This week hasn't been easy for Josh. Yesterday marks one year since I last went to the ER for myself. That was the night of my suicidal intent. I don't think of it as an attempt because I never took any pills or used the razor. But I think everyone else thinks of it as a suicide attempt, and I can understand that. I did write notes.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I all but gave up. Suicidality is a hard thing to forgive. I know this. And with fear, I remember how gone I was. I was all hurt and dread with no end. For those minutes, that hour, everything else was gone. Hope was certainly gone. Integrity was gone. Responsibility was gone. Even love was gone. It is the ultimate selfishness. I was no longer a person but a void.
But I didn't hurt myself. I was still talking to my best friend, texting. He said GET JOSH NOW and I did. I showed him everything. He said, "You know you have to go to the hospital, right?" My friend came and took me there. My son was asleep.
I spent one night in the psych ER and two nights in the psych ward. I journaled with a blunt black crayon. I slept often. I went to group and individual counseling. I showed nurses my body, free of self-inflicted wounds or scars. I lifted my breasts so they could check underneath.
That was a year ago. It hasn't been an easy year, but I've not come near where I was. I was deeply depressed through much of the winter, unable to do much but sleep. Showering was impossible some days. It's still hard. My son, most likely aware of my state, had major behavioral issues and anxiety. He hit and grabbed me often, leaving bruises up and down my arms. I couldn't fix myself. But I did not give up. My doctor prescribed a new medication. And another. And another. I took my meds, went to telehealth therapy sessions, dragged myself forward.
I track my daily overall moods with colorful hexagon stickers. Last month, only two or three days were blue for depression. Only one day was brown for mania. My illness is in check. Josh and I are connecting better than we have in years if not ever. My son is now going to a school just for kids with autism, and he's now on a medication that dramatically decreases his anxiety and limits his meltdowns. He hasn't bruised me in a long time.
I look out. I look forward. At least once a day, I just want to hide in bed. I buy too many pretty little things as if I'm trying to embroider the tatters and anchor myself to the physical world. I play loud music to distract me from the exhausting and anxious task of taking care of myself, of showering, of dressing, of putting on eyeliner on a good day. I show Josh my mood charts. I coach myself, often through writing, on every step of every day. Now, I can pick up my son from school. I can do a load of laundry. And I've been taking writing classes that show me I still exist, that I still have substance and intelligence and passion. I read books even though it's often like scraping my brain.
I'm not all better, and I probably never will be. But I am okay. I get many glimpses of better-than-okay. I get lonely. I get scared of what I have to do, whether it's an online meeting with Oliver's therapist or a trip to the grocery store. Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. The days keep coming on. But I don't live in dread anymore. I see hope and beauty and humor. I'm glad I'm here. Most of my days are pale pink for hopeful.
We're all traumatized, and a chunk of that is my fault. Death has been an airborne infection. But I'm alive. I plan on being alive next year when this hard time comes again. I plan on saying I'm sorry, and I plan on forgiving myself. Forgiveness isn't a one-time endeavor. Forgiveness is a cycle, something I have to replenish, to choose again and again. I'm ever in a present progressive state of forgiving myself and everyone else.
But I'm one year away from it now.
