Autobiography part 2

The fear of surviving another suicide attempt kept me alive for another two years.

In my effort to become a functional human being again, I began to consider using antidepressants. Before, I would have refused to deliberately change the chemical composition of my brain. But I figured if I was already willing to lose my life, why not try fucking up my brain first, and see if that works? I walked into the doctor’s office and left about five minutes later with a prescription for Zoloft, and a complementary sense of doubt for any prescription drug that could be attained by essentially saying “I’m sad”. This doubt, however, didn’t translate to my initial experience with Zoloft. I found out that I am equally susceptible to “the placebo effect” as I am to psychiatric disorders. The first day after taking it, I told my dad “Oh my god I feel so much better!” Then I mistakenly researched the process of Selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors. I discovered that the positive effects don’t kick in for the first four weeks, and was consequently slapped by my depression back into my lightless room with the door closed.

For the next few years, the Zoloft combined with regular therapy kept me on relatively stable grounds. But as my confidence and happiness increased, so did the diversity of social scenes I became involved in. People seek to be in environments that make them happy. I soon discovered that artificial, but convincing happiness can be attained instantly with drugs and alcohol. I experimented with substances indiscriminately until benzodiazepines, alcohol, hypnotic drugs, and weed became weekly indulgences. I used these drugs more often than my anti-depressants, which I also began to use irresponsibly. 

I picked up these habits just after I had just moved to Richmond with two roommates whom I wasn’t well acquainted with. The healthy kind of self-consciousness quickly progressed to full-blown paranoia and self-hatred. I think this is partially due to my reckless behavior with drugs. Any weekend I spent in Richmond, I’d be so afraid to socialize, that I would wash down a handful of sleeping pills to render myself temporarily comatose. Usually, I’d wake up the next day to an overwhelming sense of regret and embarrassment for literally wasting a day of my life.

Approximately one month of this routine pushed me over the edge. I decided to confide in my Professor, who immediately provided remarkable support, alleviating the fear my mother indoctrinated in me of being honest about my needs. But no matter how many people told me that they cared, that I wasn’t a terrible person, or that things could truly get better – nothing resonated. My worldview and self-conception were indisputable, concrete knowledge to me. If I looked down and saw my two feet, no amount of well-intentioned reasoning could convince me that I only had one foot. My extreme sense of inferiority was reality, not a belief. Instead of a recovery process, it eventually became a self-sustaining effort to convince others that I needed to die. Permission for suicide was my primary motivation for reaching out to people.

While clinical depression laid the foundation for my suicidal ideation, fear of worsening circumstances is what motivated me to turn my thoughts into actions. I was petrified of the endless supply of uncertainty in life. I was miserable, but at least it was relatively consistent. During this time, I wrote “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. The only guaranteed state is death, and honestly that kind of consistency is really appealing to me right now. At least then my indifference towards life will be justified.” I still find it interesting that the idea of death comforted me more than the idea of continuing to live.

All of these thoughts and behaviors were the results of literally zero external events – although it could be argued that the traumatic events in the past got the ball rolling. I essentially created these huge, life-ending problems out of thin air. So when bad things ACTUALLY happened, I became overwhelmed with what felt like an endless, perpetual infiltration of emotional instability and insanity. I think most people would refrain from identifying themselves as “insane”, but I choose to view it as indicative of my capacity for creativity.

I ended up in the hospital for the first time in 2013 after an accumulation of insignificant incidents which I interpreted as social failures. If I was too quiet in class, if I said something awkward, etc. That is truthfully all it took to trigger an unbelievably negative spiral of thoughts, eventually leading me to wash down a bottle of Zoloft with vodka.

This instigated my first (and ideally, last) experience at a mental hospital. Since I was under severe suicide watch, I was placed in the most intensive, and thus most oppressive, section of the Psychiatric hospital. I couldn’t wear the dress I had come in with because I was placed among sexual predators. People with severe schizophrenia walked around aimlessly, speaking to people who weren’t there. A young woman screamed about how her mother was the devil reincarnated, and that she followed her, surrounded by serpents.

I felt unsafe, constantly surrounded by some patients whom had had violent outbursts and arrests in their past. The incompetence and carelessness of the nurses prevented me from turning this experience into an opportunity for post-traumatic growth. After I left, I found out that many friends and family members tried to call me, and that they were just kept on hold until they hung up. I didn’t receive a single call while I was there, nor was I notified that anybody had tried to reach me. I ended up feeling much more isolated and uncared for than I needed to.

