Stop Suicide

I'm gonna take a breather on the psych ward story to talk about something that has been on my mind. Today is Suicide Awareness Day and this week is a Suicide Prevention social media campaign. There's a trending #hashtag on Facebook called #StopSuicide. I love it. I feel like that should be a trending hashtag ALL the time. Suicide prevention shouldn't be trendy, it should just be a thing.

My roommate and I attending a suicide prevention event last September

I started my last semester of classes last week and it has been so much fun seeing my friends again and getting back into routines (although the three papers assigned in the first week of classes was a little overkill if you ask me...). One thing I've noticed this semester, though, are the number of side comments and jokes that are casually made about mental health and suicide. I'm not going to lie, I'm guilty of it, too. The "Kill myself" or "Well, I'm just going to jump off a cliff now" comments might seem innocent and maybe even humorous, but there is so much more to it. If we really think about what those jokes and comments are implying, there is actually nothing humorous about them. They are referencing people taking their own life. They are perpetuating a stigma, and the flippant use of these phrases make light of a serious topic. During my classes so far, I have already heard 3 professors make jokes about suicide or being crazy. I cringe every time, but everyone around me thinks nothing of it. How can we be so nonchalant about suicide in our language, but be completely torn apart when it happens in real life? 

Last week in one of my classes, a girl mentioned how she was getting married the next day. Our professor was laughing and casually exclaimed "Wow, she is CO-mmitted... I'm just not sure what kind of committed!" It was an innocent remark but it holds so much more meaning than we give it credit. We associate institutionalization with crazy, to the point that mental illness is often synonymous with crazy or insane. The thing is that mental illness has had this inaccurate label placed on it for centuries, but it's wrong. Having depression, bipolar, or schizophrenia does not make a person crazy, it makes them sick. There is something chemically wrong with them, but there is a physical explanation. There is a reason why people with schizophrenia have a sudden switch when they hit a certain age- their chemical make-up changes. There is a reason why people with depression can't feel happy- they are lacking the chemicals that correspond to that type of response. Just because you can't see a mental illness doesn't make it any less real. You can't see diabetes, but nobody questions its existence. SAME FREAKING THING.

This has been a hard concept for me to grasp and I honestly haven't really grasped it entirely. I struggle with accepting my past and accepting my diagnosis. I struggle to comprehend what that means in my life and how it impacts my daily decisions. It's a lot easier to just say I'm crazy than try to find the words to express what I am feeling or why I reacted in a certain way. "Crazy" just explains it all away and then I never have to do the hard work of becoming self-aware. I had a friend who recently lectured me a bit on calling myself crazy. My casual, self-deprecating speech patterns cause more tangible self-hate in my life. By calling myself crazy, it diminishes my agency and increases the shame instilled by the ever-oppressing shroud of stigma. I hadn't ever realized how influential my thoughts and spoken words are on my actions. It's still easier to just say I'm crazy and avoid the harder conversations. I'd rather "own" my craziness than be ashamed of it or worry about what people will think of me. But I've realized that I need to have those harder conversations in order to move away from the shame. I need to push past this barrier of "crazy" in order to take more control of my life. If I let "crazy" be the dictator of my actions, my life will continue to reflect that. However, if I deal with my illness in a healthy manner, I can move towards becoming a whole person again.

***

Tangent, as always. But really, let's not make light of serious situations. Let's take responsibility for the words that leave our mouths and think about the impact those words have on others. Let's begin to eliminate the jokes revolved around mental illness and institutionalization. It might be uncomfortable or awkward to point out the inappropriateness of a joke about suicide, but it's better than making suicide commonplace in our society. Let's stop suicide, let's stop the stigmatization of mental illness. Instead, let's start to develop tolerance and let's start to rethink our understanding of mental illness. 

*Let's make more decisions with others in mind.

Make or Break

During my last post, I talked about how the decision to check into the psych ward came about. My dear friend, Allison, basically gave me no other choice (and for that, I am grateful). What I didn't talk about were the long hours after that conversation where I was in complete and utter desperation. I didn't mention how many phone calls I made that day or the number of people who reached out and made a difference. As I wrapped my brain around checking in, I wanted people to tell me that what I was doing was right. I didn't know how to make a decision at that point and I didn't trust my own brain. I needed people to reassure me and remind me why this was the right choice. I was completely turned around and lost. I felt insane. I felt like by checking into a psych ward, I would be making myself crazier than I already was. The thing about the psych ward was that I knew people would find out. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, gossip would bring my committal front and center and I knew that it would be a hot topic of discussion. The only other person I'd ever heard of checking in was this girl from high school. I remember when she disappeared from school, everyone started talking about her. I hadn't heard anything about her in months, but the second she checked in, all anyone ever talked about was this girl. I knew that once people figured out I was gone, they would start the rumor mill up. I was frightened that I wouldn't have control over what people thought about me (hilarious because we never have control over what people think about us!) and I feared that this would be the end of who I was. What I didn't realize was that I hadn't been that person in a long time and that by checking in, I would resemble myself more than I had in years. I didn't realize that had I not checked in, people would be talking about me in a much different way.

