Hello darkness, my old friend.

Last July, I pulled myself out of bed as if I was deadlifting my soul and dragged myself to the bathroom.  I remember it was a sunny day, and hot. I remember that the air in my apartment felt stifling and thick.  I flung open the medicine cabinet and scanned each label. Antibiotics I never finished. Ibuprofen that was almost gone. Nothing poisonous. No heavy hitters capable of doing harm.

I knew there was no alcohol in the house.  I had drank it all the previous nights.

I shuffled to the kitchen and opened the cutlery drawer.  My roommate had moved out a few months prior, taking her sharpest knives.  There were only a few dull ones left. 

I started to panic.  Was I actually thinking of doing this? Was I finally going to go through with this? Was it going to be over? I wanted it to be over. I was done. I hurt. Everything hurt.

I was shaking as I willed myself back to my bedroom and shut the door. I convinced myself there was nothing in the house that could help me. I just needed to calm down.  Nothing helped me calm. Nothing quieted my mind. I messaged a friend. She told me to go get help. The idea terrified me. I feel bad for messaging her, almost a year later. That wasn’t fair to put on anyone, least of all a friend of mine. 

This was the moment I knew I needed help, and that I couldn't do this alone. That the shame of seeking help was nothing compared to what I would do to my loved ones if I couldn't make it through this day.  I remember telling myself I had to live, if only for my dog, Oz. I ended up at a friend's house in Alabama that night.  The next day, I had my first date with my now fiance. 

This wasn't my first breakdown, my first close call. I've been thinking about suicide since I was young, sometimes, not even my own. Like many little girls, I was terrified of losing my parents, but with my mother, I had a specific fear. I was worried that my mother would kill herself.  I remember distinctly, in a summer she was sleeping much more than usual, that I was worried she would hurt herself.  I think I was 11 or so.  That same summer, I wrote her a note and left it on her bed, letting her know that I was sorry I was such a bad daughter, and that I did love her very much, and I was sorry I couldn’t be better.  She came running into my room, obviously distraught, because she thought that I had hurt myself and that was my last communication to her.

I wrote my first suicide note when I was I was 13.  I remember looking at the disposable razors in our shower and wondering how I could disassemble them to hurt myself.  I remember feeling utterly alone, worthless, and vile. That’s really all I remember from that summer, that feeling of deep self loathing.

Suicidal ideation and I are more than just acquainted.  I know it intimately. Like the jealous ex boyfriend I cannot seem to elude.  I ask it to leave, and it does for awhile.  But like that ex boyfriend, I know it’s just a matter of time before it’s knocking on my door. No matter how many times I change my address.

Suicidal ideation is the best gaslighter I know. It tells me that my reality isn’t real. I do not have worth, friends, or family.  In fact, I’m a burden. Those people would be so much better off without me.  And if I don’t do something about it, I’m weak. If I don’t help these people by removing myself from their lives, I am the weakest person.

We view victims of suicide as the weak ones, when really, they’re trying to be strong.  We post things on Facebook about reaching out to our friends and family, but aren’t willing to put in the work. We ask one another to be kind , but forget to be kind when mental illness shows us who it really is: it’s clever, it’s manipulative, and controlling. Mental illness is a resilient shape shifting shadow that follows me wherever I go. That follows others wherever they go.

So then, there is Anthony Bourdain. When I was in college, I was in a particularly unhealthy and abusive relationship that I felt I could not escape.  This ex boyfriend introduced me to Anthony Bourdain’s “No Reservations” and I was hooked. Here was a man who was passionate about culture, about travel, about living, and not just passively.  He was a brilliant story teller. He helped me through a hard time in my life by showing me where I could go, what I could do, that there was a world out there for me outside of my circumstance, my terribly relationship, my self doubt.  I wanted to see the world. I wanted to live to see the world. I knew I idolized him, but I didn’t realize how much watching him and learning from him changed me until this morning, when I heard he had died. Seeing so many posts on social media about who he was, who he helped, how open and honest he was with his struggles and his demons…it’s haunting. It’s tragic. It’s horrifying. Selfishly, I see a person of great success take their life and think “well, that’s it. It’ll be me someday. I’m prolonging the inevitable.”

With every suicide, the following statistic floats to the front of my brain and stays for days:

                                          “1 in 5 bipolar patients commit suicide”

I can’t claim to know what Bourdain’s motivations were.  All I know is that on the surface last summer, when I was digging around in drawers to find a knife sharp enough to end it all, I looked calm to friends, family, and coworkers. I seemed stable. Only those closest to me knew what was going on.  I know that when my fiancé proposed to me in February, I was elated, and two days later, had a breakdown so bad I could barely function. I know that when I think of suicide today, it seems a far off possibility, but that can change in a blink of an eye. My good friend Suicidal Ideation is watching. Waiting. Familiar. The succubus of the self assured front I present to family, friends, and the world. The front that even I believe, sometimes.

It’s exhausting explaining this to people who mean well when they try to help but don’t understand what it’s like. Is suicide weakness? Is it strength? Is it simply succumbing to an illness that will follow you for the rest of your life? Is it a mercy killing? Is it selfish? I have been suicidal when I’ve been calm. I’ve been suicidal in times of crisis when my best friend recommended I check myself into a crisis center. I’ve been suicidal driving down the street. I’ve been suicidal in a crowded room. I’ve been suicidal when I’m smiling, laughing, the life of the party, the greatest showman.

I don’t understand it. I don’t understand myself.  I want people to listen and watch, but how do they know what to watch for? I want people to care for each other and be kind. I know how hard that is when mental illness is such a deep part of who I am, and that person is not always a good person. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hurt those that I love. And I am not suicidal now.

But I could be soon. Like a summer thunderstorm. Like a tired simile explaining the same thing in the same essay because I am lost and hurt and confused. We treat life as if it is the greatest gift but don’t know what to do when that gift is like an IKEA coffee table arriving without instructions.

My brain isn’t like yours. My bipolar brain isn’t like a depressed brain, a schizophrenic brain, or an ADHD brain. How do we treat this? How do we talk about it?

I don’t know. I don’t know how to let people know that it’s okay to not be okay, or that it’s okay for me to not be okay. I know how to intercept my own crises, but not the crises of others. I don't know how to help. I want to help. I want people to stop dying.

All of our time here is limited. I strive to keep stable. I mourn those who run out of spoons for this mortal coil. I hoard my spoons and stack them around me like a Helm's Deep of self care.

I don't know where we go from here, or who will be next. But please, listen to us. And please be kind to each other.