25 Years Ago in the Upper Room (A Recalling of the Day I Died for 2 Minutes)

TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide, suicidal ideation, self-harm, child abuse, neglect, and anxiety and mood disorders are mentioned below. If you are triggered by any of these topics, PLEASE close out the page and do not continue reading. Take care of yourself first and stop worrying about what others will think of you. It took me 25 years after the event to write this all down. You are not weak, or broken. You are strong and have been strong for far too long, trying to manage a difficult situation on your own. You are worthy of help, of love, of support. Please never doubt that. 

Sometimes the details are a little fuzzy. I remember the giddiness of the final planning stages, the gathering of the household toxins, and the mixing of them in the bathroom behind a locked door. My mother was cooking dinner. My brother was completing his homework, or so he said. My stepdad was drunk in front of the television, loathing life and everyone in his life. I'm not sure where my sister was, but I'm sure she was playing with toys or counting cards or rifling through her treasures in the purse she kept around her neck. It hurts to mention her as part of this memory, as she's the only one who isn't still alive. Thankfully, her death wasn't a suicide. It was a natural death. I've discussed it before HERE. 

The event I'm disclosing here in detail is my one and only semi-successful suicide attempt. I was 15 and thought that life was over for me. For two minutes, I was medically correct. I did die. It was glorious...until I was revived and had to face the truth the following day. I'll get there. One step at a time. 

No one asked me with any real conviction or desire to hear the truth whether I wanted my stepdad to return home after he'd "served his time" for abusing me. Instead, what I got was a barrage of comments such as "Oh, this has been so hard on your mother." And "won't it be nice to have him home again to help your mother out?" And "Money won't be so tight if he comes home." No one ever offered the alternative. No one questioned how it would affect me. No one seemed to care. 

Feeling backed into a corner like a feral cat in peril of losing its life if it struck out at its captors, I reluctantly stated "Sure. He can come home. It'll be nice to see Mom happy again." I felt like a martyr - like I'd saved my family while putting my needs on the back burner. I was a hero in my own mind, and in the comments that came from others around me. "How mature you are to forgive such an egregious crime against you!" "How selfless you are to think of others first." "She's wise beyond her years" some would say in close proximity of me to others, then turn and smile at me. I was meant to feel like a hero. Except I didn't. I felt small. I wanted to die. 

Suicidal ideation starts out small and infrequently takes over the mind in daydream form. First, you think things such as "I can't handle this. If I were dead, this wouldn't matter anymore." Then you start to think about all the things you would no longer have to bear if you were dead. Again, this starts out slowly, but like a snowball rolling downhill, it grows until it absolutely consumes you. If you're not discussing these feelings with anyone, then they grow faster because you have no interruptions - no rebuttal. When you're a kid and your whole life belongs to your parents, you don't see any other way out sometimes. You can't. It's like a prison with only walls, no windows, no lights, no visitors, no hope. The thoughts consume you until they become your only source of hope. Suicidal ideation becomes your new obsession. 

Once I decided on the day, I decided on the place. I decided on the time. I scouted it all out to make sure it would work. I chose school, in the upper portion of the gymnasium on a day when I knew with absolute certainty that no one would be using it. Our gym teachers had a rhythmic schedule and I knew it well. My plan was foolproof. The school nurse wasn't even supposed to be on-site during the time I'd planned to kill myself. It was perfect. 

After combining all the household toxins I could easily get my hands on, I raided the medicine cabinet and combined everything in there, into a cough syrup bottle that was nearly empty. Pills, nail polish removed, cough syrups, and household cleaners all went into the bottle. I shook it carefully and nestled it deep into the bottom of my backpack. I was all set. The next morning, I added a water bottle just in case it was tough to swallow everything in the cough syrup bottle. My plan was to take sips of water to help wash it all down. 

In the girls' bathroom, directly across the hallway from the main office, I downed the concoction. It burned my throat as I swallowed it, but I was impressed by how quickly I was able to drink it. A nosy cheerleader in my grade came into the bathroom and asked if I was in there crying again. I told her that yes, I was crying, but it was because I had failed a test. She didn't believe me and proceeded to give me a trite speech on how life has ups and downs, and we just have to rely on our friends to get us through. Better days were coming, she asserted! I wanted to punch her in the face but reminded myself that it would all be over soon, so I stayed in the stall until she left. Then, I made the short trek down the hallway, and up the back stairs to the upper gymnasium. I remember my throat burning the entire time, and the stairs were wobbling a lot. I think I tripped a time or two as I climbed the stairs. 

Once on the upper deck, I climbed under the bleachers towards the middle of them. I didn't want to be spotted easily. I wanted to make sure I was good and dead by the time anyone might spot me. I remember lying down and checking the bottle to make sure I'd consumed every last drop. There was still another sip or two left in there, so I drank it. That's the last thing I remember before thinking "I'm sleepy. This feels nice." 

It is hard to think about the rest. It hurts me now. It hurts because I hurt my (now) husband, my best friend (who has since passed away due to a losing battle with leukemia), and because my life still isn't what I had hoped it would be. I'm not a famous writer, nor am I a teacher yet. I've made few advancements in either area, and I still have people who wish me dead. But I am not among them. Writing this down makes me so sad because I am not that girl with no hope anymore. I have immense hope - in Jesus. And I have made it through every single one of my bad days - and so many more good ones! My hope is that by writing this down, I can give a voice to the sad girls and boys out there who don't understand why they're feeling this way, or what to do about it! Maybe it will bring peace to someone who is talking about these feelings and wants to know they'll pass. (They will). 

