I can't believe it's been a year.
One year ago tomorrow, I tried to take my life. I don't know how my roommate didn't hear my sobs as I asphyxiated myself, waking up gasping for air, or shuffling around trying to put clothes on as I prepared for what would be the most life-changing week in my life.
I found out later that not many people drive themselves to a mental hospital. As I pulled up to Acadia, I doubted whether or not I should even be here. I could go home and sleep it off (but, if you've had any experience with depression, that usually makes things worse), or I could veer off into the oncoming lane of traffic on the drive back ensuring my death. Something convinced me to place one foot in front of the other as I walked up to the door, pressed a button, and told a lady I just attempted suicide.
The rest of the night was spent in shock. Not shock that I attempted suicide, but shock that I was actually in a psych ward. Shock and shame that because my suicide attempt hadn't worked, I was a coward. Up until that night, I had struggled with depression for a while. I remember nights where I'd hole myself into my room, and cry until the only thing coming out were tearless sobs begging God to take me home to him. I felt so hopeless and so lost. Lonely. Worthless. Ugly. Used. Utterly and thoroughly shrouded in darkness.
There are times, few and far between, when I know that I know that I know I heard the voice of God. Mind you, there weren't angels singing and lights. It was a voice-clear and strong like a river- that I heard in the depths of my then-darkened soul.
"Baby girl, get up. I gave you what you need. Get up."
You see, up until this point, I felt like God was asking me to walk on water, but I was drowning in my fear. I had asked God to take away my depression and deal with complicated circumstances in my life. He never did. Instead, he held out his hand so I could stand up on my own with the help he gave me.
Stand up I did.
A mental hospital is much like a jail, except you get to use scissors and wear your own clothes. I walked in with the clothes on my back and nothing more. They took my shoelaces, drawstrings, and anything else I could potentially harm myself with. Needless to say, a girl can feel pretty miserable with a 2 oz bottle of shampoo-body wash-conditioner-hand soap and a comb to groom herself with. For some reason, God showed me the depths of my true beauty that week. I saw what a beautiful creation I was, and how much I had overlooked that in the past.
I also saw how God uses broken, jacked up people to heal other broken, jacked up people. I got to help others heal, simply by painting them a picture or braiding their hair for their visitation with family. I got ministered to by fellow suicide-ees, a bipolar, a mentally retarded man, detox patients, and a number more of unlikely people. We banded together to joke about our problems, make each other hot chocolate; provide a listening ear, shoulder to cry on, and judge-less heart to reach out with.
I'll never forget the second night I was there. They gave all the patients an anti-psychotic (which makes no logical sense, by the way) called Geodon aka the drug from hell. It caused me to collapse or pass out on the way from the bathroom one night. As I crashed to the ground and nurses rushed to my aid, I'll never forget my roommate in the ward came to my side and cradled my head, telling me it'll be okay. She was admitted into Acadia because she tried to stab her husband. Talk about humbling.
The day I got out, I stuck my arm out the window as I drove down the highway and felt like I was flying. I was free. I was free. I was free. Free from that hell-hole called Acadia, yeah. But more importantly, I didn't have to be chained by my depression any longer.
That week, I learned to stand up to my depression and fight back. I learned just how beautiful I was. I learned that the God of angel armies and gigantinormous stars cared enough for and loved me enough to keep my heart beating even though I tried to make it stop.
With every beat of my heart, there is purpose.
I share this story because it helps me to remember. I also share it because I know there are others who have a similar story, and others are headed in that direction. There is hope, and more importantly right now, you're not alone.
I didn't get rid of my depression that day. It just doesn't work like that. I consider it my cross to bear at least for the time being. I have my good days, I have my bad days. But through it all, I can't and won't stop fighting.
I came up with several of the most important poems I've written thus far in that dark place. Part of one has become a portion of my motto, and I leave you with it:
Keep Moving Forward
Ahuvati Sheli
