So, it’s been a while since I’ve last posted. Since then, I’ve done quite a few things in regards to my health journey. I managed to complete the Ultimate Reset for a second time, completed a program I never thought I would ever want to do (hello Shift Shop), I did Shaun T Week, I finished CDF for a second time and I am almost done with 8 weeks of PiYo…and it’s been awesome. I’ve managed to keep the 14lbs I lost on the Ultimate Reset off instead of gaining it all back. I learned that, despite what my dermatologist and PCP told me, I DO have a sensitivity to dairy – I’ve kept dairy out of my food intake for the past two months and the rash I had on my hand has magically disappeared. It reappeared once during that time, and it was when I made zucchini cheese bread and ate a few pieces. I did four rounds of heavy antibiotics with two rounds of heavy steroids and that didn’t even scratch the surface of my rash. I’ve also remained a vegetarian for the most part. I’ve had salmon and a little chicken in the past two months. I don’t care for it much anymore and the vegetarian/vegan substitutes I’ve found I really enjoy – so do my kids – so it’s a win-win!
However, this post isn’t about my health journey – not so much. I’ve contemplated for a while posting this, because it is extremely, extremely personal and may be triggering to some of the people reading my post. So, I am going to put a TRIGGER WARNING right now. My post is going to talk about suicide and my personal story about it. So, if you would be triggered in any way, shape or form reading about suicide, please, do not continue.
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I’ve never talked about my suicide attempt online, or really in person; except for a few people. My husband, and that’s about it. And even he doesn’t really know all of the details. I feel it’s important to talk about this because many people that follow me and read about my life and my health journey with Beachbody see where I am, a year LATER (well, almost! September 6th). A lot of people assume I have this peachy life, a SAHM that has her shit together. I make my homemade meals and I keep my home organized; my kids get to school on time and get their homework done. They’re all bright, well-rounded kids that are sweet, respectful and amazing. I work out every day, I drink my Shakeology. I hold myself (and others) accountable for their health journey. I have an amazing husband that literally, is the most amazing man I’ve ever had the opportunity to know. And we get to live this life together, sharing our love, comforting each other, watching our three kids grow.
What y’all might not see, is where I was, in March of 2012. The end of March and beginning of April are always hard for me. My dad’s birthday is April 3rd and having to “celebrate” his birthday without him always hits close to home for me. Sometimes it’s worse than the actual anniversary of his death (8/8/08). I attribute this to never really dealing with my dad’s death. I was almost 9 months pregnant with my second child and had a 15 month old as well. I had spent years of my life in therapy, in and out of hospitals, residential treatment centers, to deal with my eating disorder. To deal with my drug use. To deal with self-harm. I surely didn’t want to go to therapy to talk about my father’s death. Talking about why I hate eating and why I cut myself was a lot easier than having to be emotional about my father’s death. Besides, I was just angry. I’m still angry.
In February of 2012, my ex-husband and I were fighting a lot more than usual. We weren’t getting along. We weren’t really talking. We were having a lot of financial problems. I was the only one working, two jobs. He couldn’t hold down a job – whether that be because he was too hungover the next day to go to work, or he just didn’t feel like going in, or his favorite excuse, he was going to “go back to school.” So, it was up to me, to take care of our 4 and 3 year old, make sure my 4 year old went to his therapies and had his therapists come to our home (my ex husband didn’t think there was anything wrong with our son, so, he didn’t feel like therapy was necessary), go to school full time and go to work full time between my two jobs. I felt overwhelmed. I felt sad. I was scared for my future. I didn’t want my children to see their mother so unhappy. I wanted them to have the kind of childhood I had; I don’t remember much of it, but I do know that my parents loved us and each other very much. Their relationship was such a rare sight. They genuinely really loved each other. I wanted my children to see that. I wanted my daughter to see how a man should love a woman. I wanted my son to see how a man should treat his wife. In my current situation, that wasn’t ever going to happen. My ex husband and I were not capable of doing that together.
I felt trapped. I couldn’t breathe. My anxiety and OCD was going through the roof. I felt like there was no end in sight and I would be stuck in this ridiculous, vicious cycle forever. All of the coping tools I had in my belt went out the window. I just didn’t give a shit anymore. I wasn’t important. Life wasn’t important. What hurts me the most (reflecting back), is that I didn’t even feel like I was worthy of my children. I was damaged goods, and that’s all I’d ever be. I felt hopeless. I felt dark. And at times, I felt absolutely nothing. I went through the motions every day. I put that fake smile on my face. I took care of my children and my ex husband like a good wife and mother, even though silently and ever so slowly, I was dying inside. I felt like I had no one to talk to. My dad was dead, my ex husband couldn’t care less about me, and when I tried to call my mother, over and over and over, she just didn’t answer. The three people that were supposed to help me, were supposed to love me unconditionally, just weren’t there, and that made me go to a place that I never thought was imaginable for me. I’ve been depressed before, I’ve wanted to die before; I’d made plans before. I was always able to crawl out of that hole though. I was always able to muster up just a little more energy to not follow through.
