I would wake up thinking: I shouldn’t be here. Warning alarms in my body and criticizing refrains in my head returned every day to remind me that I didn’t belong and I never would. I tried to shut off the alarms, to refute the refrains, but nothing that came to mind held meaning for me anymore.
Part of me could still imagine that the messages in my head might be wrong, but that thought did not stop the feelings. It didn’t even deter them. No matter what I told myself, regardless of all the medications I tried and despite decades of psychotherapy, the suicidal thoughts kept coming.
I had done all the things that a dutiful patient should. Somehow, though, I was still losing control over my life. As drug after drug failed, the only solace I had was the assumption that if things became truly unbearable, I could find an emergency exit. I reassured myself that suicide was always a possibility —a last resort —so I could feel a little less trapped.
Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but temporary is a relative term. This episode of major depression had lasted for more than two and a half years. After making all sorts of lifestyle adjustments and spending many months trying different drugs at varying doses, the depression did not seem temporary. So, when I reached a point where there were no more low-risk, likely-to-work drugs left for me to try, the possibility of remission disappeared. All I could see through my darkened and myopic vision was the promise of suicide.
I wasn’t chasing death. I was running from depression on my own, along the only path to relief I could see. I was alone because I didn’t want my loved ones to have to continue to struggle with me and my depression. I was also alone because I didn’t know anyone who would assist me in suicide, and because the help that professionals wanted to be able to offer either didn’t exist or wasn’t helpful. People probably meant well when they tried to convince me that I was not thinking clearly, that I wasn’t myself, or that I was wrong. But none of those messages provided any comfort. If anything, they only made me feel more hopeless, alone, and powerless.
Depression had stolen so many things from me. I needed to believe there was at least one power that it could not take. My ability to destroy those alarms and refrains forever was the only power that I thought was still mine. At the same time, I couldn’t risk another failed attempt. I could not maim myself in a way that would make living even more difficult for everyone around me.
So, as I lay in bed bundled under the covers with the shades drawn and the doors shut, I began scouring the Internet for a foolproof scheme that didn’t involve gruesome and painful violence. What I found were 20-to-1 odds against success. I read about all the ways that people have survived overdoses or poisonings, hanging attempts, wrist-slitting, gunshot wounds, and even jumps from ridiculously high places. And as I read, I had to acknowledge that unless I could find someone knowledgeable to help me get it right, there simply was no method that guaranteed relief.
I shut my laptop. The room went dark, and the warning alarms started blaring. My shoulders pressed in and up and my muscles tightened as I tried to hold back all the unwanted emotions. I cried loudly, and for a while it seemed like I couldn’t weep fast enough to breathe between the sobs. For a hopeful moment, I thought the pressure that had built up in my chest might finally block off my throat or cause my lungs to cave in.
I didn’t suffocate. Instead, I tried to mute the alarms and the wailing by burying my head under the pillows. I wanted to silence the fury and the panic and the shame, but squeezing all of that padding against my head didn’t help. The noise that was crippling me wasn’t coming through my ears. The alarms, the self-loathing refrains, the seductive lullabies of escape all sounded inside my head. I was the one responsible for all the destructive, negative messages, for all the anger and defeat, and even for all my frightened pleas for death. It was my voice. The sound was me…
16stories said:
The writing as always is so lovely and the feelings so painfully palpable. The “like” button doesn’t fit, though. Instead, I’m sending you lots and lots of love.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Be quiet said:
I agree him 16stories. And I have missed you and your words (not the “good” nor the “bad”; I’ve missed everything).
LikeLike
Be quiet said:
*with
LikeLike
Francesca Milliken said:
You are very kind to accept me as I am. For that I am truly grateful. I hope I will have a little good to offer someday.
Be well,
Francesca
LikeLiked by 2 people
Be quiet said:
You already do =)
LikeLiked by 1 person
Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for seeing me. I miss you and hope you are alright.
Love,
Francesca
LikeLike
Fred Johnston said:
Wow. As I was reading this, I forgot to breath. Very powerful.
