Mostly, everyone knows that September is Suicide Prevention Month. There’s a week where a campaign is held annually to spread the word about suicide, mental health, and warning signs. There is an epidemic of suicides going on around the world. The United States alone has one of the highest suicide rates among the wealthier countries.

According to USA News, there has been a 2.6% increase in suicides in the US since 2022.

In honor of Suicide Prevention Month, I will tell you about my personal experience.

I was 22 years old; I had just dropped out of college and was still living with my mother. My mother and I had a very turbulent relationship at the time, from arguing to literal blow-ups over the most minor things. I was a very sheltered child, and due to my being disabled, my mom didn’t want me behind the wheel of a car or working. So, at this point, I was feeling very useless. Whenever I tried to gain independence, something out of my control happened, or my mom would argue with me about it. Eventually, my mom agreed to pay for my driving lessons while I found a job. But once again, something happened that was out of my control.

My mother got wrongfully terminated from her job, which added a lot of stress on us. She needed a job, and I couldn’t find one. Also, forget about getting driving lessons. I felt like obstacles kept getting in my way every time I tried to make any progress in my life. I was then told that we would have to move out of the apartment we’ve called home for the past seven years. And I would have to go live with my dad.

My father is a strict religious man who wanted complete control. How I dressed, what I looked like, etc. And no dating would’ve been awkward, considering I was dating a guy for the past year.

As a 22-year-old, I felt like my life would never get anywhere. I felt like a burden to my mother, who was caring for my brother, who has autism. I entered a deep depression that didn’t subside. A few days into it, I took a walk to clear my head, but it kept getting worse. I ended up walking to the train station and intending on, stepped in front of it. It was quick and painless. I won’t feel a thing.

Well, once the train came, I could see it was slow. My thought was it wasn’t going to be instant. So I walked away. I tried everything to get out of it. I even called my boyfriend then and admitted what I wanted to do. He brushed it off and told me not to think like that. I tried to talk to him multiple times, but he didn’t realize how bad it was. My friend, Chris, however, knew what I was going through, and we talked a bit. He would check in and see how I was.

Two weeks went by, and the depression got worse. I wasn’t eating, I barely slept, and I wasn’t really talking to anyone besides Chris. I remember the day I made the attempt: I fought with my mother over something dumb I can’t even remember. She went to an interview and said she’d return in about 45 minutes. When she was gone, I burst into tears, like I’ve had for the past two weeks. I was so tired of crying and feeling like shit. I couldn’t make myself happy, no matter what I did. Then I thought to myself: Maybe I keep hitting obstacles in my life and can’t progress…maybe it’s because I’m not meant to.

I rushed into the bathroom, took a bottle of pain relief, and looked at it. I flashbacked to when I was 12, in the school bathroom, crying over being bullied and thinking about ending it then. At the time, it was ideations. Now, at age 22, it was a plan. I downed the bottle and lay on the living room couch, waiting for it to kick in. I was in so much emotional and physical pain; I just wanted it to stop. After a few minutes, I stopped crying, the pain went away, but I felt numb. I felt a bit of euphoria, knowing the pain would end.

Just then, my mom walked through the door. It had not even been 15 minutes that she was gone. She saw the pill bottle and my now sluggish state and immediately called the ambulance.

I was placed on 24-hour suicide watch, then voluntarily admitted myself to the psychiatric unit. I was there for a total of 5 days. It was there I got my diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder and PTSD. Not only that, I made a few friends. Going into the unit was liberating. It was like a reset button. We were all away from the outside world.

When I got out, I felt like a different me. My friend, Chris, reached out and checked up on me when he didn’t hear from me. My boyfriend at the time, however, had no clue, even though I texted him or called every day. I broke up with him not long after, and I ended up staying with my high school best friend and her family while I recovered and got on my own two feet.

Today, I’m 31 years old; I’ve been happily married to Chris for the past six years. I’m still on medication for my depression, but it’s so much better now. It’s more manageable. Sure, I have my good and bad days, and yes, sometimes I have suicidal thoughts and ideations, but they haven’t turned into an action ever since my attempt at 22.

I think about my attempt a lot. If I had succeeded, I would’ve missed out on so much. My two little nephews wouldn’t have their aunt; my husband wouldn’t have his wife; my parents wouldn’t have their second-born child.

After my attempt, I realized how important I was in people’s lives and how I impacted them, even though I never knew it.

If you’re struggling and think that suicide is the only way out, don’t do it. There’s always another way. 

This was written by our contributing writer, Gigi Grindley.