Ceci O.
Photography by Ally Szabo
Please note: In this letter, I discuss my experience with suicide. If you believe this topic will be triggering for you, I encourage you to take care of yourself and be prepared to access any resources you may need. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 988 or suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
If you’re reading this, you deserve the gift of life.
How many times a day does one minor inconvenience happen and you jokingly say something along the lines of, “Ugh I wanna kill myself” or “I’m gonna kill myself”? How many times have you done something slightly “embarrassing” and said this? How many times have you heard your friends or even strangers in passing say this and laughed along, not thinking twice about its implication?
For me, that phrase had been a staple in my everyday conversation and thoughts since I was fourteen. However, as time went on, it became less of a joke when I said it, let alone when I thought it. Having said this for so long, no one gave these comments a second thought; why would they when I said regularly and laughed every time?
We live in a culture that enables this phrase to be seen and perceived to be “just a joke” or heard as “funny.” After reading this, I seriously urge you to rethink your choice in saying this or laughing when others say it. Claiming you want to kill yourself is not a joke, especially over when it’s over something minuscule.
Last year, me saying this was never “just a funny joke”. Thinking it was never a passing thought; it was permanently ingrained in my mind, even when I was perceived to be “happy” and “doing better than ever.”
To others, I seemed okay. I was doing the work. I said I was taking my medications. I was going to my therapy appointments. I made everyone believe I was truly better and working on myself. It was exactly as I wanted it to be.
But I wasn’t better; it was all a perfected facade crafted by my depression. In reality, I was at the lowest point in my life. I was self-harming more often and worse each time. I was not taking my medications. I wasn’t honest with my therapist. I rarely attended class. I was not sleeping. I was drinking almost every morning and drinking each night alone. I did not want to change. Nothing mattered anymore. I wanted to die, plain and simple.
If people asked questions or voiced concerns, I automatically shut them down for fear of being a burden or annoying. If people asked if I was actually alright, I lied. The idea of being truthful and vulnerable with others, let alone myself, was petrifying. I didn’t want help, nor did I think I could ever be worth the help. I was “cheerful”-- involved in my high school, an athlete with good grades, attended a great university, and had amazing friends. The list of why I should theoretically be okay made me ashamed to even consider acknowledging how deeply I was struggling. I convinced myself that all of the great things I had been blessed with did not allow me to not be okay. To me, asking for help was selfish.
To be clear, in absolutely no way, shape, or form could I ever even dare to think to blame the people trying to help me for what you will read. They offered me support, help, and love to the extent that they could and I would let them on the rare occasion I admitted my (drastically downplayed) struggles to them. I did this solely to ease any slight suspicions they may have had about me miraculously being happy after years of struggle. I convinced everyone that I was alright and getting the help I needed. I said it enough times that even I myself started to believe it. This only made it easier to lie and say I was fine– until “randomly”, I wasn’t.
On April 19th, two days after my birthday and an exciting Easter Break spent in Ireland with my family, I attempted suicide.
I was admitted to the hospital and spent nearly two days in the ICU before being involuntarily committed to the psychiatric ward for eight days. I cried each and every day I was there, infuriated that my plan didn’t work. But once again, I persuaded my doctors and everyone who knew to believe me when I said I was only crying because I regretted my attempt. I told them that it was “just a stupid mistake” and I was ready to leave. My only real regret, however, was that I didn’t accomplish my goal.
I left the hospital feeling worse than before my attempt. I still wholeheartedly believed I was unworthy of living or being truly loved. Only now, I felt even more guilty and like more of a burden to my family and to the few people who knew this. More than ever I felt like I did not deserve all of the help I was given or wanted. But of course, I couldn’t admit this – my parents were now swamped with expensive medical bills because of me. I had no other choice than to add this to my already extensive list of reasons why I did not deserve to live. I was an additional thing that people had to deal with. They would be better without me. So I learned to pretend again, and this time, pretend even more flawlessly than before. People believed what I told them and how I acted in public. I would not dare to let anyone know the truth again.
