Surviving My Thoughts…

I am here because I want to share with you my story.

  I am 29 and a mother of one incredible little boy and a new wife to a husband that loves me more than anything. I have a mother who would do anything for me and two older brothers that would too. You see… I’m surrounded in LOVE.

Guess what? It did not matter. I can not tell you when my depression started and it has never ended. I battle it everyday. There was a turning point last year (2009) when I woke up feeling absolute dread. I can not tell you what happened to make me feel this way because I have no clue. It just happened. I know that deep down inside lurking in the shadows of my mind was this elusive thought of “I am worthless!” This thought had been there for a very very long time and decided to multiply itself into many many other thoughts of self doubt. I can not even remember the day it happened because its as if I thought this way all along. I woke up and did not care what I looked like or whether I got to work on time or even being at work. I felt sick all the time. I was becoming dizzy and having chest pains. I went to the doctor and after a mountain of tests, 5 doctors and mountains of medical bills… “There is nothing physically wrong with you.” 

Then the all important question from my family doctor.

Doctor: “Are you depressed?”

Me: “I don’t know, how do I tell? Your the doctor.”

Doctor: “Here is a Rx for Zoloft and a sleeping pill. See if this helps. I’ll see you in 2 weeks.”

The medicine did not work nor did the doctor. Within just a month I am addicted to the sleep aid and found that alcohol (which I don’t normally drink) causes an awesome high for me. By this time, my husband is irritated at me and yells at me constantly for being selfish and lazy. My son’s grades started to slip and I sat by and did nothing. I was in a fog.

Then one day driving into work I found myself thinking what would happen if I hit this tree on my right or that sign. Would I die instantly if I drove off this bridge? With the scrunity of my husband who at this point seemed to have transformed himself into my verbally abusive father. (AH! The issue.) Wrong! It wasn’t all about my father telling me what a useless daughter I was all my life and much much worse things. It was sooo much more. At this time I wanted to die. I found myself fascinated at the thought. I finally voiced it to my husband who tells me I am stupid for thinking like that and its a very selfish thing to do. (Selfish? Why all I am trying to do is rid you of this burden that I have become honey. I mean you yell at me all the time about my weight, my laziness and carelessness.) I can not tell you the catastrophic damage my husband did when he spoke to me. He had no clue that every time he would hurt me with his words that I would cut a 2-3 inch gash in my arm with any sharp object I could find. This is when my cutting began. It was always my left arm from the wrist up to my elbow and on the inside. I was not trying to cut my wrist (that’s not how I wanted to die) it was never deep cuts just enough to draw blood and give me that burning sting to take the pain away from his words. Then I’d cut my legs. So, now I am taking Zoloft which was as useful as a sugar pill and drinking while taking a sleep aid and cutting my arm to pieces. All I hear from my husband is pain and from my mom is “why why why?” I could not tell you why other than I felt worthless to the world and I wasting everyone’s time and oxygen. My job was in jeopardy and my boss(s) did not care if I died the next and still don’t but I found myself dreading every single second I spent at work around these negative and fake people. I hated every single person I worked with and they could care less about me and that feeling haunted me and I could not escape it. The ugly and negative energy at work was draining the life out of me and I found myself looking at those same trees on the way home and even swerving towards them…then my cell would ring. On the other end was voice of an angel. He saved me every time. My son. I would began to cry when the call ended and found myself talking to him as if he was sitting next to me and I’d say; “I am almost there baby. Mommy is almost home. I am not leaving yet baby. Hold on.” Then when I finally made that 20 minute drive home, I’d bust through the door and he’d be waiting right there for me and I’d fall to my knees and hold him crying hysterically. If you were 9 years old how would this affect you? I believe a higher power helped my precious son through those scary afternoons because he was so composed and compassionate towards his Mama. He hugged me back and ran his fingers through my hair, kissed my cheek and said; “Silly, Mama…I am ok. I am a big guy now. I locked the doors as soon as I got off the bus. I did not stick my finger in a socket. I love you too.” There were so many matter-of-fact responses in the days after that and he’s ok. We talk and he understands that Mommy has sad days sometimes.

To continue my story… my depression got worse and my thoughts more vivid of death. I then began to write about it. I seeked more help from a phycologist. My visits with him were pointless because he wanted to put me in a hospital and have them dope me up more. I volunteered for 24 hours and no way in hell would a mental hospital help a depressed person unless they had other medical issues because that was HELL. You basically spent most of your time with people just like you and you talked about your issues but these people can not help me. I needed someone who had been there done that. In my journal I kept a plan for my death. I even finally shared my feelings  with my father (the verbal abuser) in hopes to solve something and it did, but it did not help my depression.

Ok… so my plan. December 15th 2009. My 29th birthday. I am going to skip work and drive down a certain road that has a bridge crossing a 40-50 foot ravine into a river littered with boulders and drive off it. THE END!

I had not told anyone my plan. I wasn’t going to leave notes, just my journal. I was finally going to make my husband happier because he can find that beautiful fit and trim girl of his dreams and my family would be rid of a burden to their family. My son would not have to console his crying mother anymore. It was a good plan until December 13th and I was convince to go to church (which we rarely do) and near the end of the sermon I was compelled to walk to the alter and kneel. Now let me tell you, I am not one for crowds or people watching me and judging me so for me to do this took something beyond me. As I knelt there with my hands covering my face I just started crying and could not stop. Then the paster came over (who I had never met before) reaches for my left arm and pushes my sleeve back and runs his fingers over my scars and cuts, looks me in the eyes and said; “He’s going to heal you today.” I felt a hand on my shoulder and as I turn around thinking I am going to be greeted with judgmental stares but all I see is a congregation of 50 + strangers kneeling behind me with each a hand on the person’s shoulder in front of them all leading to me and prayer. The sudden relief I felt at that exact moment can not be described other than God touched my soul and lifted my heart.

I can not tell you that God “cured” me because I still struggle. I believe in a higher power of thinking and I continue to research that. One day I will find out what my depression is about. This is only half of my story.

December 15th, 2009 My 29th birthday, the day I was going to die, came and went and I am here today telling you my story.

I still fight for my life everyday by surviving my thoughts. They are mine and I can control them. There is no one on this earth that can “make” me feel bad about myself unless I let them and I control me. I’m a survivor, not because I attempted suicide and I did not succeed, but I am survivor because death had me in his hands and I fought back.

 

*Sorry in advance for any grammatical errors.