I look at what suicide has done to my family and have concluded that it is not a suitable escape hatch for my depressive states. The screams work, though.
LikeLiked by 2 people
Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for reading and for being so thoughtful. I’m glad the screaming helps.
Best,
Francesca
LikeLiked by 2 people
transcribingmemory said:
Hello, I stumbled upon and old post of yours in my “discover” feed and I love your writing. I checked your home page and I found this as your last article. Thank you for your honesty and wonderful writing. I encourage you to find a professional and tell them you feel this way, if you haven’t already. Sometimes we feel people should see it, should know how we are feeling but they don’t unless we tell them. I also encourage you to keep writing. You have beauty and wonder still. It’s plainly in the way you write. Please hold on.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you for your thoughtful words and encouragement. I’m glad you stumbled my way.
Best,
Francesca
LikeLiked by 1 person
angiemflanagan said:
Oh, have been there, and I know how brave you are for making it through. Lots of love and light to you!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Francesca Milliken said:
I hope you are still making it through. Thank you for reading and commenting.
Take Care,
Francesca
LikeLiked by 1 person
Abby said:
I love your use of words to express exactly how you are feeling and somehow making it okay for those of us who join you in the excruciating pain of suffering from a debilitating unseen disorder like depression. I wish there were a cape I could wear some days with a brilliant gold D emblazoned upon it that would show people that,yes,I am indeed suffering as much as that kid on the crutchesor better than that a ‘cone of silence ‘ to shut everyone out when they were giving their well meaning but useless advice.
LikeLike
Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you, Abby. I don’t know how I missed this comment, especially given that it came from you. I’m sorry you have had to endure useless advice on top of suffering through pain. I hope you get a little break soon. I totally forgot about the “cone of silence.” Remembering it made me laugh. I suppose many of the people doling out unsolicited, bad advice are as clueless as Max. If only obliviousness could be cured with a “positive attitude” and a smile.
Take care,
Francesca
LikeLike
Linda Popejoy said:
Francesca,
I have missed your writing. I thought of you today when reading this article: https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/02/26/robert-lowell-bipolar/ Brain Pickings is a lovely website I have just discovered. This quote struck me as particularly meaningful, as I have recently been doing a meditation series on depression on the app Headspace and the message here is similar to that suggested by the guided meditations I’ve been doing:
“One of the most agonizing aspects of mental illness is that we come to confuse our neurochemistry with our personhood, mistaking how we are for who we are, and come to feel deep shame about the states spurred by our clinical condition.”
That notion of separating how we are from who we are is a very tricky one for the clinically depressed, I think.
Anyway, I hope you are well and that we will see more from you in this space soon. You have a great gift for sharing your experience.
Linda
LikeLike
Francesca Milliken said:
Thank you, Linda. I really appreciate all your support. I love Brainpickings, too. I hadn’t seen that quote before, but I like it. Although I’m starting to think “personhood” is itself a false construction. “Who we are” is always changing, and it is never an easily definable, finite entity. This seems true for everyone, whether you are depressed or not.
Headspace actually contacted me last fall to ask for my help on a project related to their depression meditations. I never tried the app, though. Do you like it?
I hope you are well.
Best,
Francesca
LikeLike
Linda Popejoy said:
Francesca, I do like the app very much. It has helped me establish a daily practice, which I had never been able to do before. I’ve also enjoyed some of their podcasts (called Radio Headspace), which then led me to other podcasts (including the Mental Illness Happy Hour, which seems pretty amazing so far). Listening to these podcasts has made my commuting time about 100% more enjoyable.
But I digress! 🙂 I like what you said about personhood. I like the idea that, indeed, we are always changing – that we can and will change – as does everything. It is both terrifying and immensely freeing to know that we, and our circumstances, are not fixed. Terrifying because (among other reasons) we know that we could lose someone we love in a heartbeat. And freeing because of all the amazing possibilities for growth, and love, and moments of joy.
Sending good thoughts your way.
Linda
LikeLike