(not quite) death and (re) birth

Three years ago today (3/25/12), I was (not quite) fighting for my life in the Springfield ER.  Because I had just tried to kill myself.

I learned some important lessons, like charcoal milkshakes are nothing like actual milkshakes, and are to be avoided at all costs.  I am still not sure if it was so nasty that it burned its nastiness into my taste buds, or the trauma of the taste gave me emotional PTSD.  But I continued to taste that darn thing for months after.

I learned that some medical professionals have very little compassion for suicides, while others have a great deal.  The difference is usually dependent on whether or not they've ever experienced a depressive episode.  Those who haven’t been in that situation have a difficult time being sympathetic, and their behavior is devastating for those of us in the throes of this type of situation.

I learned (unfortunately) that my city’s ER was woefully underequipped to deal with the simplest of emergencies, as precious minutes ticked by while staff searched for the charcoal, blamed others for not finding it, just plain forgot about me, and bummed me off onto other staff.  It was only the persistence of my husband who relentlessly pursued the staff which allowed for my care to proceed.

I learned who my healthy and true friends are.  Those who stuck by me…and I don’t blame the ones who haven’t, because not everyone is ready, willing, and able to handle a mentally ill friend.  During my healing, I have had many good and true friends who have been steadfast for a season.  Only a select few have been there the whole time.  Some have shown themselves to be totally self-involved.  Others, too needy themselves to have the energy to give.  And some, perfectly placed at perfect times. 

I learned that pride takes a back seat when healing is your ultimate goal.  “Who gets to babysit me today?” became my morning question for awhile.  I had to decide to live, then throw myself at that goal, even while wanting to die.  Choosing to live is much like choosing to love.  You hear it said all the time that love is not a feeling, but a choice made every day.  Well, for those of us who have desired to die, that’s what life is like.  It’s a choice made every day.  And sometimes you have to debase yourself to maintain that goal.

I learned that not everybody who says they are in the boat with you are actually, truly, in your boat.  Sometimes you are woefully alone in your fight, and you think you are the crazy one, but it’s the others around you who are nuts.

I learned that prayer is my lifeline, as is writing.  I have written millions of words to myself since then.  I have talked and talked, and cried, and hated, and loved.  Basically, I have lived more completely than I ever did before I tried to die.

My husband has been there, through it all.  Sometimes quietly.  Sometimes annoyingly.  Sometimes far beyond my awareness.  Now that I am experiencing health, I love his faithfulness even more.  Suicide traumatizes loved ones, and my husband has had his share of PTSD to deal with because of me, but he WILL NOT allow me to feel guilt over that. His steadfast commitment to me has given me a deep awareness of God's love for me.  Every day is a rebirth, a new challenge, a new thrill.  It is not beauty from ashes, it is phoenix from the flames.  We rise to fight a glorious fight.

I am very glad to be alive, and thriving.  I am now able to share with others, help them, and love them as I am
loved. Because not everyone is as fortunate as I have been, to have a faithful companion.

Please remember, whoever you meet, wherever you see them; you never know what pain they are experiencing.  Many people were very calloused towards me; “why would this doctor’s wife behave in such a way?”  I wasn’t being selfish or trying to draw attention to myself.  I was in pain.  I hate the fact that I hurt those who love me through my actions on that day.  But ultimately, it allowed me to get the help I needed to heal.  It doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor.  If you have family around you or not.  People in pain need compassionate care.

I hope that my love shows through to those I meet.  That they know they are loved for who they are, no matter what they’ve done or what was done to them.  That is my intense desire.