The first time I actually tried killing myself, I was a sophomore in high school. 15 years old, and seven years after the first thoughts of harming myself ever entered into my mind. The details of that day don't matter except to say that it was the first time I could no longer control my darkness and because of that, I've got a couple of tattoos on my wrists to cover up the wounds of my past.
It wasn't until I was 25 and married, that I finally decided to go to the doctor. I had been through years of counseling and sports psychology that eventually bled back over to even more counseling, so decided maybe I needed a different kind of "help". In truth, I actually thought that I was bi-polar because I had thrown a hammer across the room at my husband during one of my bouts of uncontrolled rage. Luckily for both of us, it's really hard to see behind a face full of tears and snot. As it turns out, my self-diagnosis was incorrect, and I was instead given the diagnosis of "Depression." I remember laughing at the idea of being depressed and thinking that I just needed to snap out of it, make myself happier, be a better (non-hammer yielding) wife. I took my prescription anti-depressants for a while, and then when I felt like I didn't need to cry everyday, believed the lie, and quit cold-turkey. I actually felt guilty for needing to take an anti-depressant and felt that I could just bring my own self out of the funk.
Wrong.
The most recent time I thought about killing myself was this past weekend. I'm 32 years old. I was helping some family clean out their house and came across bottles of pills that we needed to dispose of. Like, at least 20 different types of pills that had been prescribed to someone else to help keep them alive. Nobody knew at the time that I had sat there, silently wondering what would happen if I took just a handful of those pills. Would I get sick? Would I die?
And just like that, I was triggered and in a completely dark, completely unhealthy headspace. I thought about driving off the bridge on the way home, too. I later confided in my husband both instances. My reasoning for that was that my family needed someone better than me. Someone nicer. Someone more funny. Someone more appreciative of the beautiful life she has, but takes for granted. If I was dead, they'd be forced to find a new and improved Jacque. Jacque2.0, if you will.
But that's just it. That's the lie that depression will so often tell you. You aren't good enough, they would be better off without you, you are more of a nuisance than you are a helper, they would be happier with someone else, you don't deserve to be happy, they deserve more than what you can offer, you'll never attain this, get that, you'll never be enough!
When you are someone who suffers from depression, it's a constant battle raging inside your own head every single day. It's a new narrative that must be written. When you go for so long believing the lies, it's hard to delve fully into the truth. It's hard to convince yourself that you've been wrong and misinformed about your own life's worth for so long. I'd love to say that I have it mastered and that I have my depression under control and for the most part, I do. I'm finally to the point where I have more good days than bad. But I have a terribly, wonderfully supportive husband, and a handful of family/friends, and a little white pill I take every day that help keep me there. There will be good days, and there might even be some days like I had this past weekend where a little too much darkness creeps back in. Surround yourself with people who are truth-tellers, and hold onto that truth.
You are good enough, they need you and depend on you, you are who they chose and who makes them happy, you are worthy of joy and love, they want you, who cares if you get this or that, you have them, you brave, bold, beautiful mess, are enough.
If you don't struggle with depression, may I urge you to check on your friends? The strong one, the funny one, the one who appears to have their life together. I'm really good at faking that nothing is wrong, and I'm sure there are others just like me. Reach out. You never know who may need it.
We love you Jacque!
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