A Second Chance

It's been a really, long, exhausting year. It's my third year as a teacher, but for some treason this year has been much more difficult than the others. I have the same responsibilities as other years, even the same, loving students, but this year feels so different.  

When my alarm goes off in the morning, I struggle to even open my eyes. I used to be so excited to start the day that I would jump out of bed into the delightful hot water of the shower, cleaning myself up and preparing me to take on one more day as a Special Educator. I was so immensely proud of what I was doing, living out my dreams, that I almost never had a bad day. Then it all changed.

I started crying a lot, even when it didn't make any sense. One minute I would be fine and the next minute I would be sobbing so hard that I couldn't breathe. Instead of showering every day out of joy, I was dragging myself into the hot water at the most every other day, but often every three days. Dirty dishes piled up unsteadily in the sink, and I could only wash them when I was wearing gloves because I just couldn't touch things that were "icky". Instead of making all my own materials, printing, laminating, sticking on Velcro, I was forced to use materials that were pre-made and didn't meet the individualized needs of each of my students. It wasn't that I didn't care about my job, it was just that living in the world had become so difficult that I was struggling just to catch my breath.

I finally got to the point that I knew I had to step down. My students deserved better and in the state I was in I just couldn't help them in the way that they needed it. Plus, I really thought that stepping down would fix the problem. It would decrease the stress in my life and allow me more time to focus on taking care of myself. Unfortunately, it had the opposite effect.

Without a reason to get up each day...I didn't. I spent more and more time in bed. Not sleeping, really, but struggling, listening to the horrible thoughts in my bed and crying. I stopped taking showers until I smelled so much that I couldn't even stand to be around myself anymore. I had no hope, and I started praying every day that I would just go to sleep and not wake up, but no such luck. I questioned whether God even loved me because He was letting me suffer so much. Then, one day, I realized that I could take control over my own situation. Instead of praying to die, I could make it happen. I made a plan to slit my wrist and bleed to death as quickly as humanly possible. I even went on Google and looked up the most successful way to die. I was ready. I had a fail-proof plan.

I called my best friend to tell her goodbye and that I loved her, but she was a lot wiser than I realized. She quickly picked up on what I thought were subtle cues and insisted that I go to the hospital for some help. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I agreed to go, but really, in the back of my head, I was thinking of ways to escape.

I got into the car and started heading towards the hospital, but I was overwhelmed and conflicted. Do I want to take my chances of going to the hospital and living through horror and indignity only to go home and feel just as bad as I do now? Or do I pull over and take my life in a way that my family and friends won't be the ones to find me? I’m ashamed to say I pulled over, grabbed the knife I had stored on my front seat, and quickly cut vertically through my wrist.  But as soon as the hot, maroon, blood was pouring out of my body I panicked. This was a permanent decision, maybe I wasn’t 100% sure this was the best idea… So, I picked up the phone and quickly called 911 and they came to save me. While I was waiting I called my best friend and confessed what I’d done. She was disappointed, but mostly grateful that I was getting help.

I passed out in the ambulance from lack of blood as the lights and sounds flashed rushing us to the nearest hospital. When I woke up I was in an uncomfortable bed with 20 stitches in my wrist and quite a bit of agonizing pain. Plus, there was a “babysitter” with me so that I couldn’t get out. I felt like a child, not allowed to even leave my bed. I was immediately regretting the fact that I had asked for help. My life was suddenly worse than it even had been before we started this whole ordeal.

It took a couple of days before they could find a bed for me in an inpatient psych unit. I tried to protest, I had learned my lesson and didn’t need to be admitted, but with that much evidence they just didn’t have a choice. There were no beds in the hospital I was in, so I was put on a tiny gurney, strapped down with four different straps, and loaded into the ambulance. We bumped around like crazy, and I felt like I was going to fall off several times, but after twenty minutes we made it to our destination. Unfortunately, I knew that even this short trip would result in a bill for about $20,000. I was praying that I would qualify for financial aid, even if it took months to get it in place.

When we arrived at the inpatient psych unit, any dignity I had left was stripped away. They had me take all of my clothes off and put on a gown that was too small and left my back side flapping in the wind.  They searched my entire body for marks, which was horrifying, because I don’t even look at my body myself, I certainly didn’t want to show it to a stranger. They took the shoe laces out of my shoes, wouldn’t let me keep my hoodie, took away all the fragrant, comforting hygiene products that a friend had dropped off for me. I was left with one outfit and a book. How would I possibly make it through two weeks like this?? I had lost all the freedoms guaranteed to me by the constitution, and I felt completely trapped.

The food was horrifying. Unflavored grits, deep fried foods, no fruits or vegetables, certainly not like I eat at home. I saw a doctor for a few minutes a day, via zoom. He didn’t know anything about me, and refused to consult with my psychiatrist from home, so he was making a stab in the dark when it came to my medication, completely at odds of what I was reporting. I was calm with a plan to help myself feel better, but he insisted that I was manic and needed to be more sedated.  The staff was lazy and unwilling to help. I was scared to ask for hygiene products, even the generic ones they had, or to use the laundry facilities, because the staff would get angry and “put me in my place”. They kept talking about how this was a free vacation and I needed to stop complaining and soak it in. But this was not like any vacation I’d ever been in, and it certainly wasn’t free. It cost me at least $100 a day, and I didn’t have that kind of money so I’d be paying on payment plan for almost a year.

 In some ways I felt better, being away from the difficulties of life and under the surveillance of people who could help me, but at the same time I was constantly making plans about how I could escape and effectively end my life. I didn’t realize it, but I was so wrong. When I was finally able to leave after 14 days of misery and mistreatment, I was able to breathe in the amazing fresh air of a beautiful spring day. I was going home with the support of my mom, my best friend, my doctor and my counselor, plus so many friends that I can’t even count. Before I even thought about it, the words escaped my mouth like a gush of fresh air. “I feel alive, and I’m so grateful for another chance.” In retrospect, I’m grateful for the experience, I had no idea I would ever be grateful to be alive again. It was a horrifying experience, but it gave me another chance.