I’m no stranger to dark chapters. There have been moments in my life when things have gone so well that I’ve caught myself side eyeing my own happiness. Praying that the darkness wouldn’t return, at least not any time soon. To God I’d say, “Just let me live here for a moment longer.”
I have survived a lot. At times, I’ve been a spokeswoman for “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” All times, I’ve questioned just how strong I had to be or what exactly I was being prepared for. (I think I’m good now God. We see each other.)
The last few months of my life were admittedly some of my darkest days and that speaks volumes because I’ve gone through some ish. In that darkness, I considered all of my options and I’d be lying if I said *suicide wasn’t one of them.
To set the record straight, I’m not the first nor the last woman to experience heartbreak. If all women who were betrayed killed themselves, there would be no one left. I get it. This is bigger than that.
This is a lifetime of getting the short end of the stick. Of trying to be a good person, of showing up for everyone, of loving everyone unconditionally and still somehow coming up short. This is a lifetime of loss and tragedy. Of losing some of the most important people in your life. Of being homeless, emotionally abused and neglected. This is the story of a woman who is just tired and after considering all options, suicide looked like a beautiful ending.
In an effort to be strong for the people who cared most, I spent months looking for help. I asked friends and colleagues for recommendations. I researched. I have insurance, yet in all of my search I only found 2-3 people who accepted it. Found a Black male therapist who never responded to any of my emails. Landed on a White man who during one session said, “I know Your people have been through a lot.” Found a White woman who seemed to deal with trauma well but after receiving an email from her that read, “I have to let you know that I only take patients who are at the end…” or something like that, I realized I was f*cked.
I looked into checking myself into a facility but fell so deep into the comment section that I freaked out at the thought of not being able to check myself out and what the consequences would be of documenting mental health on my record.
I even told the truth. Told my family that I was scared of my thoughts. That it was difficult to be fall asleep and even more difficult to be awake. That things haunt me at 4am when I’m alone in the dark. I was told to pray. I was told that I’d be OK.
Ultimately I realized, I had to kill myself to get help.
I pictured my homegoing service. People in pain and discussing if only they knew or if only I sought help. I’m not sure what’s the bigger tragedy, me, society or the system.
We judge people who are too tired to continue yet we make it difficult for people to get help.
It’s like only white rich people get walk into a nice facility in Arizona and come out ready to conquer the world. The rest of us aren’t allowed to have a Britney moment.
I’ve finally come up for air. I survived. The darkest of the dark days are behind me. I’m healing and I’m thankful for that.
I pray for people who experience depression and who get so lost in the darkness that they can’t find a way out. I know how it feels to want to give up. The only thing that brought me through is this wild idea that there’s more to my story. Maybe brighter days are ahead. Maybe I am being prepared for something bigger than I could ever imagine.
We’ll just have to wait and see.
*On average, there are 129 suicides per day. Please don’t be one of them. Call 1-800-273-8255 for free and confidential support.