Not on March 23, 2012. A lot of the events are fuzzy, because the medication I took was a sleep and anxiety aid, and I took a lot of it. My ex husband had woken me up from sleeping (the first time in probably 3 or 4 days), yelling at me about something, I don’t remember what exactly now. He was just so angry with me. The kids were still sleeping, it was about 6:30am. He went into the living room and I locked our bedroom door, then our bathroom door. Something in me snapped. I tried calling my mom; I needed someone to talk to. Someone to cry to. To ask if my life was always going to be like this. She had gotten a new boyfriend a few weeks prior to this incident, and I later found out she was with him, while I was trying to call. I know I shouldn’t feel resentment for that, but I do. I resent her a lot for that. She probably doesn’t deserve that, and I’d never tell her that, but I can’t help but feel how I feel. When she didn’t answer the phone, I found my medication. I didn’t care anymore. I wanted this to be over. I wanted to sleep forever and never wake up. I took the entire bottle of my medication and walked into the living room. I told my ex husband to please tell the kids I love them. I walked into the backyard and I just sat on the ground, looking at the sky. Following the clouds. It took my ex husband a few minutes to figure out what I had done, and I remember him telling me, “you need to go make yourself throw up now” while he was on the phone with the ambulance. I didn’t want to go to the hospital, and when the cops came with the ambulance, I found them off. I was put in restraints in the back of the ambulance. I wanted nothing to do with the EMS, or hospital staff. When I got to the hospital I had to drink charcoal to help with the medication I took. It was one of the most vile things I’ve ever had to drink. I was so angry I was in the hospital. And I got even more angry when I was put in the adult psych unit. I’d been in there many times as a teenager in the adolescent wing because of my eating disorder (back then, Asheville didn’t have a lot of the resources they thankfully do now in regards to those with eating disorders. If you weren’t “sick enough” for UNC-Chapel Hill, you were put into a psych ward to help get your levels managed.)
I tried to opt to just go home, I played it off like I just took a few extra sleeping pills because I hadn’t slept in days (which, was partially true – and definitely could have aided in my thought process on this day). I had to be in the psych unit for at least 72 hours, and then the psychiatrist would determine if I was well enough, or not a danger to myself or others. I was stuck in there for six days. While in there, I didn’t talk much. I didn’t get close to anyone. I just wanted to get home. I had a lot of time to reflect while I was in there. I had a lot of time to think and reevaluate my decisions. But, being in there was necessary. I didn’t think it was at the time, and I hated that it wasn’t my decision when I could leave, but it is what it is.
When I got home, my kids didn’t really understand what had happened. Thankfully, they were young enough not to remember any of it. When and if they ask about suicide, I plan to be honest and talk in age-appropriate language. I have a 5th grader and a 3rd grader and an almost 3 year old – my 3rd and 5th grader are right around the age that my eating disorder took a huge turn for the worse, as did my self-harm. I wouldn’t say I am ashamed of what I did – I am angry with myself for what I did. I am angry that I couldn’t just deal with my situation-it scares me sometimes that I could get to that low point in my life. My ex husband hardly said anything to me, and in September of that year, we separated, after eight years of being together. It was perhaps one of the best things to happen in my life.
So, why did I just write all of this? Why did I just tell y’all something so extremely personal? A few reasons. 1) this was mainly for me. Being able to talk about it and make it real, it’s the first time I’ve felt a little relief. I’m an emotional person, but I hardly show emotion – unless I feel really comfortable with you – and even then – it’s hard to talk. Writing is much easier for me. I can get my thoughts out and not be interrupted. I can re read what I’ve typed to make sure it’s conveying what I truly want to say. Speaking for me is too quick, and I often get off track. 2) just because you see someone that looks like they have a great life, don’t underestimate what they’ve gone through, or what they are currently going through. I push myself and continue to stay focused on my health journey because it’s a priority of mine. A top priority. I’ve seen what happens to me when I allow myself to take care of absolutely everyone else before I even scratch the surface on myself. It’s not fair, it’s not right, and I won’t allow it anymore. 3) I am proof that if you want something badly enough, you will make it happen. It won’t always be easy. It will almost always be hard. It will ALWAYS be worth it. I’m sharing this part of my story of my life, because maybe, it’ll inspire or help someone reading this. My past doesn’t hold me back anymore; it’s simply a reminder of how far I’ve honestly come. 4) there are still days that I struggle, and struggle hard with depression and mania. Sometimes I’ll have so much energy I need to stay up all night; my brain just won’t stop. Some days, I’m so sad I don’t want to get out of bed or be around people. The difference now, is that I have better coping skills. And I use those coping skills. I have healthier ways to cope. I have people that I can genuinely talk to, if I need to. I have people in my life that mean something to me, and I actually mean something to them. I am important. I am loved. And, I believe it.
****IF YOU OR SOMEONE YOU KNOW ARE HAVING SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE: THE NATIONAL SUICIDE HOTLINE IS: 1-888-273-8255****
