But it was different when I was older. I wasn’t doing this stuff when I was in pain or depressed. I was doing it when I felt numb. I hate feeling numb. It’s like everything has gone into overdrive and overloaded the circuit board so much, that it trips the breaker, and then there’s nothing. I was desperate for something to make me feel, so I would hurt myself just to feel something.
When I was about 27, I was diagnosed with bipolar. Surprise, surprise. They started me on meds, but honestly, the first couple of years after my diagnosis were the worst years of my life. I was a mess. Time and time again, I would find myself alone in my room trying to think of anything that would distract me from cutting myself.
I hit rock bottom two years ago. In a period of two months, I lost everything that was important to me—my boyfriend, my mom, my job, my house, my health, my stuff, basically, my life. I had nowhere to go and no one to count on; at least, that’s how it felt to me. Looking back, maybe I could have asked for some help, but that was not an option to me. I have a hard time admitting things are not perfect. I suffered alone.
I ended up living in a trailer in the middle of nowhere. I was living with a schizophrenic alcoholic Gulf War vet. Yeah, it was bad. And all I could think about was ending it.
In psychiatric books, they call it suicidal ideation. All I wanted for months was to be in the ground. One afternoon, I was asked to dig a hole for an elderly neighbor. I dug with enthusiasm, enjoying the pulling on my muscles. Hard physical work makes me get out of my head for a minute. I dug the hole, and I imagined the new flowers that were to be planted there. It wasn’t until I was done that I found out that I had dug a grave. The man’s dog had died. I wanted to be sick.
