As many of you know, September 10, 2020 is Suicide Prevention Day. This topic is something that is very near and dear to my heart. As a suicide attempt survivor myself, I feel the need to share my story in order to provide hope to those struggling or who know someone who is struggling with suicidal thoughts or ideation.
Trigger Warning: Suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders
If you are easily triggered by any of those things, please read at your own discretion. I dive into some very specific, personal struggles and experiences. However, I do not mention any numbers that could trigger EDs as well as specific behaviors because I feel they aren't relevant. If you begin to feel triggered, please stop reading and reach out for support if you need it.
Hi. My name is Jordan, and I have struggled with mental illness most of my life. As long as I can remember, I have always had social anxiety. I used to get so nervous and anxious before school that I would make myself sick to my stomach. I always felt very awkward and out of place. I never really fit in anywhere.
The first time I really remember myself starting to struggle with depression was when I entered the 7th grade. I was tired all the time, and I was very emotional at times and numb other times. I started seeing the junior-high guidance counselor once a week during my study hall period for weekly check-ins. At that time, we didn't realize that I had depression. I had never been to a therapist. The summer going into my eighth grade year of school, I remember going to a psychologist in my hometown and taking the adolescent version of the MMPI. It was then that I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder and major depressive disorder as well as traits of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I didn't know what all of that meant at the time, and I wish someone would have started explaining it to me then.
When I entered my freshman year of high school, I began to harm myself for the first time. It was never what anyone considered "bad enough" to get the proper help and care that I needed. I was only "scratching" and "pinching" myself. It wasn't bad enough because there was no scarring. I started seeing a therapist in Beatrice. I never really got along well with her, so I eventually stopped seeing her after a few months. It wasn't until the middle to end of my sophomore year of high school that I finally started seeing a therapist I really connected with in Lincoln. We worked together to help me cope with some of the stressors and triggers I was experiencing. However, after a not so great relationship in high school, I started engaging in eating disorder behaviors. I was constantly told how "fat" and "undesirable" I was. Things such as "no one will ever love you like I do" were being thrown at me daily. However, after six months of abuse, the relationship finally ended. I tried telling my therapist at the time about what I was experiencing, but she would minimize it. Looking back, she never meant to be malicious. I just don't think she knew the seriousness of the situation. I was self-harming more regularly and also engaging in eating disorder behaviors as self-harm. I never told anyone about the eating disorder behaviors, but I wish I would have. I never thought of myself as having an eating disorder. The only eating disorder they talked about in health class was anorexia, and in order to have that, weight loss had to be a side effect. I felt so misunderstood and miserable with myself. I didn't understand all of the emotions I was experiencing and why I always seemed to feel out of control with my thoughts and urges.
High school came to a close, and I was all set to go to Nebraska Wesleyan University in the fall of 2018. I was so excited! My therapist had told me that college would be a better experience than high school. My parents told me it would be a "fresh start." They were never fond of the fact that I never stopped advocating and talking about mental health. I was told by my therapist that I would find friends who had way more in common than my small high school. I was hopeful, but I was also anxious.
I moved into college in the middle of August. I had fantasized and created a "fairytale" of what college would look like. I thought my roommate and I would become good friends and that I would make so many friends in all of my classes. However, none of that really came true. I started struggling with eating disorder behaviors and intense emotions in September. In order to keep my band scholarship, I had to have private lessons once a week. In Fairbury, we didn't learn a lot about music theory. Once I started my private lessons, I was told that my technique was wrong and that I should know all of the major and minor scales as well as be able to sight read with no problem. I was, in my opinion, treated like I was a music major or minor. I have always held very high expectations for myself, and this situation felt like I was failing. I never had time to practice outside of my lessons because I was taking 18 credit hours. I was going to major in English and secondary education at the time and was in a class where we read all of Jane Austen's novels. It was a lot of reading each night. I was simply overwhelmed and drowning in homework.
As my time in college slowly started to pass by, I started to struggle even more with my mental health. At this time, I wasn't on any medications. I was taking melatonin to try to help induce sleep, but I could never stay asleep long enough to feel well-rested. There were several times when my residential education coordinator, the staff member who was in charge of my dorm building, would come to my room because people were worried about me. Her and I kind of clashed at first. I have never liked when people told me they cared about me when they didn't even know me. I was convinced that I was an awful person and I didn't deserve to be loved or cared about.
Home has always been a toxic environment for me. My parents are not bad people, we simply just have disagreements and arguments about everything. I constantly felt that I was walking on eggshells to avoid conflict. Being home for Christmas break went well. It was only a month long, and I think the distance had done my parents and I some good. My mental health seemed to get better throughout that month because I overall had less stress and triggers around me.
