I forced the large bundle of pills down my throat, followed by an ample amount of water drowning out the thin layer of paste coating my esophagus. My heart racing, my palms spilling waterfalls, the sound of the last drop of liquid hitting the floor from being swiped away from my bottom lip consumed me. Anxiety was present but I lacked dismay.
In March of last school year I tried to commit suicide. I was lost and thought of killing myself was the only answer to the problems on the surface when the real problems were much deeper. That single choice landed me in Brook Lane Psychiatric hospital. I stayed there for a week.
The first night, I laid in my twin size bed staring at the light shining from under the door that was closed in front of me. I was cold but only had a small throw to cover up with. There was no bathroom in my room so I had to walk across the hall and I had no clothes except the ones I went to the hospital in. My tears seemed heavy, like my eyelids were struggling to hold them up. I couldn’t sleep. I remember wishing that I wouldn’t have failed. I remember wishing that I didn’t belong there because I didn’t want to get better.
When I came back my ears were filled with rumors about rehab and pure ignorance. I walked into my advanced acting class and immediately the eyes were on me. A girl came up to me and asked me how it felt to be clean; I was so confused. I spent the rest of my school year walking in shame. I was forced to change all my classes because I shared them with my boyfriend and after a dramatic event my grandmother made the decision for me.
That wasn’t the end of the madness though. In August exactly the week before school I was put into a psychiatric hospital again this time I was in a hospital called Sheppard Pratt. I once again came to the conclusion that an irrational decision was better than suffering. I on a Saturday afternoon walked out of my aunt’s house in Towson and ran. I stopped when I got to the Towson Town Center and asked to use a phone. I called my mother. Then the cops came and took me a way. I felt like an animal. Sometimes I still feel like one.
Honestly this experience was much different. I met my best friend Cassia. In the hospital I didn’t feel like an animal, I felt like an equal, understood. When I was discharged I felt changed. I had to start school a couple days later and still wasn’t sure what my purpose was. Now it’s the middle of December, I’m graduating early, and I don’t exactly know where I’m going but I’m okay with it. I must say being so low and now so much higher has changed me in a good way.
I still struggle but I’m doing everything to make sure I stay optimistic even when things seem to not work in my favor even when things don’t seem well. I see my psychologist once a week and my psychiatrist once every three months. I now plan and even when I don’t have a plan I know I can figure it out.
Being in a place where nothing makes sense makes a person realize that they actually have to try. I tried before but not like this. I have my up days and then there’s my down but being bipolar that’s expected. Every day I wake up and I find it hard to get out of bed but I suddenly have the courage to. My inspiration that I can’t actually name makes me smile and happy. My inspiration gives me drive and direction. My inspiration is waiting for me in the future someday saying that I made it.
So what have I learned from my past experiences? I learned that love is neither taught nor learned, its felt. Every day I “feel” like it does get better. I feel like even when there’s a shadow over me, that eventually I will find the light.