My passive demeanor somehow seemed to indicate approachability in the eyes of fellow patients, and I found that I was often confided in. One man ended up in the facility after smoking weed that was apparently laced with an additional unknown substance. He told me about how he would never commit suicide, because then he would live forever in the afterlife, and he was tired of living. He then asked me if I was Muslim, and when I said no, he said “Well then you’re a cop.” Another woman cried to me about how the nurses were trying to destroy her family and steal her son. I was extremely conflicted over whether or not I should validate these people’s irrational concerns. If I chose to validate them, I’d confirm their debilitating fears. If I chose to invalidate them, I risked experiencing their defensive reaction. This is how I developed the capacity to listen without judging, and support people without necessarily affirming their thoughts or actions.

After three days, I was discharged. When I checked out and requested my belongings, I was told that I never came in with any. I was positive that I arrived with my backpack, which included my laptop and wallet. One of the nurses said to another nurse, right in front of me, “She’s crazy and making it all up”. Her statement and actions summed up the behavior of most of the staff there. They treated us as inferiors, and failed to make distinctions between our varying degrees of mental health and diagnoses. Being severely depressed isn’t anything close to being psychotic. Luckily, her shift ended and another nurse quickly located my belongings.

Just as I had experienced when I was 16, the aftermath of the suicide attempt was even more emotionally demanding than the events leading up to the attempt. I withdrew from VCU for the year, quit my jobs, and moved back home to NOVA. Had my home environment provided me with more stability, I would have moved back as soon as I realized how unsafe I was on my own. But I couldn’t go back to my emotionally abusive mom and expect to heal. My dad’s apartment provided me with a stock of alcohol. Oftentimes, he would have me pick him up while he was intoxicated at a bar. This triggering environment was less than ideal, since I was trying to get clean, but it was the best of a bad situation. I enrolled in an Intensive Out-Patient program in Fairfax which was the first true turning point.

The insight I gained, the confidence that was restored, and the entire experience of the OPP could fill a book. I could not be more satisfied with the services at INOVA Fairfax. Each day, from 9:00 AM-3:00 PM, we had five classes. We started the day with Check in, followed by Psycho-education, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Interpersonal Relationships, and Closing. As a group, we quickly developed a sense of camaraderie so strong that we could fearlessly share our deepest, most vulnerable thoughts, after having just known each other for a few days. I remain in contact with several friends I made there.

I was referred from this program to CATS – which stands for Comprehensive Addiction Treatment Services. It’s a dual diagnosis program, so it addresses both addiction and mental health issues. Remaining in a support group, like I was in at OPP, is integral to my recovery. I am held accountable for withstanding from (non-prescribed) mood-altering substances, and everyone in the group truly wants me to get better. The collectively vulnerable nature of all members in the group, again, is what makes it such a powerful, rewarding experience. Eventually, I intend to overcome the shame I have over declaring my sobriety at such an early age. I’m not even legally permitted to drink yet, and I’m indefinitely sober. At least I hope to be.

I intend to complete this program and continue participating in support groups for as long as I am financially capable of doing so. Ideally, by the end of July 2014, I’ll find myself in a more stable, confident position that would allow me to move back to Richmond and continue my education at VCU. I’ll earn my Master’s degree at VCU as well, although I’m not settled on what specific career path I plan to pursue. I’ve been told by many mentors and peers that they envision me as either a teacher, a writer, or a psychologist. Since I’m in the process of earning Bachelor’s degrees in both English and Psychology, they all seem like feasible, exciting jobs to me. My idealistic, and likely naïve vision for my future centers on a stable home environment, in which I get to live with people of my choosing. If I’m lucky, this would mean a supportive husband, and some turtles and hedgehogs. Possibly some human children as well. My career would be intellectually demanding, but not exhausting. Mostly, I aspire to live a life worthy of my sufferings. All of this is entirely dependent on my recovery process. I need to learn to cope with my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, ADHD, and Borderline Personality disorder, and overcome addiction, so that I can move forward and begin to pursue my expectations.

I enrolled in Creative Writing because writing used to be a talent of mine that helped sustain my self-esteem, which would greatly contribute to my well-being. Being held accountable to pursue my passion will also help me feel fulfilled, and may even serve as a cathartic experience to combat the drama and trauma of the past few years. Also, should I choose to pursue writing as a career, I need a lot of practice and guidance. Ultimately, enrolling in this class is an integral step forward in my struggle for recovery.

Additionally, while a lot of my experiences in life have been far from enjoyable, they are interesting and could be relatable for a lot of people. I have endured quite a bit for my age, and while I am by no means a role model, I have developed an above-average sense of empathy. If, on the off chance I were able to pursue writing as a career, I would relish the opportunity to help someone going through something similar.