Calm
TW: Depression, Suicide
It was the calmest I’d ever felt in my entire life.
No racing thoughts, no spindrift from the waves of unfettered chaos that ruled my life. Nothing. Just, peace.
Peace as I spoke slowly, carefully to the pharmacists about why I needed a sooner refill of my antidepressants. Peace as I quietly drove down hot highways and broken streets to my off-campus apartment, knowing my roommates would likely not be home. Peace because I knew I’d seen the blue skies for one, last, tranquil moment. What worries could possibly follow me to the realm of death?
The furry bathroom mat clung to my damp, slick skin as I slouched against the bathtub, an open pill bottle sitting in one hand as I held the bottle of hot rosé against my chest like a mother with her babe. A pill would cross dryly against my chapped lips, followed swiftly by a sweet drug that made my empty belly fill with sickly warmth.
My eyelids started feeling heavy, limbs miscommunicating with my brain. When was the last time I took a pill? Sleep tugging at my mind, gripping me with the promise that this peace I felt would last an eternity. As my clammy back pressed against the cool floor, evanescent thoughts of family, friends, parties, funerals, laughter, and tears all grazed my mind. I knew everyone would understand. They’d have to. The letter I left would explain why it was better this way and that time heals all pain.
I turned on my side, trying to avoid the nausea that slipped up my throat, begging me to void the principles of peace I’d bestowed upon myself. My hand slid against something cold, and hard; my phone. Black guilt nipped at my heart. Should I say something before I go? Insecure anxiety reminded me that I shouldn’t be a bother to anyone anymore. Perhaps it would be rude not to say goodbye?
I pawed at my phone like an invalid dog reaching for decaying scraps, panting as the nausea became overwhelming. The only cure I had was more pills and more liquid courage. What could I say that wasn’t suspicious but let them know how I felt? A few moments passed before I typed out, “I love you” to my mother, my father, my sister, and my brother. They needed to know that this wasn’t about them; that my failures, my inability to be successful had nothing to do with their greatness. But, I loved them either way and they should know at least.
It was mere seconds after the text was sent when my mother called me. Mothers always know.
Did I think this last-ditch effort of saying goodbye was laudable? Like the last thing I would say to the person who carried me, bore me, and raised me would somehow make me redeemable before I disappeared into the void? Before I finally could reach the other side where earthly bounds meant nothing?
I answered the phone to my mother’s frantic voice, asking all the right questions. She was a nurse after all.
“What’s wrong? Have you taken any pills? Stay awake. We’re calling 911.” Immediately filled with regret, I cursed myself for trying to say goodbye. My mother demanded I stay on the phone with her and my father as they raced to their car, readying themselves to a harrowing 3-hour drive to Austin, Texas to save their daughter. My father called my sister, putting her on speakerphone while I remained connected to my mother, occasionally picking up words that sounded underwater. When he told her that her younger sister was making an attempt on her life, my sister let out an unearthly, weeping wail filled with insurmountable pain that I’d never heard before; a sound that I’ve never forgotten. A sound that rattles me to this day.
It didn’t take long for the EMTs to arrive, crashing through the bathroom door; asking the right questions. I was loaded onto a gurney and, through this haze, I felt little to nothing. Nothing except disappointment. I’d failed at something again.
Straps cinched into my skin, an IV syringe slipped into a vein as I faded with misty eyes crunching shut. I was supposed to be finally at peace.
That was over a decade ago.
Nearly twelve years ago, I attempted suicide and left the University of Texas at Austin on a medical leave of absence. I went from the sunny, hot city of live music to the gray luminescence of a mental ward in Houston, Texas. The grates on the windows were so thick, you couldn’t put your fingers through them.
I didn’t see true sunlight for a week.
At night, I barely slept, moans of sorrow swept down the hallway from other patients, rocking me awake. The drugs they gave me only exacerbated the numbness I felt. But that was the point, right? How else do you contain someone recently diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder II, previously known as Manic Depression.
I was diagnosed by a short, stout, white man with glasses who barely seemed to register who I was amongst the large group of afflicted in this hospital. I don’t even remember his name.
What followed has been years of turbulence, a swarm of therapists attempting to draw out who I was when I wasn’t enraptured by this dark beast that thrives off of my malnourished livelihood. I’ve seen multiple psychiatrists, nearly all of them being white men, and they continued to take the word from a man who I don’t remember, proselytizing in unison that I have Bipolar Disorder II.
Drugs would fail me and I would fail them, eventually shirking them entirely as I began to breathe on my own once more. Through therapy and Cognitive Behavioral work, I felt the wind against my skin, tasting life with a fire in my eyes instead of smokey listlessness. I grew armor, and developed weapons to beat back the dark impotence of severe depression. I began to understand that the blackness that bubbles and foams at the maw of the malevolent creature inside me was part of a war. And battles will sometimes be lost. It can be a thick, suffocating horror on some days, ripping away at me with the rabid teeth of insecurity and anxiety.
But, it’s a part of me.
Recently, for the first time in my life, I met with a psychiatrist who was a woman of color. And, she actually looked at me when I talked. Not on some notepad, not lolling her eyes around the room but actually at me. She asked me questions about my life that were filled with empathy, going over my history with incredible detail; details only my therapists would inquire about. I’d assumed that psychiatrists were just highly-qualified, legal pill pushers. She wasn’t that and she also made something very clear.
Those other doctors had not heard me, had not listened, had not truly helped me. Because, I do not have Bipolar Disorder II. I have Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.
Everything started to make sense and, through the deep fogs of inept medical advice, I’ve been able to see clearly. And, the thing that taunts me has been unearthed, forced into a rapturous light of understanding. An understanding of who I am, who I’ve been, and who I’ll always be. Although I occasionally still struggle with the sinking feeling of solitude, I also feel more at peace with who I am and the cards I’ve been dealt. We’re all playing the same game, it’s just that some of us are a bit luckier than others.
As I write this, I am calm. I feel as though stories like mine need to be told. A mental health crisis in this country is thriving, and not enough people of color speak their truths. I am no celebrity or influencer. I am just a black woman who found her way, who found her peace with the beast.
I am calm because I’m not alone. And neither are you, dear reader. Advocate for yourself and find your own peace.
