Hi

This is probably a bit much for a first post. But I'm not feeling great. I'm tired. I'm stressed. And my class made everything worse. So, I'm posting this story. Because I feel it explains some things. Or maybe I just want it out there. 

One last thought: I'm not currently suicidal. Don't go calling the cops or anything. I'm not going to kill myself. I'm going to go home and sleep. And probably cry. That is all. 

I have to write this. I’ve been meaning to write this for over a year. Maybe two. And even now it’s hard to put down the words. Maybe I’ve been overreacting this whole time. Maybe all this pain and hurt is made up. But I don’t think so. I’ve been avoiding writing this because I know it’s going to hurt. But I have to heal. I have to do this so I can share it with others, share why I have such a complicated relationship with suicide, with my mother, with counselors.

I don’t remember exactly when it was. I’m pretty sure I was in school. Winter semester? Maybe ’10? I was feeling down. I think it was a Wednesday. I had seen Derek (my councilor) and things had gone pretty much the same as they always did: we talked about meaningless stuff and it didn’t really do much but kinda sorta helped. Anyway, after that I had some time before my ride was going to leave. Of course, I got onto twitter and was making random replies. Most of them alluding to suicide. Because that was the mood I was in. Anyway, a twitter follower noticed. And got kinda mad at me. And asked if I was serious. And I said sort of. She told me to go see my counselor. I told her I’d already seen him that day. She said she didn’t care, go back to the counseling center and ask to see him, or she’d tell my parents. So I did. Because I didn’t want to face my parents.

I walked in. I remember being really nervous. I asked to see him. The receptionist asked if I had an appointment (maybe she didn’t, maybe she recognized that I had been in there earlier, I don’t remember). Anyway, I remember that he was actually upstairs in his other office, but they said he’d come down. So I went and laid down on his couch and waited for him, not thinking about much.

He came in. We talked a little. I don’t remember really, something something suicide, plan, whatever. He left the room to grab some papers to get me admitted to the hospital. I just laid there and thought of nothing. It was easy.

After an incredibly long period of time, he came back in empty handed. He said he thought about it and decided it would be best if we called my parents and had them admit me instead. I thought this was a terrible idea, since the whole reason I went to see him was so I didn’t have to talk to my parents about suicide, which is awkward no matter who you’re talking to.

He called my mom on speakerphone. We called my dad. My ride called and I had to tell her that I’d get a different ride home. My dad came and picked me up. I don’t remember the ride home. It wasn’t very eventful. We got home. And then things really went downhill.

You see since it was Wednesday, my parents had a genealogy class they were teaching. And my mom’s One Big Passion is family history. So she asked me, her suicidal daughter, if it could wait. If they could wait and admit me after the class. Because heaven forbid they cancel the class! As you can tell I’m bitter about this. Very bitter.

So they taught their class. I sat in a La-Z-Boy in the corner, trying not to think, trying not to feel. Failing. Because my parents just chose dead people and class members over their own daughter. Over me.

After class mom asked me if I still wanted to be admitted. Since it was never really my idea in the first place, I said no. She asked if I’d promise not to kill myself. I said sure. I went up to bed. I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I got up and went to school, as if nothing had changed. But something had.

        

 I've been struggling these past few months. But I thought that if I could at least make it through this semester, I’d graduate and I’d be done. I could then figure stuff out. Maybe find a therapist. But tonight, that changed.

I went to my Psychological Development: Adolescence class.  The first half was presentations and stuff, but then we started talking about the chapter which was, apparently, on Adolescent Problems. First on the list: depression. So we talked about depression, blah blah blah. Then we talked about why maybe girls attempt suicide 4x more than guys, but guys succeed 4x more than girls. Talked about maybe it being different means of suicide. Then my teacher made a huge mistake. He said “I’ve never really thought about killing myself, but if I did, I’d want to make sure it was a way that actually did the job, you know?”

Now I’m sitting there, on the front row, and suicide was already on my mind (it’s been on my mind every day for probably over a year, to be honest). And then he says that. He also mentioned that “We don’t really have any effective therapies for Major Depressive Disorder.” Guess what type of depression I deal with? Major. So in the time span of about 10 minutes he’s said both 1 – whatever therapies you try won’t work, so don’t try, and 2 – if you do try to commit suicide, go big or go home. Make sure you don’t just attempt.

This is when I turned to twitter. Which has saved me in the past. I need to find a therapist. And probably talk to a Psychiatrist. And a million other things. As well as get through the next six weeks of school. I just don’t know if I can do this.