It’s Not That I Didn’t Want to Live

The moral of the story of my lemons is depression and anxiety.  I have studied myself, my patterns, my triggers, and my relationships for almost 11 years. My goal with that research was to get to the bottom of my problems, so I could solve them, and move on from them. I worked to get to the root cause of my emotions, so I could learn how to heal from them. The bottom line is that I felt unworthy of love. This unworthiness feeling caused me to beg for love and feel constant state of failure and despair by not receiving any unconditional love.

When I was 5-6 years old, I saw someone attempt suicide. I did not know who they were, nor did I know their backstory or reasons behind their actions. I also say attempt, because I honestly do not know if they were successful with their mission. I was in Queens, NY. I was behind our building. The woman fell off her terrace to the ground. I remember someone screaming. I remember my mom looking for a blanket to cover her. That is where my memory stops.

My next childhood story related to suicide was written by myself. It was 6th grade. My first year of middle school. There were a few other transitions happening in my life in addition to that big move from my cozy small town elementary school. I was 12 years old. I had a homework assignment to write a chapter book.  I can’t tell you the details of the book. I do not know if it even still exists in an attic anywhere. But I do remember how the book ends. The woman in the book decided it was all too much for her, and she swallowed a bottle of Tylenol PM to kill herself.

When I was in 8th grade my group of friends and myself were bullied by a teacher, in her attempts to make us be kinder and more inclusive in the class. Hindsight, perhaps she was right with her intentions. I can see how other children were made to feel awful about themselves from our group, as for years I was also made to feel awful from this group and I was “in it.” I am sorry for those of you my hurt self-hurt in that era.

This teacher shamed us. She judged us. She labeled us. She excluded us. She made me want to die. I remember the feeling of, “ahhhhh I am trying soooo hard to be good! I am doing what I can do!! Why isn’t anything I ever do enough?? Why do people think I am such an awful person.” That thought is a repeating pattern that went on in my head on repeat for YEARS.

That same year I asked a caregiver for help. I told them, I am so sad. I don’t want to feel this anymore. Please help me. I remember that they were on medication for their own sadness. I asked if I could be given something to make the pain go away. I do not remember their words. But I remember their actions. Nothing. Nothing came from this conversation.  And the thought of leaving this earth kept on surfacing my mind.

High school is a blur in my mind. I know I had fun times. I had learned early in life to gain any positive attention from my caregivers I had to achieve. So, achieve I did! I was in a ton of clubs and activities.  I also worked multiple jobs at a time throughout most of high school.  I was in good standing with my grades, I was highly involved in my extracurricular activities, I worked my butt off in between those items.  But that dark cloud was still there. That nagging feeling wasn’t enough. I was a burden on my caregivers. I was an inconvenience to them. This pattern ruminated into my friend group, the same as the middle school days.  I kept thinking that it would help my caregivers and friends out if I wasn’t an inconvenience to them anymore. It might be best for all involved if I died.

My junior year I broke. I felt my constant attempt for approval and acceptance was wasted. I learned that I would always be in trouble trying my best to please my friends and caregivers. So, fuck it! I went rogue. I learned that drinking parties gave me way more satisfaction and validation than I ever knew possible! (More on this soon.)

However, my fuck it attitude came with consequences. In my 3.5 years of active drinking before legal age, I received 2 underage drinking tickets and 1 absolute sobriety ticket. Mind you, when I went to the party route, I maintained all my achievements that I had going on previously.  Despite all my positives, I still had a harsh reality for my consequences for my negatives.

By 21 between my choices and my caregivers’ choices I was cut financially from them. They no longer helped me with my car, cellphone, or school. I was already fully self sufficient for my living besides those things since I was 19.  I had no more fucks to give for their judgments of my life. If you want to think XYZ about me, go for it, but I am going to live my life on my terms. (I will have a post on this era soon.)

However, this cutoff didn’t solve my depression, nor my anxiety. I transferred that repeating pattern into my relationships and jobs. I remember a handful of drunken fights with my now husband where I threatened to kill myself to make his life “easier.” If I am such a burden, why don’t I just help us all out.

I have been thinking about this post and these patterns for months now. It hit me with a ton of bricks the other month. Did I not trip out of the car when I sustained my TBI? Was I intentionally getting out of the car to die??? It all added up to me. My drinking was at its ultimate worst height. My self-worth was at its absolute lowest (so I had felt at the time). I finally asked my husband about this theory. He genuinely seemed shocked at my thoughts. He did not give any words or vibes that was at all the case.  

So, I didn’t attempt suicide the night of the injury. However, my suicidal ideations came to action shortly after that accident. My memory is foggy post TBI. As I have gone back in my memory over and over some things do come to my mind as truth. I was released from the hospital prematurely in my opinion, and not properly medicated.  I had short term memory issues. I was told I was not allowed to drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes. Those two items were the only thing I had going for me at that time in my life, besides caffeine.  I would forget I wasn’t allowed to indulge, and then I would explode because of my current impulse control issues when denied my addictions.  

