Tags
Depression, Hope and Hopelessness, Major depressive disorder, Mental Health, suicide, Suicide Attempts
When my husband Jay came home that day, I was cowering in the darkness, backed into the corner of our closet wishing for complete erasure. I had spent the better part of the day perched on top of our shoes and crouching under the hems of our hanging clothes with my body attempting to fold in on itself. I wanted to escape without leaving a trace.
During the year that led up to that day, I had seen all sorts of doctors and tried multiple psychotropic drugs without any success. I had watched myself disappear. The sadness and despair had so thoroughly abraded my sense of self that my compulsion to hide and turn inward—to search for something that was mine or for something that felt right—was constant. But there was nothing left to discover. The disconnectedness had become unremitting and vicious, the resulting isolation all-encompassing.
Still, despite my inexorable hopelessness, Jay somehow managed to coax me out of that closet. I can’t recall anything about how he tried to distract and soothe me in the hours that followed. The look on his face, though, has stayed with me. His jaw was tensed in frustration, his brow furrowed with worry, and his eyes seemed as though they had clouded over with fear and disappointment. He was trying and he had been trying for a long time, but he was exhausted. We both were so tired—tired of living with the person that I had become.
After a few hours, I couldn’t bear to see how drained and spent Jay seemed. So, I told him to go to bed. We had opposite sleep patterns; I often stayed up way past Jay’s bedtime, he always woke before dawn, and I struggled to get out of bed before nine. When Jay got up, he would tiptoe out of the bedroom, dress, and leave well before I was even awake.
That night, Jay was hesitant about going to sleep. Eventually, though, he could barely keep his eyes open. When he finally relented, he told me that he loved me and asked if I would be safe before kissing me goodnight. I nodded reflexively and told him that I loved him too. I really loved him, but I didn’t know how to be safe anymore.
I had reached a still point where I could only imagine one way to give us both permanent freedom from our misery. I saw the claustrophobic choicelessness pressing down and closing in on the unraveled and nearly empty me. I knew it was going to crush me, and I believed that if I continued to try to hold onto the people who had been forced to standby helplessly watching me deteriorate, I would surely cause their destruction too.
Once Jay had gone to bed and the house was quiet, I considered my options. I knew that Jay was a sound sleeper and that in the dark when he woke up in the morning he would not be able to really see me as he quickly padded out of our room. He would then go off to work without suspecting anything was amiss, and when he got home later that afternoon everything would be over. With this in mind, I filled a glass with water from the kitchen sink and walked over to the bathroom cabinet where I stored all those failed antidepressants and sleeping medications. I hadn’t planned to squirrel away so many drugs, but there they were.
I left the bathroom with the glass of water in one hand and a couple of bottles of sleeping pills in the other and found a corner spot in the narrow, drafty hall by our bedroom. I slumped down onto the cold, tile floor, pulled my knees to my chest, and cried quietly.
At the time, we lived in the Santa Cruz mountains in a house that we couldn’t afford to heat properly. On that rainy night in January, the hall was particularly chilly, and I was shivering. Even so, the tears rolling down my cheeks felt uncomfortably hot. Our dog sat beside me licking the salty wetness off my face. I thought about how he wouldn’t know where I had gone, and I wondered if he would keep looking for me until the day he died.
I worried about the people I loved. They probably would never truly understand why I needed to escape. But I couldn’t change that, or I didn’t know how. I told myself that any issues that arose from my death would only be temporary problems. I was certain of this. The people I loved were all stronger and more competent than I could ever be. I felt weak and scared and cold. The ability to put an end to the devastating force that seemed to be coursing through me was my only remaining power. I shoveled the pills into my mouth, drank the water, and swallowed, three times.