However, once January hit, things seemed to go downhill quickly. Looking back, most of my mental health problems were caused by my Borderline Personality Disorder and my lack of nourishment. I was constantly getting in small fights with the girls on my floor because I would lash out on them if they would "tell on me" when I was struggling. Again, I was falling back into the belief that I didn't matter or deserve love or care. However, with my undiagnosed BPD, I was struggling with idealization and devaluation in all of my relationships. If someone did something that I didn't particularly care for, they would be the "worst" person ever. I hated them. On the other hand, when someone did something that I really liked and enjoyed, they would become my favorite person in an instant.
As the month of January turned into February, I was really attempting to stay afloat with my low mood and suicidal thoughts. The winter months have always been some of the hardest times for me. That particular winter, it was very cold, dark, and snowy for several weeks. I never got out much to see the sun or to socialize with others. Isolation is never helpful for someone who struggles with depression. That is when the disorder grabs on and sinks its claws into you. I slowly stopped doing my homework and going to class. I would always make the excuse that I was sick, but I would really just sleep all day. I was extremely weary, but no matter how much I slept, it never cured the exhaustion I was feeling.
On February 12, 2019, my floor mates were supposed to come to my room to check on me. I had switched roommates to a different girl who had a lot more in common with me than my previous roommate. However, she was always at work and would be exasperated by the time she got home. When my floor mates didn't come to check up on me, my mind went into an all-or-nothing thinking pattern. I told myself since they didn't check up on me, then no one cares about me. I was already struggling with suicidal ideation. At this time, I had a spam Instagram account that I only let select people follow. I posted a cry for help multiple times, but each time, my needs were never being met. February 12th is a day that I will remember forever. I had a ton of Excedrin PM to try to help me sleep. That day, however, I truly wanted all of the pain that I was experiencing to end. My mind continued to spew lie after lie:
"No one cares about you."
"You're better off dead."
"Why are you even trying anymore?"
"You're a waste of space."
"It will never get better."
The list goes on and on. I remember feeling myself slipping away. I got so scared because I immediately started thinking about how traumatizing it would be for whoever would find me, so I forced the pills out of my system.
I woke up the next day devastated that I had "failed." Wednesday turned into Thursday, and Thursday soon turned into Friday. I recall posting a video of my self-harm wounds and explaining what I had tried to do just a few days before. I went to bed that night thinking that no one would do anything or even pay attention to what I had posted. My roommate was in the lobby talking to her boyfriend that night. I had just started to fall asleep when I heard the door of our room open. I heard my roommate's voice along with my peer assistant's voice and a male voice that I didn't recognize. I kept my eyes closed, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach. I heard,
"Is she awake?"
I felt my roommate climb on her bed to see if I was sleeping. I heard her say,
"Yes, she's asleep."
They then asked her to wake me up. She nudged me gently and told me to wake up. I sat up and put my glasses on, and I saw my roommate, peer assistant, and the REC on call standing at the door. My PA told me that we needed to go to the hospital. I was confused. Why did I need to go to the hospital three days after the fact? I argued, explaining to them that I was fine now, that it was only a one time occurrence.
The REC on call said, "You either come with us willingly or we will call the police to escort you."
I was enraged, frustrated, and scared. I had never been to the hospital before because of a suicide attempt. I expected that they would keep me 24 hours for observation. I never called or texted my parents that I had been struggling or that I was even thinking about suicide. My poor mental health was nothing new to them, but I had never been in such a dark, low place before.
We called a cab to take us to the hospital. My roommate followed behind us in her car while the REC on call went with me in the cab. Once I arrived, I was taken into triage. I had my vitals taken and was escorted into an interview room to discuss my symptoms for admission. I was honest with them, but I did minimize it. I didn't want to be in the hospital. I didn't think I needed the help. I thought that I could just handle it and keep my struggles and emotions under control like I always had. Little did I know that I would not be talking myself out of this situation.
After talking with a nurse and a social worker, they told me I need to stay the night so they could keep an eye on my vitals and check my lab values. I was given hydroxyzine to help me sleep and blood was drawn multiple times. I slept in one of the triage rooms that night. The small dose of hydroxyzine knocked me out for hours. The next morning, I was woken up by the soft sound of a social worker's knuckles on the wooden door. I sat up slowly, the realization of the severity of the situation began to sink in. I cried to her, telling her how angry my parents would be because of how expensive the stay would be. However, I was told that if I stayed voluntarily for 72 hours, my insurance would cover the stay. The doctor recommended that I stay for at least 72 hours to get put on medication and be stabilized. I agreed to this because I was under the impression that my insurance would cover it. I knew that either way, my parents would find out about the hospital stay.
