The other day, I was cleaning my home top to bottom and came across a box that contained about seven or eight of my personal, handwritten journals that I'd kept since I was very young. I used to write every night and would tell what happened in my day, blow-by-blow. You'd know what I ate for breakfast, what I planted in my garden, what I cleaned and who I talked to. I would get into the nitty-gritty details of life, no matter how joyous or how sad. Raw honesty permeated my journals.
But when I was about 17 years old, I had reached a very low place in my life. I had nothing to look forward to. I had sunk my few short years of life into a community that had rules and regulations that kept us from participating. I had been placed outside of the church with no explanation besides, "You'll be back soon," and "You have to suffer for the sins of your parents." *like I said, please read previous blog posts for clarity on this subject.* During this time, I would journal my heart out, sometimes writing for hours on end, page after page, almost as if it were my best friend. I think my journal and the lady at the post office were my best friends to be honest. Oh, and my dogs, Tafi and Daisy. They'd listen to all my ramblings and let me soak their soft fur with my heart broken tears.
When I found the box of journals, I set aside my cleaning for a bit and slumped against the wall to read. I pulled journal after journal out and read, page by page. I relived each day with heartbreaking slowness. Finally I pulled the journal out that contained the note. I wrote about how some of my friends had gotten baptized. I wrote about my best friend, Aileen, dying. I wrote about missed birthday parties. I wrote about meetings my Dad had with the elders. I wrote about my depression. I wrote about my sadness. I wrote about my dark thoughts of suicide. I didn't want to live anymore. The note was long, well thought out. In the beginning, the writing was clear, beautiful, poignant, purposeful. By the end it was scrawled, messy, barely readable and smudged. I remembered writing it. I was calm and collected at the beginning and by the end I was bawling my eyes out and ready to swallow my Dad's container of Tylenol. The pain in my heart was so deep. I felt like a knife had stabbed me and was being turned in slow motion, torturing me with it's deep puncture. The letter contained facts about why I didn't want to live anymore. I was tired of being the weird one. I was tired of being the outcast. I was tired of the one being forgotten about. I was tired of being pushed out of circles. I was tired of being rejected, hurt, lied to, lied about, and ultimately, it lead me to such a deep, dark place, I didn't have the will to go on. My life as I had known it was changed forever. I had no hope of it ever changing. I felt I had no other way out.
I laid my head back on the wall and drifted off to remember the nightmare of that night. I remembered going to the kitchen and getting the bottle. I remember getting the pink cup, filled it with orange juice and walked slowly, puffy eyes and all, to the bathroom to swallow as many as I could. I remember leaning over the sink and just crying. I cried until I had nothing left to cry. I was empty of emotions. My heart was shriveled up. I had blocked all feelings from surfacing. Feeling caused me to fear, shake, cry and be uncertain.
As I sat, remembering all this, I relived that moment when I had the bottle of pills and the juice in my hand. I remember mentally saying good bye to everyone I knew would miss me. Then my thoughts darkened and I realized, no one would miss me, at least so I thought. My parents would, but I thought they'd understand. I thought they'd know why I had to leave the earth. Shaking, I remembered having raised my hand to my mouth with the pills and suddenly feeling weak. I remembered shaking and putting the bottle back down. I dumped the juice out and ran to my room. There I knelt by my old, squeaky, greenish-brown rocking chair and cried. I remember praying the only prayer I could utter, "Jesus, please help me, if You're real. Please, please, please....I'm so undeserving. But please help me. I don't want to die."
I remember then, running to the bathroom and taking the pills back to the cabinet in the kitchen. It was nearly 3 am and my parents were peacefully sleeping and I didn't want to disturb them. I'm sure I should have, but I was embarrassed and dealt with it on my own. I prayed almost all night. I read my Bible. I searched for words of comfort and of peace. I searched for words of confirmation from Him. That night was the first night I knew God spoke to me. The three words He said to me were, "You are Mine." That was it. But I clung to those words like they were my lifeline. They were my lifeline! Weeks and weeks passed. Even years passed. God finally pulled me out of that bad situation and placed me on solid ground. Suicide was never a thought after that night until many years later when I experienced something else that crushed me to my core. But it was that night that saved me in the night years later.
God walks with us through the darkest nights of our lives. But are we willing to reach out to Him? So often I find myself leaning on myself. When I do that, I always inevitably fall. Without fail. Period. But when I lean on Him, I am placed on a solid Rock that I can depend on. Suicide is a tough thing to contemplate. But when you're at the brink, so often a person doesn't even think about what they're doing. It takes a beautiful act of God to reach through the dark clouds that satan surrounds us with and help us turn around to see the light of His love, joy, peace and hope.
While this isn't a happy-go-lucky post, I felt urged on to write about it. My mind has been pondering it all day. Now when I look back on that time, I still get a bit nostalgic, remembering that dark place, but the majority of my feelings are placed on the fact that I overcame with His help. I am surrounded with memories of Him reaching out and giving me the urge to put the bottle of pills down and to dump my juice down the sink. I am surrounded with the peace of knowing that He cared so much for me that He rescued me from that dark, slimy pit. God doesn't just call us out to leave us hanging; He calls us up to fulfill His purpose. Sometimes He allows us to walk through the dark times so we can encourage others with our experiences. His power can be glorified because when we overcome with His help, His name is glorified.
If you're in the a dark place, feeling overwhelmed and like life isn't worth living, please pray and reach out to someone who can help. You aren't weak for having these feelings. You won't be made fun of. If you'll allow Him to, He'll turn your test into a testimony, so His name can be lifted higher in your life and in the life of others.
God bless!
Suicide Prevention Line: 1-800-273-8255 (24/7, 365)
