, tired, confused, and jumbled, I just couldn't take it any longer. I don't know what it was that night that set me off, but somewhere in the late, dark hours of Provo, I gave up. I stopped fighting the thoughts inside my head and gave in to them. I let them take control and I lost my ability to think rationally. I couldn't talk myself down or think my way through it in a normal, sane way. It wasn't the first night I felt like giving up, but this night was different. This night was the night where I no longer felt like I had a reason to stay.
There are only 2 reasons that I know of for checking into a psych ward: you are a danger to yourself or you are a danger to others. I have never been a danger to others. However, that night, I was a significant danger to myself. I had what they call "suicidal ideation", AKA the fascination with, obsessive thoughts over, and acting on suicidal tendencies. It's funny (in a 100% NOT funny way) because I can't really remember that night very clearly. I hoped that as I worked on these posts and wrote about it, more pieces of memory would come back. They never have. It's something that honestly changed my life forever, but it's all very fuzzy. I vented this frustration to my best friend's mom once and she looked at me silently for a moment before answering. In a quieter, more reserved voice that she saves for her most serious conversations, she looked me in the eye and said something I will never forget. "Rach, I think it's probably a good thing you can't remember that night. Our bodies are built to protect us. You will remember it if you need to." It's taken me a long time to accept that.
That night, the one where I went crazy, was the night that qualified me for the psych ward. I made decisions that I regret every day. That night, I made a very real attempt to take my own life. I don't have any other way to put it, I wish I did. I wish I had some sort of eloquent way to phrase it so it doesn't sound so... trivial. I wish there was a way to make it less ugly, less harsh. I haven't said those explicit words too often. I allude to it, but those exact words aren't frequently used. Maybe I'm ashamed of it or maybe because once I say it, there is no way to ever take it back. Maybe it's because we use those words in such a cavalier way that they have lost their meaning. I guess it just makes it feel less significant. I don't know. But it scares me enough to take an entire post to attempt to rationalize it... even though the whole point is that it wasn't rational. Suicide happens in the dark corners of our lives and is talked about in hushed tones. But just because it *usually* happens when no one is looking, it still happens. The old saying "if a tree falls in a forest..." doesn't apply here. We can't ignore it and pretend it isn't a thing. It's a thing. We have to start talking about it because if we don't, it will continue to happen. So, here is my story- the dark, ugly, harsh one (that I am desperately trying to make less dark, ugly, and harsh).
It was terrifying to wake up the next morning with a hazy recollection of what took place. It was even more terrifying to realize that I had almost made a decision that was irreversible. And even though I woke up and still had those thoughts pulling me down, I woke up. In doing so, I finally realized that I wanted those thoughts to go away. I realized that I couldn't keep living this way, because it wasn't really living. I realized that for the past few months, I had been walking around as if I had already died. It was in these early morning moments that I realized that I needed serious help and that this "phase" was not a phase. This phase was leading me down a path I wasn't ready to walk down. I knew that if I didn't do something, things would continue to get worse.
I was fortunate in all of this to have my amazing friend/role model/hero, Allison. Although I cannot remember what exactly I said to trigger the red flags, Allison recognized the warning signs in me. The morning after the psychotic break, she called me. We talked about what had happened and she presented me with two options. It's all pretty fuzzy still, but I do remember parts of this conversation. Allison has always been very good at helping me recognize my options. As a part of the depression, you often feel stuck and option-less. One way for me to feel less trapped is to recognize that I can still do whatever I want. I am not stuck. However, that morning was different. I was in a different situation with different, real problems going on. Allison knew that. So when she calmly relayed my options, it made sense that my options were limited this time. "I am worried. I worry because I live 10 1/2 hours away. If something happens, I can't get to you in time. It will be too late. I'm sorry, but Rachel, you really only have two options. You can drop out of school and come live with me, or you can drop out of school and check yourself in somewhere. Either way, it's time for you to take a break from school." Allison had been trying to get me to do either of those things for a while. She felt strongly that I needed to hit a reset button. But I was too proud to do it. This time was different though. I didn't fight the fact that I needed to leave school. She was right- if something happened, she would be too late. I did fight the psych ward every step of the way. I believe my exact response to the psych ward was "no no no no no no no no no no".
Obviously, my opinion of the psych ward changed as I continued to go throughout that day. It took a lot of serious conversations with many important people in my life for me to realize that I really did need professional help. Going and living with Allison would have been a good step in the right direction, but it would have been difficult. It would have put a lot of strain on many people's lives. And it would have been an unfair situation to put her family into. That ultimately was the reason that led me to check into a psych ward. I couldn't put that pressure on her. I couldnt force her to take on the dead shell that used to be me. I owed it to her, after everything she did for me, to take the bigger step. I owed it to her to get myself better. I owed it to her to not throw my life away after the countless hours she spent talking me out of the crazy.
Although I now know that I owed it to myself to get better, I didn't feel like I owed myself anything while I was stuck in the crazy. I felt so guilty and I felt like a burden on everyone around me. I needed Allison because I needed someone to owe (along with the many other reasons why I needed Allison. The list is never-ending). I needed a reason to check in. If not for me, then I could check in for her. In fact, there were multiple moments where I had to re-convince myself to check in by telling myself I was doing this for Allison. Even though it's my story, it's also kind of her story. She played such an intricate role in my journey, so you'll be reading a lot about her.
Anyway, that was kind of random. I want to tell my story. I want my voice to be heard, and not just behind closed doors. I want people to understand what my experience was actually like. When people hear those two magic words "psych ward", they immediately get these snap judgments of what happened. It was nothing like that. I was never dragged in with handcuffs or straight-jackets. Nobody forced medicine down my throat and no doctors attempted to cut out half my brain. I didn't get locked in a padded room with rubber lined floors or lose my ability to function. I was still me, but I was put into an environment designed to help me thrive. I was given an opportunity to reclaim myself and recharge my focus in life.
Unfortunately, in order to tell my story, I had to first tell this story- the one where I tried to kill myself. And maybe this post left more questions unanswered than answered, but I did the best I could while still preserving the private, personal nature of the events. I don't want to glorify my actions or have them exposed to the entire world. I don't want to ever see those words written on paper. But the truth is, it happened. In a moment of weakness, I made a choice. But the rest of my story isn't about moments of weakness. It's about bravery and courage. It's about friendships and overcoming the hard things.
It's about every step I took after that moment of weakness.
