Thursday, January 13, 2011


We all know at least one person, who complains about everything. The person who feels like the entire world is out to get them, while they are the one causing all their problems. I can't stand those people.

Then there are the ones who are really dealing with problems. The ones who normally don't broadcast their pain, but suffer in silence. The person that would gladly take any alternative over dealing with their emotions for one more day.

Not many people can really understand what the 2nd person is going through, unless you've dealt with it yourself.

A 16 yr old boy, from my high school in Ohio, took his life yesterday. Random students will suddenly miss him, people who didn't even know he existed. That irks me. They in no way understand the situation, they just feed off of drama. Stupid teenagers.

I can understand. I battled depression throughout my teen years, and was labeled "bipolar." (bipolar my ass) My last real "episode" was back in Aug 2005. Last summer I wrote out several memories, that was one of them.

People who take their life aren't selfish, they are suffering. They are hurting so much that they cannot think straight, they aren't well.

I have the urge to share, so for my family - who might have emotions triggered, feel free to skip the last bit of this.


“You are going,” my dad said, yanking my blankets off.

“No I’m not,” I threw the pillow on my face. He was trying to force me to go to another church activity. I couldn’t understand why he even bothered. There wasn’t a single person in my grade; I had no friends at church. Stupid youth activities.

He sighed, “Alexis, please.”


“Fine, then you can’t go see your friends today. You get to stay home.”

“Whatever,” I snapped.

The pillow stayed on my face until I heard him leave the room. Once I sat up, he came back with a glass of water. He set the water and the evil little pill on my dresser.

“Take it,” he commanded, and then left for work. I sat in bed, furious. There wasn’t anything wrong with me, I didn’t need medication. Prozac was for the weak.

I had been planning it for weeks. This was the day. My dad was at work, my mom was asleep, my little brother and cousin were downstairs – everything was timed perfectly.

There was no time to rethink, so I stuck to the plan. I tip-toed down the stairs, and peeked around the corner. My brother was watching TV, good; my cousin was asleep on the couch, even better. Making sure to act completely normal, I walked into the kitchen, opened the medicine cabinet, and smiled.

(Since that day, my dad keeps all the pills locked in a little safe. Who could blame him?)

“What are you doing?” I hadn’t noticed my younger brother walk into the room. There was no need to alarm him, so I kept smiling.

“Nothing... Look at all these pills!” I grabbed an armful of boxes and bottles then hurried back up the stairs. Once in the bathroom, I organized all of the pills on the counter. Prozac, Abilify, Ibuprofen, Advil, Lexapro, Aleve, Seroquel, and whatever else I could find. Each stack of pills were nice and neat, organized by color, size, and name.

I turned on the shower, just in case anybody got suspicious. The steam was warm, wet, and comforting. Leaning over the sink, I stared into the mirror. I’ll show them, I thought, I’ll take my pills, along with all the other pills in the house. Handful at a time, I swallowed the pills.

My arm slipped and I knocked several Lexapro into the sink. Quickly, I rescued them from the running water, and popped them in my mouth. The taste of the wet pills almost made me vomit; it was the most vile taste in the world. To this day the pill still makes me gag.

Soon enough, I had consumed every last pill. The containers were piled on the floor. The shower, it looked so warm and inviting. I stripped down and climbed in. My body felt tired, I sat in the corner of the tub, and leaned against the wall. The hot water rained over me, and my eyelids slid shut.

Somebody would eventually come in to check on me, but it would be too late. Somebody… but who? What if my little brother was the one to find me, he would be traumatized forever. My eyes opened. All the reasons not to do this flooded my mind. I started bawling. I felt slightly disoriented; the feeling was something like being tipsy.

I called my dad, who was obviously still annoyed with me. He was about to get a hell of a lot more upset.

“I don’t want to die,” I mumbled.

“You’re fine, Alexis.”

“I took all the pills.” You could almost hear him want to smack the stupid out of me.

“Wake up your mom, I’m coming home.”

If he was mad, I didn’t even want to think of my mother’s reaction. I decided not to wake her. Instead I grabbed and orange, and called my friend. He sat with me on the front steps while we waited for my dad.

The next 12 hours or so are very fuzzy. Once we got in the car, I couldn’t fight the sleepy feeling anymore. I only remember bits and pieces.

We were pulled over on the way to the hospital, and my dad was chastised for not calling an ambulance and speeding. I was forced to drink charcoal by a very unfriendly nurse. It tasted so awful, I remember begging for her to stick a tube down my throat instead.

Worst pain of my life. My stomach felt like it was going to burst and lava was going to flow out of me. Labor was cake compared to that. Apparently several friends came to visit me, including my boyfriend at the time; I don’t remember any of them.

I woke up in the acute unit of the Behavioral Health building, a familiar place. After being transferred to the Utah State Hospital, I lived in treatment until January.


Now I have my girls, they are my anti-depressants. Even when life gets so awful that I don't want to think, taking my life simply wouldn't be an option. They are far more important than me.

If someone you know is really hurting, please pay attention to them.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

That charcoal is disgusting. I had a similar experience when I was younger, and every time I hear people calling somebody selfish for committing suicide I just want to slap them.