by Veneranda Aguirre

Depression first hit me when I was in fourth grade. I didn’t know it was depression. People didn’t talk about it back in the 1980s. And they certainly didn’t give the diagnosis to children. But as a child with undiagnosed autism, I suffered from massive anxiety and depression that kept me up at nights, crying into my pillow out of frustration and fear.

As I grew into an adult, depression morphed into irrational anger. If I couldn’t comb my hair for a wedding, I would pick a fight with my then husband to sabotage going out. It was easier to stay home, isolated and miserable, than to have to summon energy I didn’t have to make small talk with strangers at a social event. Carrying the constant anger took a huge toll though, and the only relief came in thoughts of suicidal ideation. Eventually, through the machinations of misery and life events outside of my control, ideation became my only refuge until I lost my grip and I ended up giving in. After taking a fistful of anti-psychotics chased by a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I passed out within seconds only to wake up in a hospital intensive care unit three days later.

Depression is the singular disease that fights the evolutionary instinct to live. It resides within a malfunctioning brain. Overcome by this vicious malady, the brain relentlessly broadcasts fake news, making the insidious hate it spews inescapable. You are worthless, it says. You are weak. And, you are a burden to those around you.

As these words wash over you like never-ending waves, you can no longer distinguish between what is fact and what is cruel fiction. You begin to believe the lies, and become powerless against them as their strength grows. There comes a tipping point when you look only to end the onslaught, maybe to speed up the inevitable, and perhaps to spare all parties involved imagined protracted suffering.

Suicidal ideation is a perverse fantasy. When the particularly bad moments come, you see flashes of bright red blood spilling down your freshly cut wrists. You count the pills in your prescription bottle wondering if what you hold in your hand is a lethal dose or just enough to quell the voice in your head for a few days.

And then, one day when life is unlivable and even breathing demands more energy than you can muster, you do it. Tears streaming down your face, and with shaking hands, you act in a way that threatens your mortality but that you feel compelled to do. Yes, in that moment life loses all value and you summon all the hate in your being against your worst enemy: yourself.

The attempt, contrary to everything you’ve told yourself, brings no relief. Instead, it brings regret and panic. In your last lucid moments, you call 911 or a parent or a loved one.

You wake up, some time after the attempt in an antiseptic room angry for having survived as much as for having made the attempt in the first place. And this is when the most perverse aspect of the experience begins. Medical professions who are trained to deal with mental health and suicide will shame you.

They will tell you, in an arrogant tone, “I bet you won’t do that again.”

You respond aloud, “No, I won’t.” But silently to yourself, you continue, “Next time, I’ll make sure to get it right.”

And it’s true. Once you have made the attempt, the barrier that stands between you and a future attempt erodes. When depression returns, and invariably it does, the brain makes the leap to thoughts of suicide with direct course and warp speed.

Life after suicide is tricky to maneuver. Do you tell people? Telling them means potentially frighting them away, incurring their judgment, or subjecting yourself to their stories of how they get depressed. It’s not helpful. You are not in a position to enforce healthy boundaries or stand up for yourself. It’s a humbling time. But the inverse is just as tricky. Keeping the events of your suicide to yourself isolates you further and allows shame to pervade your mind and soul.

The only sure way to heal from this brain disorder is a combination of medicine, therapy and self-care. It’s antithetical to the depressed brain, but loving yourself— warts and all—is essential to recovery. You will never be far from depression in general and another attempt specifically, but you can learn how to respond when the self-hate comes a-calling.

For me, there were four attempts in a ten year period. Each attempt was met with vitriol and shame by medical professionals and family. To them, I was weak. My failure was met with stints in mental hospitals where no meaningful help was offered and I was treated like a criminal. The ignorance was astounding. Why couldn’t they see that I didn’t need tough love? I needed kindness. It was the one thing I couldn’t provide to myself.

My last attempt was on Christmas 2015. After 10 days in a mental ward kept at 65 degrees, on one-inch foam mattresses and eating prison food, I wanted to get the hell out of there. With renewed vigor, I got out. A close friend suggested a life coach and my psychiatrist suggested a new therapist. Between my community of experts and me, we were able to create problem-solving models, meditation practices, and a sense of self-esteem built from scratch.

I am a different person than that woman who took so many pills the doctors in the ICU told my parents that if I didn’t die, I’d have severe brain damage. I write, I perform and I travel. It is not because I have stopped feeling anxiety or depression. They are part of my make up. But I am not subject to their whims. When the bad times come, and thoughts of bloody wrists or swallowed pills reflexively come to mind, I know I have options. I know I have so much to live for. I can shut off the 24-hour news channel in my head and go out for a meal, a concert, a walk. At the end of the day, I control how the story ends.