You can see it, too

"You look much better, but maybe it's just the colorful earrings. Last week I thought you were slipping into a clinical depression. What's the chance you're going to hurt yourself this week?"

"Slim to none. Sure, I've thought about it in my darkest moments, but I have a secret weapon. See this scar? This scar tells me stories. It speaks to me even through my deepest, darkest moments. It can cut through any depressive thoughts. All I have to do is look.

It's just 2 inches long, thicker on one side, with a few spokes evenly placed. It's deep white on pink, lines of blue underscoring it's perfectly parallel placement to palmistry lines. It's quiet, silent, but with a booming, concussive meaning.

All I have to do is remember it's there and take a deep, unbreaking look. I can't let myself look away and forget for any instant just what this line means. This simple spot on my body which means so much. This little section of arm lacking feeling, holding emotion.

So all I have to do is take one good look. One moment to force myself to concentrate on the thick, straight line to know that no, I'm not going to hurt myself this week, or any."

All sorts of suicide facts

Some of these studies come up with obvious conclusions, but they're still really interesting to consider. People with mental illness are 12 times more likely to kill themselves (they don't differentiate in the article between killing oneself and trying). "The research found that the rate of suicide was highest in the first year following diagnosis (12 times national average) and that high risk persisted -- remaining four times greater than the general population ten years after diagnosis...."

It took me 7 years after diagnosis to try to kill myself, and that was a more alcohol and depression fueled go than just a depressive attack. Alcohol probably just made it possible where I'd only thought about it before. I read some study the other day to that affect, but I can't seem to find it now.

They also say the way you try to kill yourself (when you don't succeed) is an indicator of whether or not you'll do it again. People who try violent means are more likely to try violence again and succeed. People whose parents die by suicide are more likely to take their own lives. They don't say if the kids are more likely to do it the way their parents did, but I've heard of that before, and I tried in my mom's preferred manner.

Wow, this is depressing! Merry Christmas!

It's the stress that does it

What is a breakdown, exactly? "...depressed patients' mental suffering led to a sort of 'breakdown' in the stress system, resulting in low levels of stress hormones." So it's basically when your immune system stops working well. Remember before we talked about the immune system and the role it plays in depression? Well this is another study talking about immune response. It's interesting that a breakdown can have biological implications.

I was really stressed out before my breakdown. Everything was wrong in my life, it seemed. My job was absolutely horrible, my living situation was disgusting, and my life was one drunken night after another. It wasn't any way to live, really. It all became too much, and I suppose what happened is my immune system broke down, and allowed me to become suicidal.

It's interesting that a breakdown of stress would allow you to hit a breaking point. You would think suicidal people would have more cortisol in their systems. So I suppose if you're still feeling stress, you're ok.

I'm a statistic

"Prior research has consistently found associations between psychiatric conditions (e.g., depression, bipolar disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder [PTSD], schizophrenia and alcohol and/or drug use disorders) and risk of fatal and non-fatal suicide attempts."

Mostly a duh kind of statement, but interesting that women with substance abuse problems are at a higher risk of suicide. I wonder if part of it is the mind altering or depressive qualities of alcohol and drugs.

I hate to think that I'm a statistic. Drunk, bipolar woman tries to commit suicide. I'm on a list somewhere as a statistic. Boo.

World Wide Suicide Prevention Day

Susan over at If You're Going Through Hell just reminded me that it's World Wide Suicide Prevention Day. There are a lot of good resources out there (some on the sidebar) that can help you when you're so down you feel that's the only out.

It never is. You just end up hurting other people whether you succeed or not. I remember when I tried to kill myself the only images that haunt me are of Adam and Angela. I was in the room with the doctor testing my finger and palm movement to make sure I didn't do any irreparable damage, and Adam was standing behind me. I knew he didn't want me to know, but I could hear him crying. It broke my heart. Angela just stood there stunned, hoping she could do something. Neither said a word, but I knew they would never forget that moment, either.

A few minutes later, visiting time was over and they had to leave. As they walked down the corridor to the exit, I began to cry. I was trying to stay strong and not look like the mess I really was. The moment the doors closed I fell to my knees and fell apart. All I had done was hurt the people that loved me the most, and trying to kill myself hadn't solved anything.

So if you're in that spot, just think about all the life you could live, and how you will come out of this depression. Call your doctor. Call a friend. Reach out to someone, even if it's just a suicide hotline. They are really helpful, too. And if you think you can't make it, get to your nearest hospital. Hang in there. You're worth it.

