The Anniversary

There isn't any celebration for this anniversary, just a quiet sense of pride tinged with a little melancholy.  You see 10 years ago today, I checked into a hotel on the ocean front in Virginia Beach and proceeded with my plan to commit suicide.  I was almost successful, almost.

After a series of mental, emotional and physical setbacks, I was desolate.   I spiraled down into a depression so dark it overwhelmed me.  I had no hope, no dreams, just the all encompassing feeling I was just better off not living.  I had just been dumped by my boyfriend, lost my job and was well on my way to losing my condo. This was the deepest depression I have ever known.  Depression is slow.  Its a creeper.  Looking back now this episode started a couple of years prior to 2003.  Most likely it started in 2001.  On August 28th, 2001 my brother committed suicide.  A few weeks later the terrorist attacks of September 11th happened and roughly two weeks later my father dropped dead while on the way to put his dinner plate in the kitchen sink.  Besides being shell shocked, and overwhelmed by the grief, I think I began to the decent into my own life changing depression.

It was the perfect storm.  Between all the trauma I was experiencing within my family, I was carrying my old demons as well.  It really exhausted me mentally, emotionally and physically.  I see it so clearly now.  The flaws in my thinking, how I isolated myself from everyone and everything until all I had was my depression.  When you feel you no longer have anything left to loose and you feel you only bring pain to those around you, suicide can seemingly appear to be a quite rational conclusion.

Leading up to November 26th I managed to close up shop.  I didn't tell anyone.  I just went about packing up my home, giving things away.  If you had come into my life you would have thought I was simply moving.  I remember not wanting to burden my family with the ugliness of having to come down from Connecticut and sift through my belongings.  I am still stunned by the odd ways in which my thoughts swirled.   Things that should have mattered didn't and things that didn't matter were now important.  Anything of a personal nature was thrown away and the rest was pack in boxes and labeled.  All neatly stacked in the living room.  As I had in life, I would do in death, make it easy for those in my life to move on.  I wasn't worthy of them anyhow or so I thought.

The next portion of this story is something out of Hollywood.  I checked into the hotel.  I had already wrote my letter.  In fact I had written three of them.  One to my family, one to a friend and the other was the directions, account numbers and etc. they would need after my death.  I remember taking my shower and dressing.  I remember sitting down, opening the bottle of wine and taking the lethal amount of pills I had.  What I don't remember is putting the do not disturb sign on the door.  In an otherwise flawless suicide plan, this one little minor detail would become a major player in this drama of mine.

I am not sure how, but a maid found me.  For some reason unknown to me, she entered my room and found me after I had passed out.  An ambulance was called and the rest is of little importance.  I woke up in the hospital.  I was in 4 point restraints, on a ventilator and had a catheter in.  I remember thinking to myself, "shit, fuck, G-ddamn it, how the hell am I here?  How the hell am I still alive?"  The irony of this was not lost on me then nor now.

I had been in a coma for 4 days.  Upon waking up, the ventilator was removed and I was "interviewed" by the staff shrink.  I remember a nurse telling my mother wished to speak to me.  I picked up the phone, she screamed, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"  I simply hung the phone up.  The nurse just looked confused.  I asked when I could get out of the hospital, she smiled and walked away.  I went back to sleep.  If I thought I was depressed before my attempt, I was sure I was depressed afterwards.

A few days later I was giving the choice of either signing myself into a mental hospital or I would be committed....Baker Acted.  It was explained to me, if I signed myself in, when the doctor said I was better I would be released.  If I was committed by the Commonwealth of Virginia, my case would only be reviewed in 12 month intervals.  Which meant if I was better in 3 months, I could very well be sitting in a mental hospital for 9 months waiting for my next court evaluation and then it wasn't certain when I would be released.  I chose to sign myself in.

That was 10 years ago that I made the trip to Eastern State Mental Hospital in Williamsburg, Virginia.  I was in the hospital for just under 6 months.  I don't know how but I managed to begin to put myself back together.  With the help of a few special people, my doctor, a couple of the ward staff and lots of time to think about me, I did it.  I started to recover physically and they helped with the mental and emotional stuff I was dealing with.  The healing process had begun.

You hear horror stories about state run mental institutions.  I am not gonna lie and say it was nice because it wasn't.  I have heard, seen and learned things I wish I hadn't.  I have also received some of the more caring and compassionate treatment I have ever known.  The end result was I was better physically, mentally and emotionally than I had probably ever been.  I learned about CBT (Cognative Behavioral Therapy), how to change my negative thoughts, retraining my thinking.  I learned I am worthy of love and happiness.  I began to have hope.

Its been a journey.  Good times, tough times and times of pure joy.  So I sit back today in a really thoughtful place.  Not sad, not joyous but thoughtful.  They say hindsight is 20/20 and by golly, it really is.  I can look back now and not flinch.  I feel a certain level of pride.  I have begun the work.  The work of healing myself.  Learning about me and putting to rest some of the past trauma's that led me to that very dark place.

I went back to the hotel once.  I tried to find the poor maid who found me.  I wanted to say thank you and to apologize to her.  The hotel has since been sold and a new staff is in place.  So I dedicate this blog in honor of the woman who found me, whomever she is.  She gave me the most precious gift.  A do-over.  A second chance at life.

I share this most intimate moment in the hope someone will read this and know you can feel better.  Life isn't hopeless.  To reach out and ask for help, its there...you just have to reach out for it.  Life isn't easy.  It never will be.  Life is livable.

I just have a truer sense now of who I am, where I have been and where I am going.  I have a sense of internal peace now.   I like Lucien 2.0.  While this may seem like an anniversary, for me its more of a mile marker in this crazy journey we call life.