As you may know, last week was the anniversary of my first suicide attempt – which is important to note because it led to my diagnosis of Bipolar 1. The days leading up to that anniversary were sad. I grieved what I had lost because of my illness. I grieved my old life. I grieved my potential. I felt the guilt of all I has put others through. To put it mildly, I felt awful.
And then, on the 3rd of October, I woke up happy and felt so blessed. I was still here. I have done so much since then. Fallen in love. Had my heart broken. Learned some lessons along the way. I celebrated this life I had in tiny ways – a massage and foot scrub (heaven!), a coffee and muffin at my favorite local coffee shop, a visit with my brother and a call with my sister in California. It all made me feel so loved.
It is hard to explain how it feels to exist after you nearly die, especially by your own hand. I kind of feel like I don’t deserve it. Especially after four attempts. Who does that? Who has such little value in their life that that they just want it to be over? Me.
But today I feel good. I feel relaxed. I feel thankful that each and every time, despite the ICU stays, inpatient psych ward lock-ups, and cups of charcoal, that I survived it all. I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope to never try these things again. I hope to live a long happy life.
( P.S. I apologize for only posting one blog post last week. I went to my grandma’s hours away with an uncharged computer and no cord! I’ll make it up to you, dear reader).