My heart fluttered as I stood up to walk back to Jay for what I thought would be the last time. I wanted to be with him and to feel the warmth and comfort of his body up against mine. When I reached our bed, I paused and noticed my mittens and hat on the nightstand. I realized that I didn’t need them anymore. I would not have to feel the coldness for much longer, and soon I would never have to feel cold again. I slipped under the covers, pressed myself up against Jay, and melted into the warmth of his body. Sinking easily and quickly into the softness of the mattress, I imagined Jay no longer struggling with the toxic person that neither of us wanted. I felt relieved; we would both be free now. Then I closed my eyes and let go.
* * *
When I started this blog, Jay felt that I was leaving out a big part of my story. He thought that readers needed to know that I had tried to kill myself multiple times for them to truly understand the severity of this illness. For the first nine months of this blog, though, I couldn’t bring myself to write about my suicide attempts. I felt ashamed of those experiences, and I didn’t want to revisit them.
Jay saw it differently and decided to write about his experience of that night. That way, if and when I felt the time was right, I could let people know the truth. While I didn’t have the courage to post it then, something totally unexpected happened when I read his words. A piece of the story that I had shuttered away from for 18 years became clearer. Jay’s story began,
Francesca tried to kill herself once since we’ve been together, not long after we got married. She took a bunch of pills that were supposed to help her sleep and then crawled back into bed, maybe because it was so cold in the house. I remember waking up to her moving restlessly in bed next to me and moaning loudly from way down in her throat. I remember asking if she was okay, then getting scared when I shook her and yelled at her and still couldn’t wake her up properly. I remember that a policeman who arrived with the EMTs asked me questions that were meant to discover whether or not I had done harm to her. I think I remember that they would not let me come to the hospital with her, that I was told to stay home, and that it was light outside when they finally left. I don’t remember much else, and I’m not confident that what I’ve described here is accurate. Make of that what you will.
In all our discussions about what happened that night, I never asked Jay why he didn’t go to the hospital with me, and he never mentioned the police interrogation. I assumed that he got back into bed that night because he was furious with me for abandoning him. And I was so grateful when he forgave me that I didn’t want to question his decision to stay home that night. I thought Jay-—just like other relatives of mine—had been protecting himself by creating distance between us. I was sure that he left me alone in the hospital to punish me, and I was convinced that I deserved any and all retribution. But I was wrong. Jay wasn’t furious with me and he didn’t want to punish me, either.
I was wrong about so many things: about the way my body would respond to an overdose of sleeping pills, about why Jay did not come to the hospital that night, about whether my mind would ever be mine again, about how people would, should, and did respond to my suicide attempt, about what I deserved, and about whether I should be ashamed. The list of my mistakes from that night is long, but my greatest regret is the pain that both my depression and my suicide attempt have caused Jay. And yet, I have finally started to see that blaming people for depression and suicide is as illogical as blaming them for any other potentially fatal illness. I suppose the policeman from that night was just doing his job, but the truth is no one was at fault.
In writing and sharing my stories on this blog, I have been consistently surprised by what turns up. I’ve learned things that I never would have imagined and things that I’ve struggled to understand and accept for most of my life. I have begun to actively refute ideas about how I am bad and deserve to be punished. I am no longer denying my past. More important, I am starting to believe that I shouldn’t have to.
16stories said:
Heartbreaking and lovely. Your pain is palpable, as is your love for Jay. I love you and am so grateful that you are here.
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Be quiet said:
Here I am, again… sorry for being such a pain, haha. But, as many other people probably are, I’m so (maybe ‘happy’ is a nice word, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t fit the context) relieved every single time I read your texts.
I have told this to some people before, since this is what I try to do with my texts: just write. Write your pain and feelings away. Perhaps they’ll make more sense on paper or on screen.
I’m something similar to lighter after I write, and I guess this may be how you feel too.
This is a good exercise and I hope you and I can continue doing this; your posts are always incredibly well-written and I really feel you through your words.
Greetings from Brazil!
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Francesca Milliken said:
I am always glad to hear from you. Thank for continuing to read, think about, and comment on my posts. It really pleases me to know that my words occasionally bring you relief.
Cheers,
Francesca
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Serena Savage said:
Unbelievably moving.
