August 18, 2010
Memory can be a very peculiar thing. I can’t remember my first real kiss. I can’t recall the texture of the paper of my diploma when I graduated from high school. I can’t remember the anticipation I must have felt when I got married. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast on March 13, 2008. I can’t remember driving off that night. I can’t remember jumping the curb. I can’t remember the crunch of the glass cracking. I can’t remember the dash board splitting open and smashing me into driver side door. I can’t remember exactly when I lost control, but I remember the relief washing over me and the sound of my own laughter that night as I slipped away. I remember my last thoughts as I slipped into oblivion, unable to remember the last time life felt a rightness that compared with that one moment. I remember next waking up to strangers hovering above me speaking in hushed tones as they adjusted tubes and checked machines. I strained and clawed at the neck brace feeling trapped by its cold plastic embrace. The feeling of peace was gone, shattered in the florescent glare of the task lamps and surgical steel. As my eyes came back to focus the peace was replaced with numbness as I saw my life laid out in blue marker on a white board—28 year old divorced female, 3 kids-not in home, BAC .3, previous suicide attempts reported.
Had I really just woken up…living? Disappointment washed over me, quickly followed by an embarrassment that stole my breath. Everyone would know this time. There is no way I would be able to pretend I was whole after the hospital called my family. All the respect I worked so hard to build at work was going to sweep out underneath me with the first cup of coffee in the break room. I was certain that some how “Suicidal Freak” was going to be invisibly tattooed on my forehead scaring away anyone normal. Panic choked me, until, that is, the police officer standing by the door walked over to place the copy of my DUI ticket and court summons in my hand. I wanted to kiss him despite the pained look in his eyes. He had just handed me my out. The wreck was going to be a DUI accident from that moment forward. Most of the people I knew had driven when they should probably not have at some time in their lives. They would be able to forgive a DUI, and it’s not like I was going to make the same mistake a fifth time, right?
Two full years have passed since that last uncompleted attempt. Most people in my life now have long forgotten the storm behind my smile, but it’s still brewing. It waits under a surface that’s ready to crack under the pressure of not only my own bubbling mess of thoughts but also of watching my father’s PTSD push him toward the edges of a road I’ve walked alone for as long as I can remember. Well not alone per se. According to the Center for Disease Control statistics, 34,598 Americans died as a result of suicide/self-inflicted injuries making it the 11th leading cause of death in the country in 2007, and an estimated 594,000 emergency room visits were due to self inflicted injuries.1 I assure you the total number of attempts is much higher, after all it took me till my fourth attempt to be carted into an emergency room.
So I’ve decided this time will be different. I’ve decided this time I will not crack. I’ve decided this time I will not give up. This time I'm going to remind myself every day that there is something more than the hopelessness and doubt that fills my mind. This is my book of blessings, designed to help me find my own path back to strength.
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1. www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/suicide.htm
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