February

How I tried to die and found out that life was worth living.

I don't like February. It's cold but it doesn't snow, it's constantly cloudy, and it's the month when I tried to kill myself.

Two years ago, I slipped some painkillers out of my mother's medicine box and stored them in my desk drawer, waiting until the right time to use them. I took them on February 5, 2012 when my mom and sister had gone out for something, I can't remember what now. Later, in the hospital, I would say that I was just doing it for attention. But I was only saying that so they'd release me out of the hell that was the youth psychiatric ward and let me go home. I really did want to die that February night. My depression had been going on for some time by this point. I was tired, lonely, angry, and completely miserable. I was in therapy, but I wasn't honest with my therapist because I didn't trust her and I was afraid she would commit me if I told her the truth: that I wanted to die. So I let everything get worse and worse and worse until I didn't think there was anything but my depression. I didn't think I could get better. I thought that was just the way I was destined to be. And I wanted to die. And I tried to die.

But I got scared. Lying on the floor in front of my bathroom, drooling on the carpet, I slurred to my sister what I had done. I remember her looking scared and regretted telling her. I didn't want to scare her. She immediately told my parents, who took me to the hospital where I spent a horrible night waiting for a police officer to take me to a psychiatric hospital. My eyes hurt from crying so much. I regretted that I had made my parents upset and scared. I didn't want to hurt anyone but myself. I decided I had to keep living so I wouldn't cause my family pain, not because I wanted to.

After a short stint in the terrifying psych ward, I went home only to find my entire life turned upside down. Every single drug in my house had to be locked up. My dad had to install a lock on his liquor cabinet. Even things like Tylenol and Sudafed were locked up. The antidepressant I had been prescribed was given to me by my parents before I went to bed. I had lost my parents' trust and they were terrified of what I might do. I was moved out of my room into the main floor bedroom I had slept in as a child so I could be closer to and around my parents more often. I was only allowed to be by myself after 9pm. I cried a lot. My whole family cried a lot that February.

I went back to school to finish my junior year of high school, where I told everyone that I'd been in the hospital with the flu, explaining my long absence and the dark, IV bruises on the insides of both my elbows. Life went on around me, unchanged. I still didn't want to be around people. When I wasn't at school, I spent most of my time in my room, making excuses to my parents to not spend time with them. I felt guilty about what I had done and didn't want to face them if at all possible. Meal times often dissolved into fights and sobbing. I was emotionally drained by all the "healing" I had to do because I still didn't want to live. I didn't see the point.

I'm not exactly sure when I decided to try and get better. Maybe it was when I started actually talking to my therapist and being honest about my feelings. Maybe it was when I told when of my best friends what I had done and she nodded and told me she loved me and was glad I was still here and then we ate pasta in my bed while watching a show about tattoos. It might have been when I was laying outside in the sunshine, flanked on either side by the dogs that I'd had since kindergarten and realizing that I didn't want to leave them or any member of my family. Whatever the trigger was, I decided to live.

I started doing things. For the first time in a couple of years, I was socializing. I became close to the best friend I've ever had. I started doing little projects again, like in April when I posted a Youtube video every single day. I tried lots of new hobbies, like sculpting, painting, and recording songs. I started writing stories, something I had always loved doing, again.

I started getting better. Gradually, people began telling me that I seemed happier, livelier. I was enjoying my life again. I was making plans for my future, telling people of all the places I was going to travel to. I graduated high school, which always seemed like a milestone I'd never make it to. And now, I'm writing this on February 4th, 2014 as a journalism student of a massive university. I'm smiling to myself as I type because it seems so unreal that I live on my own and cook for myself and am in college. Me! I never thought I'd make it to this point. I thought my depression would kill me before I ever got to this point. But here I am, with friends, hobbies, goals, and aspirations.

I still battle with my depression every single day and go through periods where I feel miserable and lonely again. But I have wonderful friends and family who support me and my medication to help on a chemical level. Every time I'm down, I'm able to pull myself back up, something that I couldn't do in February of 2012. In a way, I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I've gone from wanting to die to being genuinely happy with my life and wanting to live. And I do. So, so much. I want to get older and meet people and go places and do things. I want to live a long, successful life with the people I love. And I deserve that. Everyone deserves that.

I'm not a big fan of February, but I'm glad that I get to look forward to many, many Februaries in my future.