I woke up, surrounded by paramedics, my mother, the school nurse, a teacher, and some students who were feigning worry about me. In truth, I think the students just liked the drama of the situation, and no, I won't apologize for that assessment. In the 25 years that followed the event, only two have ever mentioned it to me with any sort of empathy. One of them, I married. The other one I annoy weekly on Facebook Messenger. 😉

Keeping my eyes open was difficult. They wanted to remain shut. I couldn't hear very well. Everyone's voices were garbled like I was several feet underwater and they were on the shore, shouting at me. My body felt heavy, and I didn't know how to move anything - not even a single finger. I was relaxed and not in control of anything. When my eyes opened, I was not sure why. Did I have more control than I thought? I don't know. What I remember most profoundly was the black void prior to seeing their faces. I was in a black void, without a body. I was surrounded by something warm and comforting, but it had no face, no physical representation I could see. It was love. I felt loved beyond anything I had ever felt before. This love was a physical, unseen force that was holding me in this black void. Sometimes I wish I could go back, just to feel that unshakable level of love again. Was it Jesus? Probably. 

In truth, I have no recollection of how I got onto the gurney or down the stairs. I briefly remember opening my eyes as I was wheeled out the front door of the school. I saw the grey-blue sky that is so common in Brookings, Oregon in early spring. There were clouds, I think. And then I don't remember much else other than paramedics poking me and prodding me, and trying to talk to me. They were shouting, I think. It was hard to hear, hard to comprehend, hard to keep my eyes open, hard to admit defeat or to even understand that my plans had been defeated. 

At the hospital, the nurses were a mixture of angry, sad, and comforting. Some were mad at me for "doing this" to my mother. Some were sad that I felt I had "no way out at such a young age" and some were comforting and asked what they could do or say to help. I hated them all. I was so angry. I had tasted death and wasn't allowed to stay there at the buffet table. One taste and it was all ripped away from me. Fuck them. Fuck them all, I thought to myself. I will try again. I will succeed. I just had to convince them for a while that I was fine, I was glad they saved me. I was glad they were so heroic in their endeavors. Yay for life, and all that useless, meaningless bullshit. I stayed as quiet as I could and just observed them all, searching for a loophole so I could try again. I hated no one more than my mother. She was supposed to protect me and never did. Now she wouldn't even give me what I wanted most - relief. Even now, writing this all down, I'm struck by how much I still resent her for failing me as a mother. It's like a bitter taste in my mouth that makes me want to throw up just to get rid of it. I am aware of the issues there. Thankfully, so is Jesus. 

The weeks that followed were a mess. I did visit my friends at school during the lunch hour, but I wasn't able - or allowed to return to school. Instead, I was sent to an alternative school for the kids who were on probation or were still nursing their babies and couldn't handle a full course load on their own. I sat between a thirteen-year-old Mom and a probation officer for a boy who had bullied me all throughout the fourth and fifth grades. I excelled at school in this environment and often finished a week's worth of schoolwork in a mere four hours. Because of this, I got ahead in my coursework and began taking honors classes. I would have graduated high school if I had stayed at the alternative school, but I didn't. One of the girls there had a problem with me and enjoyed starting fights when no one was looking. The administrators got tired of it and sent me back to the public school. She graduated high school, but I did not. She's married to a felon and is one herself. She has multiple baby daddies, and I am married to my high school sweetheart, with no criminal record. It all worked out the way it was supposed to, I guess. At the time, it sure didn't seem like it ever would work out in my favor. 

Looking back, I see such a sad, depressed, hopeless girl. I see such an obsessive thought process, with a mind closed to any other alternative than suicide. I now possess so many more coping skills and am in a much better place. When I even begin to think about suicide these days, I have an action plan I follow every time. I alert my husband and a few close friends, and I put out a post on Facebook, asking for prayer. I let my doctor know what's going on, and if they're a new doctor, I bring them up to speed on my medical history. I check my diet and clean it up if necessary because that really does help. I also force myself to sit outside in a location I enjoy. I stop all housework, all tasks that do not bring me joy, and I focus on prayer, on recalling all the current blessings in my life, and ... I'll be honest, I picture the look of horror on the school nurses' face when she found me under the bleachers. Her face is tattooed in my mind. It's the saddest image I've retained from that day 25 years ago, and I hope to never cause anyone that kind of agony again. She truly did care for me. 

I can't go back and fix anything that happened. I can't - and I wouldn't want to - take that moment back. It taught me a lot, and it helped shape the woman I am today. To those who say that it made me weaker in their minds - too bad for you. How's your life working out for you now? I'm stronger because of the fight to survive following that attempt. My journey has been so ugly and messy at times. I cringe, remembering who I was, where I've been, and all the bridges I burned along the way. I now know which way to never return to. I have an answer ready when someone asks if it was all worth it. I have an answer ready when someone asks if I am proud of myself. And I have an answer ready when someone asks if I would ever try it again. (No, I wouldn't.) 

Trying didn't weaken me in the ways I thought it would. It also didn't strengthen me in the ways I'd hoped it would. Instead, something totally different emerged. I became empathetic, understanding, and compassionate, and as life continues to kick my ass at times, I become more nonjudgmental of others. There's still a lot of work to be done, but at least I'm alive to do it now. 

image source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brookings-Harbor_High_School

Stay tuned for another episode.  See you next time! And remember, if you or a loved one is in danger, get help immediately, and don't stop talking until someone acts on your words.

National Domestic Abuse Hotline: 800-799-7233 Hours: 24/7. Languages: English, Spanish, and 200+ through interpretation service. SMS: Text START to 88788

National Sexual Assault Hotline: 1-800-656-4673 Hours: Available 24 hours. https://www.rainn.org/

988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline Hours: Available 24 hours. Languages: English, Spanish. https://988lifeline.org/

In Christ alone our hope is found

Run, don't walk for help! You're worth it.