The first time that I can remember my mother trying to kill herself was when she locked my sister and I in our apartment and took the cordless phone with her. My sister and I rummaged through a closet, found an old phone and called my dad for help. I never officially knew what happened that day, but that’s the earliest memory I have of knowing she was “sick”.
As the years went on, these erratic episodes became familiar. Things would be fine for a little while and then one bad day would spiral into intense situations, sometimes ending with stays in the mental hospital. This was a sensitive subject and we didn’t talk much about it through the ten years my mother battled with extreme bipolar disorder. During this time, my mom didn’t leave the house much, except for her countless doctor appointments and lengthy gambling episodes.
Growing up, I was always worried about my mom. We spent the most time together and got along wonderfully when she was herself. I was always the first to notice her moods shifting. Unfortunately, I was also the one closest when things turned for the worst.
There was a time she was fighting with her boyfriend and he left the house. She was pacing and going through the hall closet. She proceeded to storm out. For some reason, I wanted to see what she took from the closet. It was a rope, that I knew was in there, but never knew why we kept it. No one ever used it or thought about it but for some reason, I knew in this moment that it wasn’t there anymore. I knew why.
I panicked. The cops came and it turned into quite an ordeal. She eventually came home and said jokingly to me, not to worry and that the rope got caught in a tree. She expressed that she felt so useless and “couldn’t even kill herself right”.
Another time I was at my uncles for the weekend and she wouldn’t come get me because she “didn’t have gas money”. I missed a lot of school for situations like this and I would stay the week and hang out with my aunt while her kids were all in school. This time, I answered their house phone only to find a state trooper on the line calling about my mom. She was found pulled over on the side of the road and had slit her wrists. I remember visiting her in the hospital, mortified by the bandages around her wrists.
As these occurrences gained frequency, I would get angry about them. As if I could only be sad so many times. The older I got the more I had the “Oh my god Mom, again?” mentality. I always hoped we were passed this.
There was a time she was responsible for a train stopping as she danced with death on the tracks.
There was another time that she was on the roof of our apartment with people trying to talk her down. I think I blocked this time out because I only remember my friend telling me, years later, about my arriving there and running to help and talking to the cops. It is amazing what your brain can un-see when it wants to.
The most scarring time, for me, was when I could feel her slipping into a dark place. That week she was picking fights, being oddly mysterious and going “ghost”. We were on the phone one day and she was being super ‘emo’ and vague. She hung up on me.
I had a bad feeling about it.
I went to the apartment and got in with an old, spare key. I found her lying on the bed. She was pale and limp. There was an empty pill bottle on the nightstand.
It was this time that I was pretty sure she was really going to die. I called 9-1-1. I ran to the kitchen to fill a popcorn bowl full of cold water and I poured it on her as I slapped her. She was mumbling and swearing. I was just saying “what the f**k”, what the f**k”.
My mom did not die.
My mom is still here and for that I am indescribably thankful.
My mom eventually made some really big changes in her life. She moved away from the place that connected her to her demons. She demanded changes be made to the medications she was over-prescribed for years. She started her own cleaning business and she takes pride her life again.
We have since talked about this time of our lives. She admits she had roughly 15 suicidal episodes and that I was present, in one way or another, for over half of them.
Why am I sharing this?
I guess I am selfishly letting some of this baggage go.
I understand what it is like to be a loved one of someone that has attempted suicide. It leaves you perpetually nervous. Scared that next time will be the last time. It is awful knowing someone you love wants to die. It is also kind of lonely going through it because it is not about you at all. The focus is on getting your loved one help, making sure they are okay, walking on eggshells to not be the reason they slit their wrists this time.
However, to pretend it doesn’t affect you is an injustice. I spent years so worried about what was going on with my mom that I never really reflected on how it was affecting me. The older I get, the more I reflect on the events that have made me who I am today.
I understand that everything is a growth opportunity. While I don’t wish these experiences on anyone, this has made me more empathetic, more loving, and deeper. I truly value those around me and know life is precious. I hope those who’ve been through similar situations know they are not alone. We couldn’t possibly be alone. The mental health crisis in this country is so severe and we are all just pushing along, pretending it isn’t happening.
We are covering up suicidal episodes, we are saving face during the holidays, pretending everyone is well and everything is prefect. We are ignoring warning signs and in turn, fueling the fire. It is a dark subject and we don’t know how to speak openly about it. That is why I wanted to share my truth.
I hope everyone can start this new year with a focus on self-care and personal growth. For those battling depression, you matter. You are not alone. Your loved ones would so much rather you here than ever to be without you.
And for my mother, I admire your strength and resilience. I know it was a much scarier and overwhelming time for you than it ever was for me. I hope you never find yourself in that dark place again. I am so thankful you are still here.