(TRIGGER WARNING)

I can’t seem to find the words nor do I even know where to begin. When did life become so complicated? When did life become so unbearable, so painful, that suicide became the only way out?

I have battled PTSD due to childhood trauma my entire life, that lead me down the dark, terrifying road known as depression. I’ve never been silent about my struggles, but I have left most of you in the dark when it came to the depth of my depression. I felt as though it had become a reoccurring theme to those in my life and on social media, so why bother trying to reach out when cries for help would be returned with mocking, laughter and words such as “She just wants attention. She’ll never do it.”

Well I did it. And thank God I’m here to tell it.

What I once considered my fairy tale love, somehow turned to ashes seemingly overnight, yet the embers continued to burned longer than I felt I could endure. My silent screams for help went unnoticed as I kept saying the words “I need help” while my wrists slowly turned into nothing but scars that now haunt me. My entire life I’ve self harmed and struggled with suicidal ideation. I never understood why I was different, why women never seemed to like me, why men seemed to only want to use me. Over the years I tried to morph into what society deemed “pretty” and when that wasn’t enough, I morphed into my own personal hell because at least I could hate myself the way others seemed to. I just wanted to fit in. I just wanted to be enough. I just wanted someone to fill the gaping hole in my heart that was waiting to be filled with unending love. A love without conditions.

It started with cancelling my plans with friends then slowly, as I lost those friends, I isolated myself to the point of no return. Each day I woke up was another day full of enduring the horrific pain of feeling worthless, disgusting and a pathetic waste of space on this earth. I knew I needed help when one day, followed by every single day, I opened my swollen eyes with tears still staining my cheeks because God had spared my life for another miserable day. I desperately wanted God to end my life so I didn’t have to.

Friday evening became the evening that defined my entire future. I went out for a much needed drink because my relationship had crumbled to nothing but a cruel, sick and twisted joke. I needed a night to myself to be me again, which was someone I hadn’t recognized in so incredibly long. Somehow, without barely any recollection, my night turned sour where I was drugged and ultimately ended with a belt around my neck and a ladder reaching up to my ceiling fan. All I remember is my ex boyfriend trying to lift me off the floor and him struggling because I was dead weight. (He was NOT responsible)I remember him trying to dress me. I remember wondering where my clothes went and why I could barely speak or move. I tried screaming to him inside my head but no words came out. I became trapped in my own body. I was roofied and possibly, statistically, likely raped by the time I made my way home that night/early morning.

Waking up the next morning was excruciating as I started to realize what my reality had now become. I called my ex immediately and begged him to come back to my house to stay with me while I packed my bags to commit myself because the pain I was feeling in the deepest pits of my soul was so intense I was scared I would put the belt around my neck again and hopefully succeed.

He rushed to my side and sat solemnly as I packed my bags, never asking a word about what may have happened. As we drove to the mental hospital we rode silently in the car with tears streaming down my already soaked face. I didn’t want to leave my baby girl, my cats, my home, my life but at the same time- I was desperate for this life to be over.

The first day was the hardest as I sat in isolation during intake for 6 hours with a red bracelet on meaning: I was on the highest suicide risk level in the entire hospital. Afterwards, they involuntarily committed me, despite me voluntarily walking through those doors. That day was a day that forever changed my life. 11 daunting, excruciating days, 11 days of detoxing off alcohol and numerous drugs, 11 days of screaming, moans and cries, 11 days of nightmares that caused muscle spasms and many panic attacks: Yet here I am, ALIVE.

This story is one that I didn’t want to share but I felt compelled to because I wanted you to know you aren’t alone in your suffering. You are seen, you are heard and YOU FREAKING MATTER.

Someone, somewhere needs to see this and I hope this will show you that seeking help isn’t for the weak, it’s for the strongest of the strong. I was brave and you can be brave too.

Fight for your life because no one else will fight it for you.