LOSING MYSELF, FINDING PEACE POST 7 SUICIDE ATTEMPTS
I don’t know when my insanity set in. I don’t know if I was ever sane. Even as a young child I battled depression and mania. The question was if my “attention getting” behaviors connected to a mental illness or to the chaotic world that I lived in. I was 12 years old when I first tried to kill myself. Twelve. At a time when I should have been out playing with friends and just starting to think about boys, I was thinking about dying. I was in such pain; all I wanted to do was escape. I was in the 6th grade when it happened. My teacher gave my class a public speaking assignment. Each student would have to stand before the classroom and give an oral presentation while demonstrating how to do something. I knew I had to do this school assignment, but it felt overwhelming. So, the night before I was to give my presentation, I stopped talking. As recorded in her journal at the time, I gave a note to my mother:
“I’m not speaking to anyone anymore… It was either this or suicide. I can’t handle life and until I can I’m not going to talk.” She went off to a meeting and left me to create my notecards. The next day while I was at school, she reached out to the mental health center looking for assistance. She described me as “dramatic”.
I gathered a stack of notecards and wrote each word from my presentation on a card. I don’t remember how I convinced my teacher to let me do this, but she allowed me to do my presentation via notecards. I think my mother must have been the one to talk to her but, like many things, I’ve forgotten the details.
I realize that doesn’t make a lot of sense, but this was my 12-year-old way of gaining control. The time came for me to do my presentation on cooking fondue. I went to the front of the class with the other kids staring at me. I assembled my tools: fondue pot, Sterno cooking fuel, and lighter. I lit the Sterno and tried to give the presentation using just notecards. It didn’t go well. At some point I slipped and spoke – unintentionally – but it was enough to get the children riled up and taunting me. The devastating feeling of being out of control spiraled. I had tried to gain control and I had failed. Reeling from the failed attempt, I grabbed the Sterno lighter fluid, ran to the bathroom, and drank it. The pungent smell of the lighter fluid hit me even before that first sip, causing me to start gagging the moment the fluid hit my lips. At this point, teachers were rushing in. I was rushed to the hospital and had my stomach pumped. The doctor labeled this incident an attempt to get “attention.” What amazes me to this day is the lack of intervention. Instead of intercession, I was either dismissed or scorned. I got lectures on how one suicide can lead to other suicides in a community as other people in pain use it as an expression of their own pain. It was as if I was responsible for all the souls in pain. I was twelve. That was one hell of a burden. And I was isolated. Parents didn’t want their children around an unstable child, so I was lonelier after, than before.
Here’s a tip: If a child attempts suicide to get attention, give them attention!!! I’ve always wondered whose idea it was to think that “attention getting behavior” by a child should somehow be ignored rather than seen as the desperate cry for help that it is. As an adult, I am horrified that a child would want to die, that his or her expression of that level of pain and despair would be dismissed as an attention-grabbing stunt. I wanted attention all right: I wanted help. I wanted understanding. I wanted to have all the pain that was driving me to want to die to go away. But none of that happened. I was in the hospital for a few days. I saw a counselor a few times and then moved on with my life.
My mother was an amazing but demanding woman. She was a devout Methodist who lived her faith. She gave half her income to charity organizations but wasn’t warm or fuzzy with me. She set a high bar, and I never quite met it. She told me she wanted a “daughter she could be proud of” the implication being I was not. In her journal she dismissed my suicide attempts and focused on my older sister and issues she was dealing with. I was reduced to being seen as going through a “stage”, using “emotional blackmail” and when I yelled, “I hate you” to her she responded with, “I hate you, too”. My mother’s words were hurtful, but what hurt the most is the dismissal of my reality when I was hurting and needed help.
I was 14 when I tried to kill myself again, this time with pills. I no longer recall the details beyond lying in the hospital bed, alone and scared. Looking around the room, wanting something to change. I was so depressed and so in need of intervention. No one was hearing my cries, and I didn’t have the knowledge to convey my feelings so others could help. No one was listening to me!
That second attempt earned a slightly bigger response. Fortunately, I was sent to a truly great and well-known psychiatrist up at Washington State University. He diagnosed me with bipolar illness —an emotional rollercoaster. I experienced mania that felt so good yet caused such damage. I acted out, unable to appreciate the consequences of my actions. It powered my promiscuity and impulsivity. The mania alternated with depression that left me curled up in bed, unable to function. Still, my “attention getting” behavior was again mostly ignored, and this marked the start of decades of pain
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