Later that afternoon, I was admitted into the affective disorders unit at Bryan West hospital in Lincoln. While I was there, I met some incredible people. I was put on four different medications to help with my mood and sleep. Starting all of the medications did not begin well. I was nauseous, beyond tired, and was experiencing chills. My blood pressure was also dropping to a dangerously low number. I was passing out every time I stood up and could barely stay conscious while sitting up. After two days, I was physically and mentally stable. I was released on Monday in the afternoon. I was picked up by a friend and was taken back to campus. I felt a little more hopeful as the week went on, but I was soon overwhelmed by the amount of homework I had missed while in my depressive episode and how far behind I was. It was only a matter of time before I was spiraling down into a very dark place once again. Later on in the week, I found out that one of my friends had attempted suicide, and that triggered another downward spiral. I had told my parents about my stay at Bryan West the previous weekend, but I was struggling with staying afloat despite my medications. However, I thought I was better. I even got a tattoo as "encouragement" to keep going. That small bit of encouragement was only temporary.
That next weekend, the REC on call checked on me numerous times. She talked to me, listened, and allowed me space and a safe place to cry and express my feelings. I felt secure enough to open up to her about things I had never really talked about before. I finally felt like I was being heard and understood.
However, once again after another difficult weekend, I started going downhill quickly. With my undetected BPD diagnosis, I was very impulsive and reckless. I struggled to keep interpersonal relationships. At the time, I was undiagnosed, but the symptoms were prevalent. I sent a very risky picture of my self-harm tools to some of the girls on the floor as well as throwing away a note apologizing for being an "awful person" in the trashcan in the floor bathroom. It was a cry for help, but I was cruel and so mean to people who only wanted to help.
Soon, I was scheduled to meet with the head of housing. I met with her and while I understand at this point in time where she was coming from, it did hurt me a lot to hear some of the things she said, especially in the fragile mindset I was in. I was told things such as, "you are just a liability at this point," "we are not here to babysit you," and "we are not a mental health facility."
All of those things are fair statements, however at the time, it felt like no one was trying to understand my mental illness. I felt as if I was being shamed for how I was reacting to the pain I was in. I have always felt extreme shame and guilt when it comes to my mental health. I never understood why I seem to always struggle while others never did.
In short, I was given an ultimatum. I could either room by myself in a different dorm building or I could medically withdraw. At the moment, I felt cornered and taken advantage of. The choice I needed to make was obvious. It was made clear to me that they didn't want to have me as a liability anymore. For that reason, I made the decision to medically withdraw. I wasn't able to go on the band tour to Chicago over spring break like I was supposed to. Once spring break was over, I went back to Nebraska Wesleyan's campus, packed my belongings, withdrew from all of my classes, and said goodbye to everyone who had impacted my life in many ways.
Soon after I withdrew from school, my therapist told me that she didn't think she could help me any further. She urged me to step up to a higher level of care. On March 28, 2019, I flew down to Houston, TX and was admitted onto the Comprehensive Psychiatric Assessment Services (CPAS) unit at the Menninger Clinic. I was beyond terrified. I had never been in a residential psychiatric facility. However, I was welcomed with open arms by a terrific staff. There was not one time that I was down there when I felt as if I wasn't cared for and listened to. My stay on CPAS was brief. It was only three weeks in order to do a full psychiatric evaluation. I had a sleep-deprived EEG and an MRI of my brain done to rule out any abnormalities. I then completed the MCMI and the MMPI to help with diagnosing personality disorders. Each day, we had groups to teach us about different coping skills and types of therapy we could try. The MHAs, better known as psych techs, would have to check on us every 15 minutes while we were awake, and every 30 while we were asleep. It was not a pleasant experience to have a flashlight shining in my face at all hours of the night to make sure I was still breathing.
After three weeks of attending the groups on the unit and being observed, I finally had my diagnostic conference. I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, bulimia nervosa, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, persistent depressive disorder, and social anxiety disorder. I also have characteristics of dependent personality disorder and paranoid personality disorder, but did not meet full criteria at that time. My psychiatrist on CPAS, an amazing, compassionate woman, recommended to my parents that I moved over to the young adult unit, Compass. My parents agreed and I soon moved over to the Compass unit to finish my stay.
While I was on the Compass unit, I also attended the full eating disorder track (EDT) as well as the trauma track. We had group every weekday from 9:00 to 5:00. Being on EDT, I ate all meals, except on Sunday, with the other individuals on EDT, We had a group only for EDT participants after breakfast and lunch. Most of these groups were centered around eating disorders. Some specific groups I remember us having were body image group and dialectical behavior therapy (DBT). I was also assigned to an individual therapist (IT). I couldn't have asked for a better woman to have been paired up with. She shared with me some personal examples of her own journey in recovery with me. She gave me so much hope. I shared things with her that I have never shared with anyone because I felt so ashamed. She helped take some of the weight of my past off of my shoulders and was happy to hold some of my story.