A cutting story

Dave over at Struggling had a really good post this morning on cutting and what led up to it, and how it made him feel. It reminded me that I haven't shared my cutting story.

I always used to cut. As long as I can remember, I used to take the bread knife in my parents kitchen and press it into my wrist, making little blood bubbles. I eventually had little scars, and I couldn't figure out what they were from - I had blocked most of that period out. I progressed to having an exacto knife in my room, and cleaning it every time with betadyne. I would cut my fingers open, and draw on the walls of my room with blood. I would write poetry, and then cover it up with posters. I also had notebooks full of drawings in blood.

When I was 23 I did the worst damage. I hadn't cut since high school, but something led me to it that day. My mom cuts. She cuts deep, with razor blades, and always ends up at the hospital. I had recently taken away her blades while she was away, and didn't know what to do with them, so I put them under my bathroom sink.

I was out that night, getting wasted with my friends. My bartender friend and DJ roommate had to stay at work, so Emily, her sister and I went back to my apartment to drink more. And then Emily laid it on: you're wasting your life; you need to get out of here; you're blah, blah, blah. I felt so awful. I started crying, and I never cry. Her sister dragged her out of there.

I collapsed onto the floor of the kitchen, crying harder than I'd ever cried. Suddenly, I thought of cutting to make the pain go away. That adrenaline rush makes the depression disappear, if only for a minute. I went into the bathroom, grabbed a razor, and did what I used to do: I pressed. I had never used a razor before, and didn't understand the damage it could do. I looked down, and all I could see was a broken tendon and the fat cells in my wrist. I immediately knew what I had done, and put my hand over it to hold in the bleeding. I ran to the phone and called 911.

The paramedics didn't seem to care. They bandaged my arm, and slowly walked me to the ambulance. I showed up at the hospital, and it took hours for someone to see me. The doctor sewed me up without anesthesia, probably because I was already drunk, and told me, "If I ever see you here again, I'm not going to help you." I was already devastated, and hadn't stopped crying yet.

They took me upstairs to the psych ward and locked me in for the night. I couldn't stop crying and by this time I was wailing. They gave me a sedative, and I woke up the next morning crying all the same. I called my dad. I didn't want to. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do. Suddenly, I had lots of visitors. I didn't want to see anyone; I was so embarrassed. But they all came anyway. Everyone who loved me showed up. And they always show up in my life. I knew then that I could never do that again, it was too risky.

And so now when I feel like cutting, I go get a tattoo. It provides that same temporary relief, that same adrenaline. I can't even be around razors anymore. So don't worry about me; I'll always remember that night. I have the scar to remind me every day.

There's a party in this house!

Apparently AA's party like crazy. I guess after years of throwing drunken bashes the need for a gathering never fades.

First Friday, the marble meeting, had over a hundred people gathered around listening to a fabulous gay man speak about his past and his journey into and through AA. He started with his suicide attempt, and it struck me: I was wasted when I tried to kill myself. I always told myself I'd never do that; my mom tried too often for me to ever want to cause another person that kind of pain. But I got wasted, and one comment put me over the edge. I put myself in a position to hear bad news that cut me to the heart. So I cut myself to make it feel better. Did it work? Hell no. I felt worse. I'd just done what I promised never to do. I hurt my dad, my boyfriend, my friends. And I was drunk still when the doctor sewed me up with no anesthesia. "I never want to see you back here," she said. And so every time I was drunk and looking at that razor, thinking that might make it all better, I thought twice.

Drinking, I suppose, is like that razor. It cuts you up, cuts your life into pieces. Makes everything unmanageable. Just that one drink could lead me to the brink of insanity, again. Just one.

Saturday nights' talent show and speaker meeting brought more to me, through the fellowship of an amazing group of women and men. These people welcomed me with open arms, fed me, even told me it was ok to have a second cookie. "Alcohol is sugar," they reminded me. "You may just be trying to replace it." Oh, huh, that makes sense. I've been eating more ice cream than ever and cookies like it's going out of style.

And the amazing women. I've met so many strong and intelligent women who I never would have thought could have problems. They are so smart! And yet, alcohol took them over, too. I guess you don't have to be stupid to get yourself in this position; to make yourself want to get dumber. Maybe it's the smart folks, the smartasses who take to drink. Just maybe.

I feel like I've been invited into a different life. Adam called it stepping through the looking glass, which is really funny since my next three planned tattoos all have something to do with Alice. I was supposed to get one this week: Alice pushing through the looking glass. Broke ass be damned, maybe I should get it next weekend. A commitment on my back: I have broken through the looking glass, and I don't want to look back.