longer.blue

May 19th marks the four-year anniversary of my suicide attempt; it is an invisible mark I carry in shame and also a major turning point in my life. There was a cycle that I was aware of, with no idea how to break it or even how to talk about it with the friends I had at that time. The cycle was this: I would be happy and driven for two to three months, then drop into a depressive episode where I ultimately would need to be watched. I would talk with my friend, promise things, and then start to climb out of that hole, where I would wait for the collapse again. I know that was a recipe for disaster, and my truth and confidence in that were minuscule. May 19, 2022, fell on a Thursday, which was the day my best friend at the time would go over the hill to Boise because we lived in Emmett. I was just going through the motions and carrying a weight that they had seen too many times to count. We got home, and they were unable to get me to open up, so they said that I should go and stay the night with them. I refused because I wanted to be alone and work on my current video editing project. They didn't push, so I then went to work to distract my mind. An hour or so later, my mind snapped, and everything went numb. I do not remember swallowing the pills; I just remember feeling like I was waking up with an empty bottle in my hand. For a moment, I was worried about reaching out for help because I had refused to be under watch, but this was not planned. With shaky hands, I sent a Facebook message saying, "I'm sorry." Ten minutes later, we were headed back over to Boise, bound for the hospital. I don't think I was crying, but I cannot remember for sure. I just remember what was going on internally, which was fear and numbness. The ER was loud, and I had my headphones on while hugging my knees to my chest as we waited in a room. I remember having a seizure that lasted for a while. Tired and sick after being forced to eat activated charcoal, I was in the ER until very early Saturday morning. Once out of the ER and in the in-care room, there was someone in there with me 24/7. I was not allowed to write, but I could have music playing through my phone from the other side of the room. From early Saturday to Wednesday, one song played, and that was Caleb Hyles' cover of "Tell Your Heart to Beat Again." On Wednesday, I was allowed to add "Not My Own" and "Amber and Rain." I was told by my friend and a social worker that I would benefit from an inpatient stay in a psych unit. Terrified, I agreed and tried to keep an open mind about it. I was feeling fine, having done my normal bounce-back after a depressive episode, but I was in the hospital under watch, and I had noticed a shift in my friends. I had broken their trust. Of course, that was expressed days later. Friday evening was when my whole perspective changed: about myself, about my friends, and about the future. A bed at a psych unit had opened up. The man took my backpack and led me down to the car with window protection and a mesh barrier between the front and back. I felt diminished, regretting everything, and that was when the silence fell. I spoke only when spoken to. After intake, I was allowed to change back into my clothes, giving me some comfort, and though I had no music, but I had my notebook with a stub of a pencil. I went through about thirty over the course of my five-day stay. The security guard who did the intake said something that stuck with me, haunted me while I was in there, and still does four years later. "The doors are locked for your safety." Meant to sound comforting, but it just told me that I was trapped. I cried in the cafeteria and cried for the first time since it all started. I was also deemed a fall risk because of Cerebral Palsy, so again I was under 24/7 watch. There was something unsettling about being constantly watched. I opened my notebook the following morning and looked at the story I was working on. I couldn't bring myself to expose my creativity in that place, so I shut that part of myself off to protect what mattered to me. That created a painful void, and I became a shell of myself. I filled page after page with regret, self-analysis, and pleas to just go home and be with friends. While in there, I had forgotten how to talk. Getting my jaw to work was hard, and I spoke in whispered tones because I had no strength in my voice, no confidence in myself. Because of my silence and my preference to journal rather than engage with others, the doctor put a hold on me, which drove me further into myself. I refused to make friends or engage because I was terrified and plainly did not want to be there. Tuesday morning, when the doctor came in, he said that he had made a mistake with the hold and that I shouldn't have been there for that long. I was not a danger, just guilty of a horrible lapse in judgment, and I'd be going home the next day. That was the only time I felt something within the hollowness. I didn't show it externally, but inside it wasn't quite happiness, just a quiet understanding that I was a changed man and knew I needed to protect that. Admitting that place helped makes me nauseous and tearful because that is admitting that I failed on my own... I did. I had allowed so much to bottle up that my mind just snapped, and the go-to was a bottle of pills. I was more traumatized by that place, but it taught me that I can stand and survive on my own, and my wants and passions are never second to anyone. When it came to discharge day, what I had expected versus what actually happened just cemented a quiet truth within me. I had hoped for that moment to be a drop-everything moment, and for someone to come bring me home. My best friend said that they had just gotten back from Boise and were too tired, and everyone else was working. I was released at one, and it wasn't until four o'clock that an Uber came to take me home. Standing just inside the door with my bag slung over my shoulder, waiting with the security guard and an aide. The aide said something that has forever resonated with me. She looked at me and smiled, that careful, sympathetic smile. "Make sure your friends celebrate you." I mutely nodded, waiting for the transport. Once in the car, I sat in the back with headphones on and my bag clutched to my chest. I was dropped off and walked into a silent home, where I was greeted by my two fur babies. There was a slow but deliberate dismantling of friendships as I prioritized myself, learned to stand on my own two feet instead of striving to make others happy, and took to heart that I should seek validation not from others, but from myself. I think the reason this anniversary has hit harder than the others is because of the accomplishments I have achieved. What it took to reach this place in my life is a mark I still carry, as is the shame of the action that triggered change. Every word I write, every video I create, and every social interaction is meant with heart, passion, and care because I almost lost it all. I share this as another way to heal and to share my truth through my experience. Not perfect, or fleshed out, it is just what I want to share and can without disrupting my peace. I hope to help someone else through my story. Thank you for reading. ~Colston Alex Thief