On a September Saturday morning I found myself at Highbridge Park; a popular spot in town, known for it's beautiful view of a train bridge that seems to reach from one end of the sky to the other. I had been to this park many times before but this time it was different. I drove to the park tearfully and I lowered my self down the rock trail and onto the bridge, at a loss for coherent thoughts. I sit there feeling the crisp, almost fall air on my bare feet. I cannot tell you anything that went through my mind during the 3 hours that my legs dangled from that bridge except for the desperate desire to jump.
But I didn't.
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Later that night, I lie in bed clinging to what little sanity I had left. I had given my keys to my roommate, thrown away my usual self-harm instruments and locked myself in my room. My brain had tricked me into believing that my blankets were trying to strangle me so I pushed them in a corner, spitefully staring at them for trying to take my life when I had talked myself off the edge just hours before. The blankets were mocking me. The sounds of people in the living room in my apartment were mocking me. The passing cars in the parking lot below were mocking me. I stared at the post of my bed, calculating how many times I would have to smash my head into the wood before I didn't wake up.
But I didn't.
Sleeplessly, I tossed and turned on the floor of my living room. My roommates were asleep peacefully, seemingly unaware of the turmoil occurring just outside their bedroom doors. I wrapped a laptop cord tightly around my arm until the fingers on my left hand went blue and numb. I avoided the thoughts of one of my roommates having to come find me and instead fantasized about putting the cord around my neck, having the same numbing affect on my life.
But I didn't.
I walked around my college town at 4 AM without shoes. I was out of tears but the sadness in my head still spun. I looked at the buildings with aggression and the streets with apathy, hating every sturdy structure that reminded me just how fragile I was. I sit in the parking lot of the Dollar General, searching the Internet for which over-the-counter drug to buy in what quantity to have the most effective overdose. I returned to my apartment with a list. The store opened at 8 AM and I planned on going into the store with my money the second it opened.
But I didn't.
Tearfully, I told my roommate that I needed help. She called my mother and told her that she was taking me to the hospital. The entire drive there, I stared out the window, dreaming of opening the door and flinging myself onto the road.
But I didn't.
We entered the hospital and came face to face with the emergency room clerk. She asked what I was there for. To avoid having to voice the words to a stranger that I wanted to end my own life, all I wanted to do was to turn around and run far away.
But I didn’t.
I was admitted into a psychiatric hospital and was locked in a room to assure that I wouldn't hurt myself. I cried and I yelled. I threw things at the wall. I hated my roommate for bringing me to this place. I hated the nurses for being so condescending. I hated my mom for caring so much about me. But most of all, I hated myself for being this way. I finally came to a point where I fell asleep. I dreamed that I would stop breathing throughout the night.
But I didn't.
I sit in the mental hospital, waiting to be released, desperately wanting to get out of that horrible place. Doctors told me that with medicine my Bipolar II could be managed. Social workers told me that with counseling I could learn to control my mood swings more effectively. The other patients in the hospital told me that I would get better because I was young and had a good spirit and that I gave them hope. My mom told me she loved me and my roommate told me that she couldn't wait for me to get home. All I wanted was to go home and return to normal life.
But I didn't.
When I got back to school, I had to explain to my friends and professors where I was. I had to go to the counseling office to make a safety plan, to ensure that if this ever happened again, I would know how to handle it safely. I had to get a prescription filled and come to terms with the fact that I will probably rely on medication to stabilize my mood for the rest of my life. Over and over, I had to verbalize to people what had happened. I laid in bed, letting the memories of the week before keep me up all night. All I wanted to do was forget that it ever happened.
But I didn't.
Weeks later, everything is seemingly back to normal but I still think every day. I think about my feet dangling off that bridge and the laptop cord around my arm. I still think about being locked in a room in a psych ward and all of the people that I met while I was in there. I think about how much easier things would be if I didn't have a mental illness or if I would have done things differently. But I also think about my mom, who was heartbroken when she received the call from my roommate and then drove all the way to Kentucky to sit in a hotel room until I was released, even though I told her not to. I think about my little cousins who have so much future ahead of them, which I can't wait to see. I think about the class to which I am class president and the blessings that those people have been in my life. I think about two of my best friends who never fail to make me laugh as we make stupid fish faces to each other across campus. I think of my roommate, who will always be on my side and who I could never imagine life without. I think about my future and all of the unpredictable things that might come along with the passing of time. I think about how much I am loved. But I always come back to the thought that I almost killed myself.
And I'm so glad I didn't.
