Silencing The Pain: My Battle With Depression (Part I)

Photo by Ian Espinosa on Unsplash

I tried to die.
I think I was 18 when I had my first crisis. A "crisis" is the term used to describe when the depression has consumed its sufferer to the point of debilitation or suicide.
I was 18, and I failed my road test for the second time. For some reason, I felt completely defeated and the most logical solution to escape the pain and hopelessness that consumed me was death. So I took at least 8 ibuprofen and chugged some Trinidadian rum that my mother stowed away for holiday cake making. I drafted a sorrowful letter to my mother, brother, sister and nephew telling them that I loved them, but the pain was far too unbearable to endure for any length of time. I asked God for forgiveness. I placed the letter under my pillow and went to nap only, I wasn't very tired. Had I not taken enough? My sister was a nurse. Maybe I needed to adjust my intake according to my weight.
Rummaging through the cupboards, I searched for any OTC pain reliever I can find to add to the ibuprofen buffet I ingested. Nothing. Then I remembered my root canal. I hurried to my room in frantic steps, knowing I had to die before my mother got home lest I wish to be interrupted. Interruption meant failure. I wanted to die. Finally, a bottle of Tylenol with codeine. There was only one pill left with a lonely penicillin capsule beside it in the bottle. I recall wondering how it got there. It was so out of place. Antibiotics heal you while taking the pain away. Pain killers killed the pain but didn't heal the underlying issue. I wanted a painkiller. I took the Penicillin anyway in the hope of adding a cherry on top to this deadly cocktail I was attempting to create.
I fell asleep.
The knocking didn't sound impatient. It was her warning knock that she always gave before tossing my door open. She didn't believe in privacy in her house. My bedroom, my diary, and my phone calls were all community property. I had no rights. My mother came into my room and asked me if I were on my monthly. I shook my head and turned my back to her, peeved by her interruption. I didn't want to be saved. Being an adolescent, sleep wasn't something out of the ordinary for me so she didn't prod. She went off to do whatever it is she busied herself with after coming home from work. I immediately realized the flaw in my plan. I should have attempted to kill myself hours before I did. Now, she will nag me as she always did and catch me as I was slipping into unconsciousness and ruin everything. I began to cry a soft whimper that somehow evolved into an agonized weeping that called her back to my room without knocking.
It was then that I confided in her. I hated my life. I hated that I wasn't going to graduate HS on time and walk with my peers at graduation. I hated the choices I made but she left me so little room to find myself I felt forced to make stupid decisions just to have some control over my own life. I was hurt that I was trying to progress like a normal young woman my age, and I failed at the simplest of tasks; taking my road test. I didn't know where I was going to land because I still haven't even begun to fly. I felt delayed and foolish. I was ashamed. I was scared.
Sobbing takes energy. Long gasps for air following by bursts of tears became my conversation's life cycle. I would inhale life only to exhale all the reasons I didn't want breathe again. The aroma of my rum soaked tongue wafted up to her nostrils and she asked if I had been drinking. Now completely defeated in all aspects, I reached under my pillow and handed her the letter. I was fatigued. I had no energy to even sob any longer. I merely let out rhythmic quivers as I grimaced against the pain I was feeling.
She prayed with me. She hugged me. She told me to promise to never try to take my life again. I agreed. I didn't know I was lying, so I agreed. I'm not sure we understood that it was just the beginning. I'm not sure that either of us realized at the time that what I was struggling with would not be prayed away, but I found out.
Over the years, depression has seized me like a relentless captor and I have been a prisoner of war with it for the past  18 years. Even now as a woman nearing my forties who has overcome a myriad of obstacles in her personal and professional life, I cower to my own depression as if I were an 18-year-old girl again. Like a child who pulls their quilt over their head as a feeble attempt to escape the Boogey Man, I cower from the monster that haunts me that is Depression. I sink into a place of despair and remain still in hopes that I will spare me until our next meeting.
There is an amazing amount of strength and bravery that comes with facing something that frequently and reliably frightens you well, to death.
Stay tuned for my story.