(TW: Suicide)
I planned to be dead today. I made the decision back in January. I had no intention of seeing this day alive.
About two weeks after that decision, I was sitting at work and realized that I had a choice of making people feel guilty for my death or fully commit to healing. For a number of reasons, I chose to heal.
I put the work into finding a therapist, committed to going roughly $5000 into debt in 2020, and trying my best to be alive on this date. Little did I know when I made that commitment that I would be thrown into my worst mental health year, face grief like I’d never experienced before, and go through 69 days alone in a pandemic.
When the world flipped upside down, therapy went online but it remained a constant. We continued to work on the main goal— but he knew my background enough to pause the week I couldn’t breathe, the week I was constantly a danger to myself, and meet me on the waves of a breakdown I hadn’t had since college.
I planned on therapy to save me once. It has saved me over and over this year. Without a doubt. I’ve never been such a high risk to myself as in 2020.
It didn’t just get me to this date alive-- it became my most effective treatment when I was unwell. It was my medication when my anti psychotics became too much and my lamotrigine wasn’t as effective as it was in past years. Over and over my two closest friends remarked that therapy was saving me and that it was important I go each week no matter what.
And as the months rolled by, I did start to heal. I started to think I would make it to this day. You know the line that we know all too well about it being a marathon and not a sprint? I’m at the end of my marathon. I feel like I’ve run the hardest race of my life.
I’m here. Alive.
The thing is, I don’t want to hear that I’m strong or brave. I’m not. For the past two weeks I have been crying every day, having panic attacks, and been irrational. I’ve been a mess—but what I’ve had is constant therapy, a home I call a safe haven, and people in my corner that care.
I am privileged. I am a white women who has a job. I’m not racially profiled and my credit is good enough to allow me to go roughly $5000 into debt. I am GRATEFUL for the ability to rack up my credit line. I have a twitter family that got me through many hard days. I’ve had the support of some family, incredible friends and neighbours, and a therapist who has been there faithfully every Wednesday to work through my problems.
Without all of it-- I would be dead.
I should feel relieved, but I am sad and angry. It has become glaringly evident that there are thousands out there with healing they need to do. Thousands out there without a support system like mine. Thousands out there with no help when facing the worst year of their lives and having a mental breakdown. Thousands living in poverty without access to therapy.
Many of them are actually much stronger than me, but will end up living in poverty, turning to addiction—and worst of all, taking their lives. NOT because they are weak, but because they weren’t given a chance.
It’s not fair that we live in a world that doesn’t see mental health as important enough to treat effectively. People like me, but who aren’t privileged, are being turned away at psychiatric hospitals and don’t have the money to access private therapy that is just as important as medication. If they are one of the lucky ones, they will be able to access it through the system, but the wait will be long and often too little too late.
While I appreciate the words, please don’t tell me I’m strong. Demand better mental healthcare. Ask your employers for better benefits. Ask your peers to talk and treat mental health as a real illness. Listen to people who are hurting. Show compassion. Please, please, start to think of therapy as something as important as medication when people are mentally unwell.
People not only have a hard time accessing it—they feel shame about it too.
Therapy is the reason I’m grateful to be alive today. But my heart hurts for those who aren’t.
