We Hold on to the Things We Don’t Talk About
Being alive is better than nothing.
There are traumas in my life I don’t like to talk about. Events whispered about in therapy, tucked away in journals long discarded, bound up in memories I wish not to share.
I talk about the depression, the anxiety, the PTSD, the obsessive thoughts, and how all of this impacts my daily life. My ability to function. My ability to do anything other than stumble through life like a zombie.
Over the last four years, I’ve been hospitalized twice. I’ve had endless hours of therapy, been put on various meds, and have learned lots of skills to help me manage my unmanageable emotions just a little bit better — help me function just a little bit better.
And through it all, ups and downs, I’ve been doing better. I’ve opened myself up to the possibility of heartbreak again, knowing that something spectacular could be waiting on the other side.
I got a job I love — a job I hope starts to open doors to what I really want to do.
I stopped therapy. I restarted therapy. I switched therapists. I have made so many incredible steps along the way.
But there are traumas I don’t talk about. There are things I leave unsaid because I don’t want to scare people away. There are things I hint at without giving the full answer because I don’t want to be unloveable, a burden, a bother.
But then there are days like today. When I wake up with a start at 3 a.m. I’ve had a nightmare again. Not uncommon, but this one’s the worst I’ve had in years.
The thing about trauma is the way a memory sneaks up on you. Tiptoeing behind you, waiting to strike. The thing about trauma is the damage it leaves in its wake. Sometimes the memory itself isn’t as harmful as the reaction it causes.
There was a time in my life — a 20-year span — when my reaction to traumatic memories, intense emotions, unloveable thoughts was self-harm or suicide.
Those were my two options: either cut myself open to numb the pain or make the pain end once and for all. There were attempts, at five, sixteen, twenty-four. There were several close calls with trees at night.
And then one day, about two and a half years ago, I was lying awake in the middle of the night, unable to silence the voices in my head. Something within in me whispered, “drive.” I got in my car, and I drove.
I drove and drove and drove, passing tree after tree after tree, temptation after temptation after temptation. Finally, this still, small whisper told me to pull over. So I did, in the middle of the parking lot of the church I grew up in.
I got out of the car. And I sobbed. The dam within me broke, and I sobbed some more.
Eventually, I mustered up the courage to get off the ground. I got back in my car. I drove home.
I texted my therapist while I was at work later that day: I took suicide off the table last night. I closed that door.
And for the most part, I had. There were no more active thoughts. No more late-night thoughts; no more subconscious thoughts drawing me towards trees.
They were just… passing. Like two ships in the night. A simple, “you know, you could…” An easy, “Yeah. But I’m not gonna.”
And then here’s what I don’t talk about: the fourth attempt.
Two years ago tomorrow, or today, whenever you’re reading this.
There’s no one event that caused it. No singular thought I can pinpoint. Just an overwhelming, indescribable feeling of being totally and utterly alone.
The how doesn’t matter.
What matters is the result, the aftermath. Obviously, I’m still here. I’m writing this. But there’s this unbelievable level of guilt I feel for reopening that door I tried so hard to close.
I wrote a post for World Suicide Prevention Day two years ago in which I mention the fact that I reached out for help. And I did.
And then I was alone again. I was alone again with my thoughts and this unbearable feeling of aloneness.
Which brings me to last night, or this morning — jolted awake by a nightmare.
I wake up, and the first thought in my mind is: The world would be better off without you. The second thought, a continuation of the first: and no one would even miss you.
And for the first time in two years — almost to the day: I believed it.
Not because it’s true. But because of the way trauma has so greatly impacted my life. The things said to me along the way. The things I used to believe (sometimes still do) about myself.
If you’re reading this now, nothing happened. I didn’t act on anything. I so desperately wanted to, but a dog lying on half my body prevented me from moving. Gave me enough time to put the skills I’ve learned along the way into action.
If you’re reading this now, I’m still not ok. It’s been a hard day. A lonely day. An “I’m too much to handle, too big a burden type of day.” A “curl up in a hole and stay there” type of day.
If you’re reading this now, I’m alive.
And if I had to choose one — had to pick between being ok and being alive — I’d choose alive any day.
I’m not ok, but I’m alive.
Maybe tomorrow, I will be both.
