Cost of Depression
The first time I was label “depressed” was when I was fourteen.
Many loved ones told me to “snap out of it” and “high school is the best time of your life” or that I “didn’t know what worry was”. A combination of false platitudes, a family history of mental illness, and a really bad breakup had me considering suicide when at 16.
For a science fair, my partner and I focused on the Yellow Ribbon Project. I knew how to get help. I knew the warning signs. I knew how difficult suicide is on loved ones. I also knew the failure rates. Those were the statistics that kept me awake at night. I was terrified of failure and became consumed by planning my death.
- Jumping to my death…. What if I broke my neck? What if my parents went bankrupt caring for me? I was already making their life hell. The plan was to make everyone’s life better.
- Taking pills…. What if I didn’t do the math right? What if my mom found me and had my stomach pumped? Then I would be institutionalized and forgotten.
- Shooting myself….What if I missed? Plus, I didn’t own a gun and I didn’t want someone else to feel guilty.
- Driving my car into a tree…. No guarantees there. Variables were unknowable and too uncertain.
- Cutting my wrist…. So messy and I really hate the sight of blood.
The summer of 2000 was hell. I continued volunteering at the local high school, dating a college boy, hanging out with friends, working at the pizza shop and I’m sure it all looked normal. Secretly I spent hours online planning to run away or ending my life.
The boy I met on a crisp October night at the Ferris Wheel changed everything. Somehow, he was in more pain me. The forgotten son of an absent father and abusive mother, his life was shit and he needed me. He gave me a purpose and I gave up on killing myself because he needed my love, my attention, and my presence. Paul was my salvation. That salvation came with a price.
As I got older, I began developing confidence, autonomy, and self-worth. The less I needed Paul, the more he needed me and the less I understood our dynamics. The mental abuse began shortly before I ran away from home. The physical abuse started when we moved 1000 miles from family and the sexual abuse started a year later.
If you edit my story the right way, mine is a story of tragedy and triumph. When viewed as a whole, it is possible to see how abuse and recovery continues to impact my life decades later. Depression has been a voice in my psyche cheering on risk, discounting achievements, devaluing life and important relationships. As of today, I silence the cacophony of doubt, worry, obsession, inferiority, embarrassment, shame, grief, and anger with a combination of medicine, cognitive therapy, and cannabis.
My journey is not over and suicidal thoughts are rare but I’m super lucky. My heart breaks for all of you who are not. If you need help or a friendly ear, please DM