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for being open to and thoughtful about my posts.
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roughghosts said:
Very moving. After decades of primarily upward swinging mood disorder I am struggling with significant depression for the first time in many years. Even I keep thinking that I should be able to just pull myself out of it when I know better. It does feel like being trapped a mesh of thorns.
Thank you for sharing your story.
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Francesca Milliken said:
I am sorry to hear that you are struggling again. Thank you for making the effort to continue reading despite your health.
Best,
Francesca
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gingerbus said:
I can’t even bear to read this through to the end because it is just too honest and I understand more than I can say.
It takes great courage to open up the way you have, and I’m sure it will help many others to get some understanding from varying perspectives. It’s a good thing that you are doing here.
Jay’s patience and love jumps out of this piece and I’m sure that your words will help those around you to understand.
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Francesca Milliken said:
I’m sorry that this was difficult for you to read. I hadn’t considered the possibility that this piece might be “too honest.” I think of it as just my version of the truth.
Francesca
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gingerbus said:
That’s just me, while it might provoke emotions that’s the point in a way, to promote understanding of these experiences. it’s really good to have someone able to express without fear.
I’m very glad that you have done so.
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you.
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Sasha Judelson-Kelly said:
Thank you for finding the courage to share so eloquently your raw emotion, that so many of us find so difficult to share with others. I’m so pleased you are still with us.
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for continuing to read and for your support, Sasha. I so wish you lived closer. It has been far too long.
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sweeneyroo said:
I just got to say that you aren’t alone. I wish i had the support you have with Jay. Reading your blog is like you are speaking the words i want to say sometimes but I can’t. Now i have a great support system and i just want to tell you that you aren’t alone.
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Francesca Milliken said:
I am glad to know that you have a strong support system in place. Thank you for reading.
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JamTokyo said:
super lovely
this blog is amazing!!
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you.
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Danielle Bunting said:
Francesca,
Well done. It takes a lot of courage to
do what you are doing. Hopefully, others
also struggling, will see that they aren’t
alone and too shouldn’t feel ashamed.
Love,
D
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you, Danielle. I’m not sure about the courage part, but I really do hope others will feel less ashamed.
xo,
Francesca
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Ujjwal Sharma said:
Francesca I have been and going through a similar time and although I do not know your reasons I understand that time when you start blaming yourself for everything that went wrong and your mind constantly tries to find that point in time when everything went wrong. I believe that the only support in such times is to hold on to yourself as the storm lashes around you and keep looking towards the sky hoping for the clouds to disappear. And I hope you find happiness after all that you’ve endured.
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Francesca Milliken said:
I am so sorry. Somehow, I missed your comment. Thank you for reading and for the support. I hope the sky opens up for you in the not-so-distant future.
Take care,
Francesca
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Ujjwal Sharma said:
Thanks Francesca. You take care too!
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.Nyeto. said:
I always thought I’d never reblog something from anyone, but this is just so real. It’s scary but still so powerful…
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for re-blogging the post and the compliment.
Best,
Francesca
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.Nyeto. said:
You’re welcome hunny. You’re one of the few people who can actually write down your feelings and thoughts. I wish I could do that but I’m not ready yet.
Your post really make sense. Thanks for existing and being such inspirational.
Hugs,
Dounia
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Victoria Ward said:
Wow. I’ve read several things people have written about Depression, but how you write is like what I would say if I had the words to describe what happens in my head. Thank you. Thank you for being so open and honest and so eloquent.
Victoria
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for reading and for your generous praise. I really appreciate your taking the time to let me know your thoughts.
Take care,
Francesca
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eezna said:
It takes courage and something more than words to describe what you’ve been through.
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luverley said:
You had me in tears. It’s nice to read we aren’t alone. Even though we feel it deeply alot we are not alone.
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Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for reading this post with sensitivity. I am sorry to have made you cry, but I am so glad that you felt less alone.
All the best,
Francesca
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