Why I'm telling this story

It's kind of hard to tell you the why, but I can tell you the why not.

This is NOT to get attention for me. This NOT to get pity. This is NOT to romanticize these types of actions. What happens in this story is an example of the wrong things to do when you are feeling this way. I do not in ANY way endorse the actions of the story. What you should do is get help from wherever you see is the fittest whether it be a close friend, trusting family member, or even a therapist if at all possible.

Life is precious and you should treat it as such.

Trigger Warning

I would like to warn anyone reading this that this story has some touchy themes such as depression, anxiety, self-harm, and suicidal ideation. To those who may be triggered by those types of things, you have been warned.

Also, if you are thinking about harming yourself or ending your life, just know that it is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. It will get better.

In times of these crises, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255

I was sitting in my dorm on October 27th of this year. My roommate had gone to work about an hour earlier and I was very upset about something that had happened between me and a boy the night before. What the situation was is not relevant to this story.

I laid in my bed for a long while. All I was thinking about was how many times I had been betrayed by people in the past three months. It felt like anyone who I cared about was meant to play me eventually. That is exactly when I started to feel the normal anxiety I have every day but it was about ten times worse. It felt like something was choking me to death and there was no way I could stop it. My arms genuinely felt like they were being strangled. It was dreadful.

So, to "stop" this pain like I normally would, I decided to apply a different type of pain with the tweezers on my desk that had broken a couple of days prior and I had just forgotten to throw out. 16 days later and I still wish I had disposed of those tweezers the moment they broke. I did not stop until my left wrist became that of a crimson tiger. Little did I know, more danger to myself was soon to come.

Right after my little escapade, I laid on the ground next to my printer.

For those who don't know anything about the dorms at my university's campus, the carpet is not fluffy, right below it is solid concrete. This is very important to the story.

I had on my playlist where all of my sad songs resided. I clicked on the song eighth from the bottom and started letting the dams from behind my eyelids overflow. My entire forearm was in throbbing pain. However, in my super deranged state of mind at the time, I did not think what I was feeling in my arm was enough. I think what is about to happen next is one of the most damaging things I have ever done to myself.

My depressive mindset thought it was a good idea to just start whacking my head against the floor about fifty times give or take a few.

I would like to take this time to mention why I was doing what I was doing at that moment. To this day I cannot pinpoint a single reason why. Part of me thought it would get rid of the feeling of extreme anxiety that was making its way through my body. Another part of me believed it would make me pass out for a little while. The tiniest part of me thought maybe it would kill me.

This happened for about a half-hour before I grew tired. I then did the one thing that was a good idea. I picked up my phone, turned off the sad music, and speed-dialed my mother who had just gotten home from a birthday party. I had mentioned to her that I had a massive mark on the left side of my head from hitting it too hard. The mistake I made at that moment is I did not tell her the real reason why. I told her that I had fallen off of my extremely lofted bed.

Multiple hours go by and I decide to text my roommate that if she had wanted dinner since we normally go to dinner together on the weekends at one of the many dining options around campus. She says yes and says that she will be up to the dorm in about a half-hour.

Right after that is when I tell her that I think I have a mild concussion. I have never seen her more worried than I had at that moment.

She comes to get me and we head off to dinner. During this whole time, she is searching for medical services on campus, in which none of them were open. I, myself, was starting to panic since my once grumbling stomach had now lost its appetite out of thin air and I was now nauseous.

Our last resort was to go to the police station and see if they could direct us somewhere we could get help. They had suggested that they call me an ambulance to take me to the emergency room. I was really trying to avoid that if at all possible, but they insisted since it would probably get me there faster.

So that is what they did. Ten minutes later, a couple of paramedics came into the police station with a gurney and strapped me in. This was the exact moment where I regretted everything I had done prior. My claustrophobia was now having a field day.

Usually, when a medical professional asks me if I was a threat to myself, I would immediately reject the right answer. I just assumed that was just something I was expected to say. At this point, I knew that there was no escaping it. The marks on my arm were obvious and there was no way I could give some bullsh*t excuse. I had no choice but to tell them that they were self-inflicted. They called my mom to inform her that I was in the ER.

And that, my friends, became the main focus of this visit.

Being put in an actual emergency room was a relief compared to being strapped down. I was put into a hospital gown, which one of the most vulnerable moments of this event.

The moment my mom had finally made her way to where I was was the exact same time I realized the repercussions of my actions. She was sobbing and I had never seen her cry like this. She was genuinely worried.

Not much more happens after this. I am eventually discharged from the ER at around 11:30 that night and my mom takes me all the way back home since she and the doctors did not feel comfortable with me going back to the exact same place where this all started, not right then at least. Within twenty-four hours of that discharge, my mom schedules an emergency visit with my psychiatrist to tell her what happened, and the rest is history.

Now here I am; going to therapy weekly (for now). My appointment is on November 14th.

I figured it out.

I know why I am telling the internet this story. Not for attention, pity, or romanticization.

I am telling it this story not just to show what anxiety and depression can do to a person in stressful situations, but to also show how it can get better.

Ever since that day, I have been clean from all of my sins (ironic since I'm an atheist). The scars are going to remain for quite some time and I am planning to cover them up with a tattoo at some point.

I am in a much better state than I was and I am telling anyone that might be reading this that have been or are going through something similar that you can become just as liberated.

No, I am not saying you need to have a breaking point in order to reach this epiphany. In fact, you can avoid even having one like this.

When I was in that gurney in the ambulance, all I could think of is how my mom is probably so ridiculously worried about me. Why? Because she cares about me.

And you have people that care about you.

What was going through my mind when I was doing all of these damaging things to myself was not me. It may have been physically me, but mentally I was someone extremely jaded and absolutely done with living. I could have easily pressed down a little deeper or hit my head a little harder. I should be grateful that I am living, and I am.

You should be just as grateful for your own life because life is precious. Cherish it.