I remember trying to smoke from the butts of cigarettes that were put out into a citronella candle. I remember those cigarettes being tossed from my balcony so I couldn’t have them anymore.  I remember wanting to, and I feel I even attempted to, jump off my balcony into the forestry setting below to get my cigarettes’ butts. I remember being physically held back and pulled into my house. I remember having a pen and trying to stab my wrists.

The next thing I remember is being put into a police car. The next thing I remember was waking up the next day in the psych ward. I was finally properly medicated. That is when my true healing finally began. I believe it was the 11th day after my TBI. I stayed there for about 10 days. In those 10 days my husband, boyfriend at the time, made all the arrangements for us to leave St. Thomas. When I was release from their care, I had about a day to gather my things, and we moved to Connecticut.

I would love to say my suicidal thoughts ended that day. However, that is not the case, unfortunately. I have had a few more panic attacks that lead me to believe it would be better for other people if I were no longer their problems.

However, I can honestly say that has not been a thought of mine for almost 7 years. When I became a mother, it changed my perspective of so many things in life. One of the biggest things is that I need to live. My son needs me to be alive. More than that he needs me as a light, not a dark cloud. I have been working diligently for years trying to get to the root of my issues, so I do not project them on to him.

I have said it a few times throughout this piece the reasons for my suicidal thoughts. I couldn’t put it into words in those moments. It is something that I connected with within the past few years. I saw something on Instagram aimlessly scrolling one night, and it made me go, “Ooooooohhhhhhhhh!!!!” It basically said something like, I did not want to kill myself because I no longer had a will to live. I wanted to kill myself because I no longer wanted to be a burden. Well damn. If that didn’t describe all my pain to a tee. I was seriously like, wow it all makes sense now.

Although no longer suicidal, I still had suffered with full on anxiety and occasional bouts of depression the past few years. But I kept digging. Kept shining the light on the darkest parts of my heart and soul to understand where these roots were and how to pull them out from my heart and mind.

I have written about feeling like no one liked me when I first had my TBI (Nobody Likes Me). In my many years of research I have learned that patterns repeat themselves until you solve the problem. You have a lesson to learn, and it will keep popping up until you learn it. All my adult problems are from inner child wounds. I have known that for a long time, which is why I kept searching for the roots, and pulling them out one by one.

Doing so has damaged bridges with people who knew and “liked” me before my brain injury. Those bridges are damaged because they have expressed disdain for who I have become since my brain injury. The first few relationships that went south I still didn’t understand what they meant at that time. My most recent severing of ties it all became clear to me. (More on this soon.)

If you do not read that post the moral of the story is that I no longer accept shame-based corrections. Last year I had to make one of the hardest decisions of my life. I had to euthanize my best fur friend after 10 years of unconditional love due to cancer. At the same time my inner child was pushing hard to dig that last root up. It was a freaking toll on my heart and soul. After Ted died, I had a fuck it moment.  

In my 3 months of grieving some of my caregivers decided they were uncomfortable with my life choices at that time. One decided to suggest I be medicated to be easier to be around. They felt that I was too much for them, and therefore the rest of the world. I didn’t take this shame-based correction well. I placed boundaries, they were not well received. I reached out to my other caregiver and said I was very hurt at this judgement and shame. They in summary told me I am a loser to them, and that I deserved all the shame and that they were not going to help me in any fashion.

After an evening of processing and grieving, it all went away. I literally remember feeling the weight of the world leaving my shoulders. That was the final root. The final piece of the puzzle. I love myself for the first time ever. I am living my life with my intuition and heart guiding me. I am helping my community. I am loving to my friends and family still in my circle. My son is all the validation I need that I am doing a wonderful job at this thing called life, because our relationship is something I never knew possible. I am so proud of myself, and yet my caregiver compared me to one of the lowest humans I know on this earth. Dot dot connected. If I am still not worthy of your love and respect now, more than likely I never will be.

 I have tried to be worthy to all my family and friends for my whole life. It was a repeating pattern to use shame to correct my personality to make themselves more comfortable around me. This shame led me to feel I am a burden to my loved ones. I felt to love me was hard, because I am unlovable. I was never enough while always too much at the same time. Although I am grieving the loss of the love that I always begged for but never received in a way that I could feel it, I can honestly say I am grateful for that shitty moment in time. Why? Because I am free. I may not be enough for some people, but I am enough for me and my son. I am also loved and appreciated by many people for who I am as my most authentic self. I can finally accept the love from other people, because I am no longer grasping for crumbs from those who are unwilling to meet me where I am at and never have. It is sad, but I am not sad.