For this post, I would like to talk about attempted suicide and my first diagnosis.
As mentioned before, I spent a good amount of time in a psychiatric care facility. When I was 18 years old, I attempted suicide. I hurt my father so deeply. As I laid in my hospital bed with a tube shoved in my nostril and into my stomach, my father said to me, “If you had gone, I would have gone too”. To this day, those words hurt my heart more than I could explain. My father was my only true parent, and I felt like I was the biggest disappointment to him. I understand why people feel suicide is a selfish option, but in my mind, it was the least selfish decision I could make. I recovered and was released, and I moved back into the strides of life. I took up drinking as my coping mechanism, not knowing that the next six years of my life would be a series of sober times and complete blackout messes.
When I was 23 years old, I attempted suicide again. It was not just a first instance that landed me in that “prison” for over 6 months. In the span of a month and a half, I attempted suicide three times. I’ve read studies that women don’t succeed as much as men because we choose less violent means than men. In my case, I felt pills were the best way. After the first attempt, I was thrown out of the crisis center after a month to make room for others. I was angry I had failed my first attempt, and I knew that when I was released, I would not fail again. I spent that month planning my end. Less than 48 hours after my release, I walked to the drug store and bought two large bottles of Tylenol Nyquil liquid capsules. That night, I forced them all down. I remember waking up in the hospital again, angrier that I had again, been prevented from what I wanted most.
After spending a month in a different crisis center, I feigned sanity and was released. In truth, I had been seeing and hearing things. This was not new, but had become so overwhelming that the world around me was not natural. Lights were 10 times brighter than they should be, every sound was amplified and I felt that my eardrums must have been bleeding, and even the slightest touch sent me into an angry state. I checked myself in to a psychiatric facility in a different city. I felt at this point that my failures were indicative of something I could not see. I was not meant for death. I wanted to live at this point, but not in the world as I saw it. I had tried to kill myself because I was exhausted. My perception of the world around me was so overwhelming and confusing, and I felt living in it was torture.
The Light Is Too Loud 