The most personal thing I’ve ever written

This is me trying to save my dad. This is me trying to save myself. 

I resorted to laying rigid with fear, staring at the ceiling for hours on end, thinking this was it. There was no way I could keep living. It was too hard. The anxiety too debilitating. The depression and terror too crippling. I picked up my phone. I couldn’t call my mom–this would break her heart. I scrolled through my friends' numbers. I opened a few contacts, almost pressed call, and then put my phone down. 

I couldn’t put what I was going through on anyone else. What was I supposed to say? I feel like I’m going to kill myself? I’m ideating on how to make it look like an accident so I don’t hurt anyone else? I dialed 911 and let my finger hover over the call button, terrified that this was my end. 

It’s been seven months since that day, and I can still feel the despair that wracked through my body whenever I think back. I’m not saying this for pity or attention. I don’t even really want to share this–it’s terrifying. All I know is that one of the only things that helped me at that time was reading about and talking to others who had experienced the same kind of suicidal thoughts. Those who had been to the brink like I had, and had come back from it. If you don’t read any further than this, please just know that it can get better. I’m living proof. 

The specifics of why and how I got to this point are not the focus of this piece. The point is that I got out of it. 

What I will share is that I became fully convinced I wasn’t lovable. I wasn’t enough. My self loathing colored my whole world. Every conversation I had was clouded by the voice screaming in my mind that I had no place on this earth anymore. As I smiled politely in conversation I was writhing on the inside, wanting desperately to go home so I could crawl back in bed, only to stare at the wall, yearning for human connection. 

Struggling with mental health is a slippery slope. My negative thoughts continued to compound and spiral, and to make matters even more concerning, my father had killed himself when I was younger. I became convinced I was destined for the same fate. 

My head was constantly screaming that I hadn’t accomplished enough, I wasn’t pretty enough, I wasn’t thin enough, and on and on. And I have so many fucking blessings, yet I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel grateful for anything. And I hated myself for it. I saw all the things I’d wanted to do but had never done and ideas I’d had but never acted on and started violently berating myself for it. I’d spent six years working on a young adult fiction book for chrissakes and hadn’t done anything with it. Once I started down that rabbit hole it was nearly impossible to stop. There were other harrowing factors weighing on me as well, but those are a story for another time.

I couldn’t listen to music. I couldn’t watch tv or movies. I couldn’t read, I couldn’t write. Every time I looked at social media it looked like everyone I knew was having the time of their lives, while I was drowning. 

A few people knew I was having a tough time. They would reach out and check in. But there were only so many times I felt like I could burden them with not showing up as my usual laughy, smiley, cheerful self.
“Are you ok?”
“Checking in–how are you doing?” 

“Wanted you to know I love you” 

None of those texts meant anything to me. They couldn’t help. No one could save me. I was beyond help. I couldn’t connect with anyone on any sort of meaningful level. I stopped answering my phone. I couldn’t lie and say “I’m okay” one more time. 

I still remember the day an elderly man thanked me from his car when I looked ahead for him on my bike and let him know it was safe for him to make a turn (he couldn’t see beyond a large truck). He waved to me and mouthed “thank you” with a smile. I started crying. I hadn’t felt human connection in so long. I’d been numb. I hadn’t felt worthy of anything. This had also been seconds after I’d imagined running my bike in front of a truck.

I remember being in conversations with people and thinking that I shouldn’t speak because I didn’t have anything of value to add. Because my head told me I was worthless. I look back on that person and almost can’t recognize her. I think, for those who haven’t experienced going into a deep depression, this may not make sense to them. Shit, it doesn’t make sense to me and I lived it. I value myself now. I love myself now. But I didn’t then. 

The turning point came when I started talking about it. I said I had suicidal thoughts to a friend one day, feeling so ashamed and embarrassed, like they might think I was looking for pity or attention. I could never have guessed that this person would say “me too.” They were so accomplished, someone I looked up to. Encouraged, I spoke to others about it. I realized I wasn’t alone. 

I continued to open up. I sought out a therapist and began prioritizing treatment. I started taking baby steps to put my life back together and trying various healing modalities. I realized that what works for some people may not necessarily work for me–it’s not a one size fits all kind of thing. Most importantly, I started doing the hard work to honor myself. Creating boundaries, showing up for myself, saying no to “fun” things that would ultimately lead to anxiety.  

I look around today and I’m excited by life again. I’m connecting deeper than I ever have and creating on a daily basis. I’m laughing loud and hard with friends. I’m now able to talk to anyone, literally anyone, because I’ve been to that low. And I’ve never felt this happy or joyful or optimistic because of the contrast. I know how wildly I can suffer. And I know I can come out of it. Feelings and seasons of life don’t last forever. 

Because of my dad, I always knew everyone was fighting their own battles, so I did my best to be super kind to everyone. I would smile at strangers and give back and make others laugh. But I didn’t know it like I know it now. I know where he was. I just wish he’d had someone to talk to. Maybe something like this to read. 

I remember showing up to parties and dinners in that time period not so long ago and smiling and answering “How are you?” with “I’m great!” when hours before I’d been in a state of frozen rigid panic, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to fathom how I was going to keep going. It was too painful to admit that I wasn’t strong enough to battle through the mental anguish. It was too painful to admit that I wanted it all to end. I sometimes wonder how many others are out there saying, “I’m great!” 

Pretending like I was. 

I do my best to remember this now when I’m triggered by another human. It’s easy for me to be kind to kind humans and strangers. The real challenge is in remembering that everyone is fighting a battle we know nothing about. And if you’re here or have ever been here: I see you. I feel you. I’m right there with you. And you’ve got this. 

-Diana

Super special thanks to the Foster writing community for the encouragement and support that made it possible for me to even fathom writing this.