[12 min read] I was 20 when I dropped outta college. I was so stressed out and in such a dark place I tried to OD on a swath of pills that likely wouldn’t have killed me but seriously fucked me up; though I had a backup method.
My left forearm was gratuitously cut up from self-harm and after the pills I was going to finish myself off with one deep meaningful cut and bleed out. I remember laying on my bed drinking and getting the nerve up. I was talking to an online friend of mine who didn’t even live in the state. He was quite a bit older than me and I mentioned in passing how he was a good friend and that life was just too much sometimes or something to that effect. The saccharine melancholy must have been outta the ordinary for me and he figured it out. He told me I was frightening him, but I logged off. I closed my laptop and I prepared myself mentally to finish the job. But my friend had called campus security and an intervention team showed up knocking on my door within minutes. Confused, I waited for them to go away, but they kept knocking so I finally got up and answered. A team in matching red vests had arrived to heroically save the day (eye roll). But for real, my friend probably saved my life.
And when I look back on that memory and the events that transpired afterwards, all I feel is intense shame and guilt for failing. My parents were so proud I got a scholarship to attend college. So when they got a call from the hospital saying I had been admitted for a suicide attempt in the middle of my second year, I’m sure they were beside themselves.
They didn’t know. They didn’t know that I already seriously struggled with depression (even I didn’t realize what it was). They didn’t know I had been raped by a close friend that year and how I’d swept it under the rug, trying to ignore it happened at all. That I had countless other brutal sexual experiences because I felt nothing for my body or myself. And I didn’t know, all the past trauma’s of my life, including my dad’s physical abuse, would come to haunt me having never been emotionally processed in the first place. It was all of that on top of a stressful academic program in which I felt woefully inadequate. I always felt this way, about everything, and this was no different.
I was living by myself that year in the dorms, and it was the first time I was alone to actually feel emotions freely. To be me. Except that I didn’t know how to do any of that or who I was because, little did I know, my internal self was completely broken, like a shattered mirror. I’d also been suppressed emotionally for so long, for my entire life, that every emotion, painful body memory, and trauma came exploding forward, like someone suddenly turned the music up and blew out my eardrums. I soaked all of it in alcohol until it came flooding out. By the time I tried to commit suicide I was drowning, just like when I was a child (I almost drowned in a pool when I was four).
From the outside it just looked like I was an irresponsible party-girl. I drank myself into failing out. That’s what my dad thought. I’m sure it never dawned on him that he could be part of the problem.
So when I decided to drop all my classes and give up, he was furious. College was about 45 min away from home and my dad refused to help me move my stuff back. My mom had to ask my brother to come help move my things out of the dorms. My brother was cool about it, a little annoyed having to help me move, but no judgment otherwise. When I got home my dad wouldn’t even look at me. He was so disappointed and all I felt was intense deep shame for being a failure just like my brothers (which is what he grumbled about when they weren’t around).
“I never had any problems with you up to this point, why all of a sudden?” Those were his first words to me.
“Why would you want to do this [suicide]?” He said, in a low voice, anger in his brows. “For what? I could do that too you know. You think my life has been easy? And I don’t ever think about that, so why would you?” He was upset. He was frustrated with my choice, trying to understand why his daughter would give up her life. I remember starting to panic, breathing more quickly, but trying to hide it and holding back tears as I was lectured on the idiocy of my choices and the stinging reminder of what an ungrateful piece of shit I was.
“What are you going to do now? You shouldn’t tell anyone you have these issues. How will you get a job if this is on your record?” I don’t know what imaginary record he was talking about but he meant depression or Bipolar II or BPD. The hospital had sent home a bunch of information on these mental health illnesses much to my horror. Later I would be diagnosed with Bipolar II, but I never acknowledged it, didn’t feel right.
And that was the reaction I got after coming home. The concern wasn’t for me in my current state, just whether I’d be able to get a job one day. Not empathy, not care, not even concern, not love. Disappointment. I was an open wound and instead of bandages and care, I got salt and shame.
I already felt like a piece of shit for dropping out. I remember the intake guy at the hospital asking me what I wanted to do next. Did I want to take my life? Am I sure? Then what did I want?
I wanted to go hide under a rock. I wanted to tear everything down and start over. They finally let me out on the condition I’d attend weekly therapy for a few months. I then went through the process of explaining to all my teachers (and eventually friends) that I was struggling with depression and had decided to drop all of my classes and go home for a while. It was the worst kind of tour. By the time I’d explained it to everyone, I felt like I failed myself and embarrassed my friends and family. I didn’t need my dad to berate me. I already felt completely humiliated and worthless. It made sense to me. I should feel like shit.
In the months that followed I remember trying to stay in my room for as much as possible. One day I was making a collage, making some art. It’s all I knew. My mom came in and tried to swipe my scissors when I turned away. It was humiliating. I called her out and told her I was fine. To which she whimpered and handed them back saying I had to keep the door open. She kept checking on me. I should have read it as care, but I just read it as imprisonment, control, humiliation. Probably one of my worst memories.
A couple months later after the summer was coming around and classes wrapped up, a friend of mine came to visit. We talked a little about where I was at and she listened. After a pause, she told me not to worry about any of it. That it didn’t matter that I’d had a setback. That I just needed to get better, get back out there, and get my degree. It was the simplest advice and it meant the world to me. It showed belief in me as a person and non-judgment for what I’d been through. I talked to my friend about this many years later, and hilariously, she doesn’t even remember saying it. That’s because it was such obvious advice. Yet, my own parents couldn’t even give that kindness to me. That’s how starved I was of emotional support, that a simple platitude, you’ll be fine, just try again, was like a downpour on a scorched heart.
But that part of me, the part that’s hurt and broken and wallowing in deep shame, still exists. Every time I might disappoint someone, she’s there to remind me what it feels like. She’s there to cast doubt on my decision to prioritize my own self-care rather than maintaining appearances. You know what that feels like right, Jess? To disappoint those around you because you are too weak and inadequate? Do you really wanna go there again? You should be ashamed of yourself. You are pathetic – you ungrateful piece of shit.
It’s why I’m having such a hard time with leaving my current position at work. It feels similar in some ways and it’s pulling up all those old memories. I just can’t help but want to punish myself brutally for it. I’m trying to have the grace to understand why I feel this way. But it hurts that I’m this broken. I can’t even feel good about making decisions that are good for me.
How fucked up is that?