I should start this blog out with how great I feel this afternoon. I’ve run around my lake, I’ve sat outside in the sun, I’ve thrown out my new fitness goals, and I’m eating a late breakfast of yogurt, blueberries, strawberries, and granola.
I write from a place of authenticity, a place of having been through it and wanting to spread my words as far as they will go, attracting whomever might need them. I often argue with my higher consciousness about this, and whether or not it is beneficial.
In the end, I always decide, based on my own experiences, that it’s absolutely necessary to write with no secrets.
When I was eighteen I tried to take my life by swallowing a handful of sleeping pills. I almost succeeded, but by the force of my guides, was convinced to tell my mother about what I’d done. I heard them (him, more accurately) so clearly, there was no denying the persistent plea from beyond, to seek help for my actions.
I walked up the stairs, my head becoming foggier and foggier, my legs shaking beneath me, nearly in tears. I sat at the kitchen table, watched my mom stir the rice, and then told her.
She rushed me to the hospital where my I was given charcoal to drink to counteract my suicide attempt by pills.
After throwing up for an hour and reaching the point of no longer being in the red, at risk for dying, I was allowed to go home.
Three memories are clear as day, while the rest is a foggy, embarrassing memory for me. I have never attempted suicide since. And I never will.
The first thing that concerns me enough to speak up about is the treatment I was given as a patient in an emergency, by the woman at the front desk. She looked me up and down after being told why I was there by my mother, and said, her voice absolutely dripping with disgust, “you had nothing better to do on a Saturday night?” I understood why she would be “disgusted”, she sees people fighting for their lives all the time. I however, can not support the way people in a medical profession can sometimes treat people with suicidal tendencies.
She had no right to decide that I was worthless in that moment, of being treated like any other patient. She had no right to judge a little girl who had been through it. She had no idea her patient had been abused, threatened, raped on more than one occasion, that she was living with Post Traumatic stress disorder, and her attempts at a normal life always fell flat. She had no idea that this girl had been bullied, trampled on, and looked at as a problem her entire life, rather than a person.
And if this were a current event, I’d have her job so fast her head would be spinning. It is completely irresponsible as someone in a place to help somebody, to lack the mental and emotional maturity to actually give a shit.
The second thing that stuck out is my trip to the bathroom after the initial chaos. I stared at myself in the mirror, mascara ran down my face. I looked so sad. I remember thinking, “I will get strong, and I will write about this someday.”
The third thing worth mentioning is the two women who stood outside the bathroom door, and as they talked, spoke loudly enough for me to hear. One exclaimed, “I don’t understand why she would do this. She’s such a beautiful girl.” I began to cry in silence, as the love these strangers had for me counteracted the previously hurtful treatment the nurse at the door had shown me. And I wondered who they were, if I’d ever run into them again. I silently thanked them for their generosity of heart and soul at a time when I needed it more than anybody around me knew, or wanted to admit.
I have such an appreciation for life now.
I can’t wait to watch my oldest son graduate from elementary school this summer. A son who wouldn’t exist without miracles. A son who didn’t get here by accident, but came to show me the way out of my emotional hell.
If you’re going to claim to be somebody who wants to help people, you have to do it from a place of heart and soul.
The risk otherwise is too great.