While I was in Houston, I created lifelong connections that I will never forget and will always cherish. I discharged from treatment in Houston on May 29, 2019 and flew back to Nebraska. I started the partial hospitalization program that next week at Bryan West. I soon found an outpatient team made up of a dietitian, nurse practitioner, and therapist. I only did two weeks of the partial hospitalization program since it wasn't really catered to my specific needs and mental illnesses.
Even though I started working with an outpatient team, I never really stayed on the path of recovery. I stopped taking all of my medications and began using self-destructive behaviors once again a few weeks after discharging. It was only a matter of months before I was hitting rock bottom. I was hospitalized once again at Bryan West after attempting suicide once more on September 20, 2019. I was released after five days, but my lab results were not great. I was started on all of my medication once more, but my liver was being damaged due to my eating disorder. When I was released, my nurse practitioner at the time ordered a Comprehensive Metabolic Panel to check my electrolytes and organ function as well as an ECG. The ECG came back abnormal. I had an abnormal rhythm as well as bradycardia, a low resting heart rate. My electrolytes were also imbalanced. My potassium was low and my glucose was high which my doctors were guessing was due to dehydration. My body was shutting down, but I didn't believe my team when they told me how serious this was because I was at a "healthy" weight. I was in denial about having an eating disorder.
My outpatient team then sat down and talked with me about some options. They highly recommended that I step up to a higher level of care due to my body declining.
After insurance ok'd me to go to treatment, I was admitted to the Laureate Eating Disorder Program in Tulsa, OK on October 15, 2019. It wasn't until I got down there and felt the emotions of having to eat meals and snacks without using behaviors that I understood the severity of my eating disorder.
The program down there was very similar to the program in Houston, however this one was solely based on treating those with eating disorders. I had an phenomenal team down there as well, filled with so much love, compassion, and knowledge. After many meals, snacks, tears, and so much screaming, I was discharged on December 31, 2019 to their transitional living program called Magnolia House. I continued with the Magnolia House program until I was discharged on February 21 of this year. I went home to Nebraska and lived with my parents for a few months. However, I knew I needed to do something that made my life seem worthwhile. I decided to start searching for a job in Lincoln. Sadly, while I was looking for a new job, the pandemic hit. I was devastated because I thought that no one would hire me because I didn't have a lot of experience working other than being a cashier for four years. After applying for several jobs, I finally got a call about an application I put in for a receptionist position at a vet clinic in Lincoln. I was so excited. I thought I completely butchered my first interview, however, I got called back for a second and third interview. I ultimately offered the position. I was thrilled and overjoyed. I found an apartment to rent and moved up to Lincoln on April 23, 2020. My first day at my new job started on April 27. Since then, I have had a few bumps in the road. I had to switch to a new therapist because my previous one didn't meet my needs, I have recently been struggling with my physical health, and am in the process of changing some psychiatric medication.
Throughout the speed bumps and potholes, I am still on the road to full recovery. That is truly something I never thought I would say. I am currently almost to my one-year mark since my last suicide attempt, and I am hitting new milestones on being behavior-free. My treatment team currently is made up of an amazing dietitian who challenges me, angers me at times, but most importantly connects and empathizes with me. My current therapist is an absolutely unbelievable individual as well who can empathize with me and keeps me headed in the right direction. My nurse practitioner is equally as outstanding. While she doesn't know much about eating disorders, she is always eager and ready to learn more about them so she can hep understand my mental health and me better. I even adopted an amazing cat named Daisy who is the sweetest girl ever. Life can be so beautiful if you allow it to be.
For those of you still reading, I want you to know this:
Life really sucks at times. It can feel so overwhelming and very painful. The world has hurt me in a lot of ways, however, I wouldn't change any of it if I was able. I believe that all of this has made me a stronger individual with so much resilience and a much better understanding of herself. If you are struggling with self-harm, an eating disorder, or any addiction, I promise you that none of that will make you feel better long-term. Yes, I will validate that it helps short-term, but you will only run back to it when your emotions come back more intense than the first time. I was put on this Earth for a reason. Maybe I am supposed to change the world or maybe I was made to merely exist. However, I do believe that I was created to help people. It might not be in the way I thought, but I do have a purpose. Hurting myself or trying to manipulate my body into being something it's not supposed to be is not what makes me happy. Living in disorder is not a way to live. For so long, my life was centered around my mental illnesses. I never made strong, authentic connections with anyone. What makes me happy and gives me determination is my friends, family, coworkers, and all of the amazing individuals I have met along this strenuous journey. I promise that this torment will not last eternally. It is temporary. Everything must come to an end, whether that be positive or negative. I am going to wrap this up here, but I want to leave you with my favorite quote. It is by a popular modern day poet named Atticus:
"She was powerful,
Not because she wasn't scared,
But because she went on so strongly,
Despite the fear."
Thank you for reading my story. You are strong, valuable, worthy, and loved. Keep fighting; it's worth it.
With all of my love,
Jordan