Up until this moment, not a lot of people knew that I struggled with depression. I kept it under-wraps because I didn't want people to know and I didn't want them to look at me differently. I was completely sucked into the shame and stigma, I was afraid. I was afraid to say something and I was afraid to reach out for help. I was afraid that people would think I was lazy, crazy, or dumb. I cared more about what other people thought of me than of what I thought of myself.

So as I mentally prepared for the journey of checking in, I was scared to finally admit that something was wrong. I was afraid that I was making the wrong decision and I didn't trust my thought processes. What if I'm not crazy? What if I was just making this all up and just needed to wake up from some twisted dream? What if I go and they never let me out? What if I die in there? I had no idea what to expect in the psych ward and I had no idea how long I would be gone. There was so much uncertainty with this decision... and uncertainty always seems to breed the anxiety-driven racing thoughts inside my brain.

Eventually, I reached out to more people. I called people on the phone for reassurance, I texted some to let them know what was going on, and I sat down in one-on-one conversations with friends. I cannot even tell you everyone I talked to. Most of the conversations I remember now are because other people have remembered them for me. It's a little disheartening to know that I can't remember large chunks of time in my day.

One person I reached out to was my high school english teacher. This woman is someone who I look up to and trust more than most. Over the years I have known her, she has never given me advice that had ulterior motives. I knew that by talking to her, I would receive intelligent advice that she believed would help me. She would listen to me and analyze what was going on. She wouldn't make a decision based on emotions, but based on what she logically thought would be best for me. I don't remember what we talked about exactly, but I do know that the conversation was a turning point in my day.  The conversation started with me quickly telling her what was happening (I have no idea if anything I said was recognizable English) and then me desperately asking her if she thought I was crazy. I was pacing back and forth, biting my nails, and pulling at my hair as she tried to calm me down. After talking with her, I knew that I needed to check in. I remember she told me that if I was concerned enough to call her, then it was probably because I needed to check myself in. She told me that she 1) loved me and 2) was concerned for me. She told me that no matter what I decided to do, she would be there for me. It was the push I needed. But it was a different kind of push than what others had been providing up until that point.

I look back on this conversation and admire her so much. She was probably a little nervous. Most people that I talked to were a little panicky. They worried that they would say the wrong thing or that I wouldn't get help fast enough. But she remained calm (at least from what I could tell) and she left it in my hands. She didn't try to take control from me, but she helped me to figure out where I needed to go. I needed to feel in control of the situation because I felt like everything was crumbling around me. I felt like my world was collapsing and I was desperately trying to hold onto a falling piece of wall.

Eventually, I made a mostly-solid decision. The next morning I was going to fly to Orange County when Allison would pick me up and take me to a psych ward. We didn't know which one, or what type of facility, but we were agreed on the checking in. Once the decision was made, I started texting people and telling them what was going on. I had promised to keep my high school teacher in the loop, so I sent her a quick and emotionally-disconnected text.

"I am flying to Orange County tomorrow. My parents have been told, my flight is bought, but the facility hasn't been decided yet."
"This is tough for you, I know. I appreciate your update. I've been thinking about you and you are so brave. Do you have someone meeting you when you fly in? Not sure if you will be able to text when you get to your destination. I'm here if you need me."
"I do have a friend meeting me and taking me to find a good place for me. I will hopefully be checked in by tomorrow night. I will be without a phone once I'm checked in, but hopefully I will have outside communication after a bit. This is hard, but I can do hard things. Thank you."
"I know you can do it. Have a safe trip. I am so very proud of you for helping the most important person in your life."

That's the key right there. There are so many times where I have dropped everything to help someone else. I've gone and picked up friends from the airport at 2:30 in the morning, I've helped friends study for tests during an already-crazy finals week, and I've stayed up late making cinnamon rolls before my friend's GRE exam. There was this one time where I didn't do an entire school project because I decided to drive around with a friend who was having a hard day. The thing is, I know I would do it all again if the choice was presented to me. Why is it, then, that it is so much harder for me to drop everything and take care of myself? Why is it that dropping everything to ensure that I am okay feels like I'm letting everyone else down? It's stupid. Yes, it's important to focus on others, but when it sacrifices your own sanity... it might not be worth it.

Sometimes, it's okay to take some time for you.

***

I'm grateful to the people who waited patiently as I slowly stomped out my own path. I'm grateful to the people who picked up the phone and listened to the irrational ramblings of my unhinged self. I'm especially grateful to all of the people who saw me in that state and yet continue to see me as I am now instead of how I was then.