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I didn’t anticipate today. Sure, I knew the sun would rise, even if it was hidden behind a blanket of clouds. I could hear the familiar buzz of bees outside my window and the cheerful chirping of birds. I expected my children to wake up with their wide eyes and curious hearts, rushing into the living room to find me. Yet, I never thought I would be here. I didn’t plan for this day because, honestly, I wasn’t supposed to see it. Just three weeks ago, I was grappling with the urge to end my life.
Describing the aftermath of a suicide attempt is challenging. It’s a struggle to regain a sense of normalcy when you’ve been in a place where nothing felt real. My last encounter with death wasn’t as severe as the two before it; I had a plan but never followed through. I didn’t take the pills, yet mentally, I was prepared for my heart to stop. Recalibrating my life after such an experience is daunting. Finding joy in the little things is difficult when just weeks ago, nothing mattered.
I know I’m not alone in this. Each year, over 45,000 people die by suicide in the United States, with 25 attempts for every death. Many, like me, wake up feeling lost and unsure of how to move forward. Suicide ranks as the tenth leading cause of death in the country and is an increasing concern, especially among the youth. A study from 2018 highlighted that more children, particularly girls, are experiencing suicidal thoughts. The statistics are alarming and demand attention.
The silver lining is that I’m still here. I’m awake, walking, and talking. Medically, I’m fine. I disposed of the pills and alcohol I had considered. I never experienced the worst-case scenario of my children finding me unresponsive. I should feel grateful—blessed even. But despite this, I find myself struggling with basic tasks. Showering feels overwhelming, and mustering the energy to eat is a chore. Engaging with my kids? I’m not fully present yet.
I sleep restlessly, feeling drained yet unable to find peace. I experience loneliness even in the company of others. My body aches in ways I can’t express, and I crave connection while simultaneously pushing people away. There’s turmoil within me because I am alive when I thought I wouldn’t be. Depression had convinced me that I didn’t want to live.
Taking life one step at a time, I’m working through each day. I exercise in the mornings to remind myself I’m alive. I hold my children close, cherishing these moments. I tell myself, “This is a gift,” and that I’m thankful for today. I meet with my therapist weekly and connect with my psychiatrist regularly, pushing through the discomfort. I complete mundane tasks, recognizing the healing that comes with time. After all, it’s only been three weeks—just 23 days. I know I’ll get there. You can too.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out for help. This blog serves as a reminder that healing is possible.
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