Reaching the point of the early planning stages of my suicide was a pivotal moment. I finally realized how far down the rabbit hole I was and I realized that I needed help… and soon.
Even though I was most likely weeks away from taking my own life, I couldn’t fathom a way to directly ask for help. The only thing that I could think to do was to make the decision to stop wearing a mask of being ok on the outside.
I moved a little slower. I sighed a little bit more. I smiled less frequently. I kept my eyes down to the ground. I let my hygiene falter a bit. While I was internally screaming for help, I looked more like just an angsty, teenage cast member on a CW television show, though I guess at that time it was called the WB network.
One day, in an act that should have received rave reviews on Broadway, I flopped down dramatically on the couch. Seeing me sprawled out like a pitiful jellyfish on a sandy beach, my mom finally asked if I wanted to talk to a therapist. I’m sure that she had noticed that something was off, but didn’t know what to do. I was glad that she had asked, since I had no clear way of asking for help myself. With yet another sigh, I agreed to begin seeing a therapist regularly.
I really didn’t know what to expect in therapy, but I did know one thing… If I didn’t start seeing someone soon, I may not be around much longer.
—
photo credit – pixabay