Status: Work in progress
Institutionalized
Prologue
Ever done something really stupid? And I don’t mean stupid like not studying for a test kind of stupid. I mean stupid like finally allowing the world to get to you to the point where your depression eats you alive and completely takes over, and so, with no regard to the consequences, you down half a bottle of painkillers to kill yourself. And then when you’re almost on the verge of death, digging your razor out of the cabinet and slashing at your wrists until both of your arms are a complete mess of blood; but you don’t even notice or care about the pain because you’re crying too hard to hear or see anything and the painkillers are making you so dizzy.
That kind of stupid.
In hindsight, my suicide attempt made perfect sense. I didn’t really want to die—I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted to never have to deal with any of it—my parents and their failing marriage, the awful people at school, my straight Ds in every class, and the nagging self-hatred that had escalated into severe depression—ever again. I am well aware that there were better ways to deal with my problems. I didn’t at the time—I thought it was a regular part of growing up; that it was something that everybody had to go through at some point. I realize now how incredibly wrong I was.
If somebody asked me while I was in my recovery process about whether or not I would have done things differently if given a chance, I would have answered with a resounding yes.
Yes, I would have sought help. Yes, I would have tried to reach out. Yes, I would have coped with my depression in a way that didn’t harm myself or others. I definitely would not have attempted suicide.
If you asked me today, however, I wouldn’t trade my depression, self-harm, suicide attempt, and recovery process for anything in the world. True, it was a horrible experience—the mental torture that I inflicted upon myself was too awful for words to describe, and I wouldn’t wish it on even my worst enemy.
But if I hadn’t gone through what I went through, I wouldn’t be as strong as I am now. I wouldn’t have cured myself of my self-hatred. I wouldn’t be able to get through tough situations.
Most importantly, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life
That kind of stupid.
In hindsight, my suicide attempt made perfect sense. I didn’t really want to die—I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted to never have to deal with any of it—my parents and their failing marriage, the awful people at school, my straight Ds in every class, and the nagging self-hatred that had escalated into severe depression—ever again. I am well aware that there were better ways to deal with my problems. I didn’t at the time—I thought it was a regular part of growing up; that it was something that everybody had to go through at some point. I realize now how incredibly wrong I was.
If somebody asked me while I was in my recovery process about whether or not I would have done things differently if given a chance, I would have answered with a resounding yes.
Yes, I would have sought help. Yes, I would have tried to reach out. Yes, I would have coped with my depression in a way that didn’t harm myself or others. I definitely would not have attempted suicide.
If you asked me today, however, I wouldn’t trade my depression, self-harm, suicide attempt, and recovery process for anything in the world. True, it was a horrible experience—the mental torture that I inflicted upon myself was too awful for words to describe, and I wouldn’t wish it on even my worst enemy.
But if I hadn’t gone through what I went through, I wouldn’t be as strong as I am now. I wouldn’t have cured myself of my self-hatred. I wouldn’t be able to get through tough situations.
Most importantly, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life