The Weekend I Checked Out of Life - JULY 17 2013

 July 17, 2013

I learned there is a fine line between choosing to live and choosing not to. There is no picture or painting to show what that wall is made of. No sign on the road tells you when you’re approaching it. There’s no detour. No helpful instructions from a friend. No stop sign. No warning that says, “You are about to crash into the wall.”

You just hit it.

I hit mine hard. I spent my 4th of July weekend in a psychiatric hospital. I didn’t try to harm myself. I didn’t swallow pills or cut myself or attempt to jump. But I mentally and emotionally checked out. I laid in bed all day in a dark room. My roommate asked if I was okay, and I said no.

I had called my mom and asked if she could help me check into a facility. Not because I wanted to die—but because I didn’t want to live either.

There’s a difference.

People think suicide is just about ending pain. That may be true for some, but for others, it’s about not knowing how to live. I didn’t know how to live. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want to get dressed. I didn’t want to go to work. I didn’t want to be a mom. I didn’t want to be anything.

So I went in.

The intake nurse asked why I was there, and I couldn’t give her a good answer. I just cried. I cried so much. I kept thinking of the man I had recently broken up with. I missed him. I missed my job. I missed my old life. I missed having answers. I missed feeling happy. I missed feeling like I mattered. I felt like no one needed me. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

The psych ward was quiet and clean. The nurses were kind. The food was… fine. I wasn’t locked in, but I couldn’t leave without approval. I didn’t have my phone. No clocks. No internet. Just me and my thoughts.

And God.

I prayed more that weekend than I had in the last five years.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I cried again. But something felt slightly different.

One of the other patients came over and sat by me. She said, “You have the kindest eyes. I don’t know why you’re here, but I can tell you’re strong.”

She doesn’t know it, but that moment saved my life.

That day, I began to talk. I participated in group therapy. I listened when others shared their pain. And I began to realize that I wasn’t alone.

Not even close.

Everyone there had a story. Most had tried to take their own life. Many had no one left to call. But all of them shared something in common—they just wanted love. They wanted peace. They wanted to be free of shame.

By the time I left, the doctor told me I was progressing well and could return home.

The days that followed weren’t easy, but they were better. And now? I’m still not where I want to be. I still struggle with depression. I still have dark days. But I’ve never had a drink. Never smoked. Never used drugs.

Love was always my drug. And my boyfriend in my pocket was my dealer.

So now, when I feel myself slipping, I call a friend. I go for a walk. I cry, and I pray. I forgive people who’ve hurt me. I forgive myself. I remind myself that love is not a weakness. Love is not failure.

If you’ve ever broken down or checked out—please don’t be ashamed. You are not broken. You are healing.

And if no one else tells you today: You are loved.

You are worth saving.

And you are not alone.