This Thursday, May 2, 2013, marks the ten year anniversary of
hope renewed in my life.
Despite feeling a lifetime apart from that other self most
days, it is hard to believe a decade has come and gone since that pivotal
moment in my life. I remember it as though it were yesterday. The scene is etched
in my mind in nightmarish detail. Every time I hear an advertisement for Ambien,
I think about that day. I recall holding that prescription bottle in my hand as
the tears fell silently. If I took enough, I could sleep forever. I wouldn’t
have to feel the pain, the hurt, the loss anymore. I think about putting it on
the counter and walking away. And I remember coming back to it again. Afterwards,
I sobbed. I didn’t know how long it would take for a month’s worth of sedative
to permanently sedate me. But in the moments following my deliberate overdose,
I felt regret. There was a brief flicker of light in which I thought there
might have been hope left afterall. But was I too late to catch hold of it? I
made two phone calls that day. One to apologize to Dave. We’d broken up
recently, but this wasn’t his fault. I needed him to know that. The other was
to my Dad. I’ve overdosed, Daddy. I’ve tried to kill myself. I need help. Then the
lights went out.
I regained consciousness some hours later in the ER at St.
Luke’s (the hospital bills alone were enough to drive a perfectly optimistic
person to depression). Having your stomach pumped with charcoal (to counter the
effect of the drugs) gives a whole new meaning to you-know-what’ing bricks.
Charcoal briquettes, that is (it is a testament to the resilience of the sick
Miller family sense of humor that I said this while still at the hospital). I
was interviewed to determine if the Baker Act needed to be invoked (thankfully
it wasn’t). The days that followed the overdose are still a little foggy.
My parents were there with me. Not condemning me. Not
questioning me. I put them through hell that day, but they were there loving me,
supporting me, lifting me up in prayer. Thanking God, as I do even now, that He
gave their little girl a second chance to live.
Others pulled away when they found out what happened. I was
a leper, and they didn’t want what I had. I was a ticking time bomb, waiting to
go off again, threatening to suck innocent bystanders into the blast zone. I
learned quickly who my real friends were. My best friend was, in fact, not the
best. There was not room for me or my problems in her quickly evolving life. Those
sorts of realizations were heart wrenching. Even now, when I am infinitely more
comfortable in my own skin, it is interesting to see people’s reactions when
they hear my story. I’ve learned that in most cases, the reaction says a lot
more about who that other person is than about who I am. I do my best not to
harbor hard feelings in those cases. This behavior does, however, make me upset
about how our society treats those who struggle with depression and other mental
or behavioral health issues. Depression is a cancer of the mind. It eats away
at hope.
A few months after my overdose, I checked myself into an
outpatient program at Baptist Medical Center because I felt myself drifting
back into the same thought patterns that led me to that place of despair the
first time. I am, quite happily, off of antidepressants at this point in my
life, but I have been on them years at a time on and off since my overdose. I
sought counseling following the overdose and even as recent as two years ago. I
share all of this to make the following point: There is no shame in seeking
help. Having the guts to reach out is a special kind of brave, even if I do say
so myself. In many cases, depression is the result of a medically proven
chemical imbalance in the brain (Interested in learning more about this? Google
“serotonin” and do a little research on its role in mood regulation,
implications of it being taken up too quickly, and how serotonin-specific
reuptake inhibitors [SSRI’s] – you may recognize many common antidepressants on
that list – are used to regulate the presence of serotonin in the central
nervous system). If you’re physically ill, you go to the doctor. Depression and
mental illness should be no different.
One of my absolute favorite resources following my overdose
in 2003 was Susan Rose Blauner’s book How
I Stayed Alive When My Brain Was Trying to Kill Me. Blauner herself
suffered from several mental health disorders and attempted suicide multiple
times (the percentage of failed suicide attempts that are followed by a
subsequent attempt is very high). She’s been in the trenches. I remember
thinking as I read this book for the first time: “YES! That’s EXACTLY what it’s
like!” She explains depression from a number of perspectives (including
medically) and she provides a plethora of practical tools to redirect your
thought processes. She also includes an entire section entitled “Helping the
Suicidal Thinker” for those who are not suicidal themselves but rather know
someone who is. Blauner’s book is not written from a Christian perspective, but
there is great emphasis on the power of our thoughts and words to drive our
mood and our actions. This is a concept addressed repeatedly in scripture. And so I recommend this book -- highly recommend it -- to any of you who are suffering from severe depression (even if it has not reached the point of suicidal thoughts) and to those of you who know someone who is struggling.
So there it is: A new blog entry. A little glimpse into my
life. It has not (and still is not) all sunshine and rainbows. I’ve suffered
under the weight of a broken engagement. I’ve been cheated on. I even once
called my (now ex) fiancé only to have another woman pick up the phone. The
baggage from that relationship added to the angst in the two that followed and
still occasionally haunts me now in a marriage that both Eric and I consider as
a happy one. I have struggled with depression since the age of seventeen. I
attempted suicide. I have been betrayed or grossly misrepresented by people I
considered my closest friends. And I’ve not been an angel myself. I’ve spent
more than my fair share of time frequenting bars with less than honorable
intentions. I chased love and fulfillment in a world that is broken and dark,
and which could never offer the fulfillment I was seeking. My life now is a far
cry from all of that, but it is not perfect. Transformed? Yes. Progressing?
Yes. Perfect? No. And make no mistake
about it: I am where I am today because God reached down, time and again, and
picked his prodigal daughter up out of the mire and set her back on solid
ground.
So my message for you today is one of HOPE. No matter how
dark this world may seem. No matter how hopeless you feel. Listen for the
whisper of Hope. Hear the voice of God. Seek help. And know that you have a
future and a purpose in Him (Jeremiah 29:11-12).
