Updated: Mar 19
Sounds intense right?
Because out of the dozens of therapy sessions I had attended during my sophomore year of college, I could admit that I was depressed and that my anxiety was crippling the hell out of my day-to-day life, but suicide? That was too much.
Black people aren’t suicidal.
I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t shower, the 4.0 student I knew myself to be stopped doing her homework and stopped going to class because I physically did not have the energy to sit up on my bed, so we could forget about getting dressed and walking across campus—it wasn’t happening.
I laid there every single day for months.
I held my pee as long as I could to avoid having to get up, only getting up to get food, and even that sometimes didn’t happen.
Everyday felt like I was waking up to someone punching me in the face before I could even process what day of the week it was.
I would wake up nearly everyday drowning in a puddle of my own tears.
I didn’t even know that it was possible to cry in your sleep, but I’m here to say that it is if you were wondering :)
It really hurt to be alive.
I disconnected myself from all of the communities I was attached to.
They wouldn’t be able to handle this version of me.
They’ve never seen Christina drowning before. They only know Christina, who is perfect and has life figured out.
I stayed on FaceTime with three people: X, my bestfriend, and my little sister. I would try to stay on the phone with them for hours because I didn’t know what would happen to me once the call ended.
I split up the time among them. 3 hours with X, 3 hours with my bestfriend, and 3 hours with my little sister. That’s 9 hours/24 that I had company. The other hours I started taking medication to sleep.
I felt like an anchor to the people I cared for the most because they had their own lives and I was taking up so much of their time everyday, but I never found the words to let them know that in exchange for those few hours they were helping me stay on this Earth.
One night I really couldn’t sleep and felt like I couldn’t take it anymore.
If I spent one more night miserable in my tiny dorm room, I would do something that I couldn’t come back from.
So with my hand shaking over my phone as I sat on my bed with my back against the wall, I called the people that I’m supposed to feel comfortable calling for everything, but don’t for anything.
The little energy I had telling them to come drive 6 hours and pick me up.
I was failed in that situation, but that is also a story for another day.
It’s been almost a year since that specific time and my life is nothing like it was then. It didn’t happen overnight. Actually medication is what helped me begin the climb out of the hole I was in. I started waking up and my eyes were dry. I was able to get dressed and start going out again. As months went by, I eventually felt like me.
Since the death of someone I met during college, who I think about a lot, I feel so guilty thinking about how I was willing to take my own life when she didn’t even have a choice. I know the guilt isn’t necessarily my fault, it’s part of the journey.
Life is such a beautiful thing when you start living yours for you. Living in your truth and focusing on the experiences you want to happen.
This was a tough one.