Writing this now is the first time I’m saying that to anyone other than my therapist. I’m serious when I said that I played the role immaculately.
I ended the semester on a medical leave of absence. I had to take incompletes for all of my classes until the beginning of July when final grades were due. I was in a group intensive outpatient program (IOP) for a month and a half. I was weary of group therapy, but I had never felt more seen and understood in my life. Something in me clicked and I left IOP wanting to actively change the way I had previously been “living” and surviving for the past six years. I found a new therapist whom I felt safe with, and we met twice a week all summer long. I was finally honest with myself and others for the first time. I let out the pain that had been building up and consuming my every moment. I learned to want to live.
I am still in therapy and working on myself every day. Therapy isn’t a quick and easy magic cure; it is intense, exhausting, and most importantly, the responsibility is on you to want to change. You need to be prepared to work through every little thing you have pushed aside, ignored, felt, and experienced. You need to learn to be okay with feeling your emotions, past and present. You need to learn to accept yourself for who you are. You need to be open to change, despite how uncomfortable it can be. Once you really choose to do all of this and are ready to make a change, I promise that the hard parts make up for the good parts.
I will be the first to admit that I am nowhere near “healed” and perfect. I still have days where the mere idea of getting up, going to class, doing my homework, going to work, or even socializing feels inconceivable. I still have days where I believe I am a failure, disappointment, burden, and unworthy of everything and everyone in my life; especially that I am unworthy of love and happiness. I still have days where I question if all of my time and energy spent on “bettering myself” is worth it if I’m not seeing immediate and drastic change quick enough. Or I think I should just quit while I'm ahead, because to me, if I was truly better, I would be completely “cured” of these thoughts and feelings.
But here’s the thing: better does not mean cured. There is no magic cure for depression. Better doesn’t mean that I am a new person. Instead, better means that I have not had a single thought of suicide, active or passive, in months. Better is that I have been self-harm free for months. Better is that I’m okay with being honest and raw and vulnerable. Better is that on those rare days when everything feels impossible, suicide and self-harm don’t even cross my mind. Better is on those hard days, when I first allow myself to feel these emotions rather than suppressing them, but then cope with these emotions in a positive and healthy way. Better is that despite how rigorous it all is, and especially knowing that I have a long journey ahead of me, I am actively trying for once in my life to learn that I deserve life. Better is that I have hope and can picture a future in which I won’t plot my death every waking moment. And for that, for the very first time in my life, I am genuinely proud of myself. That is what better looks like.
Now, I’m going to be honest: telling you guys this is terrifying. Before this, only the four people closest to me (besides my immediate family) knew this about me. I’m afraid to be vulnerable to strangers who are reading this, but even more so to my friends and classmates who do not know this side of me. I’m scared to be judged or thought of differently because of this experience. I’m scared as hell, but people should know even the “light-hearted, fun, bubbly, classic sorority girl” experiences struggles. And that is important to remember. You can be viewed as all of these things and not be okay. Everyone struggles with something, whether they show it or not. Getting help is not for a certain “type” of person or struggle. Whatever it may be that you’re going through or experiencing, regardless of how “big or small”, you and your struggles are valid. Stop saying that other people have it worse. Stop comparing. You are valid.
I am aware this is a heavy topic, but it is a topic that needs to be talked about. This conversation is often avoided because it’s “depressing,” or “awkward,” or some people aren’t educated about suicide. However, having these vital conversations is crucial, and they might just save someone’s life. Though September is suicide prevention month this conversation and promotion of resources cannot end here. Every moment of every day should be spent emphasizing suicide prevention.
If you read this, I NEED you to know that you are worthy of receiving help. You deserve happiness. You deserve all the love you have. You deserve to experience everything great life has to offer. Most importantly, you deserve life.
Ceci O., Villanova University
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