When I woke up the first thing I noticed was the date written clearly on the dry erase board, September 20th 2012. I had started trying to piece the days together when my parents walked in and began filling in the blanks for me. I remembered the pills, the police, the ambulance ride, I even remember the security guard who was made to watch me in the emergency room. What I don't remember is losing my ability to breath, being intubated and put on a ventilator. I don't remember my mother's tears as she helped a nurse bath me after having vomited on myself, my fathers prayers when he sat by my bed, nor do I remember any conversations that took place in my room about brain or liver damage; All those truths hit later.
On the 18th of September while my two small children were tucked into bed, I was in the kitchen attempting suicide.
My reason for writing is simply that being silent hasn't gotten me anywhere. When I began fighting off the symptoms of ptsd following a rape seven years ago, I did so alone. The longer I avoided talking about it, the deeper depression sunk in, so much that it consumed me. Now I'm fighting, willing to change everything about myself to find a reason to breath, A reason to smile; one that will surpass the next twenty years that I will be able to mother my daughters, that will outshine any breakup or bad day. My goal is to find a reason to want to grow old, so along with medication, therapy, and finally being honest with the people around me I am going to start being accountable for my feelings and behavior.
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