One Year Later...

Kyleigh Leist

Marketing Director

TW: Suicide

I can still remember those blinding, harsh fluorescent lights, burning into my eyes.

The taste of the revolting, nauseating god awful food, a bitter reminder of despair.

The indifferent nurse's voice echoing, "You good?" like a mocking refrain.

The suffocating pressure of the water when I shower, each drop a weight upon my body.

I can still see the vacant, hollow look in my eyes..

The taste of the bitter, metallic pills sliding down my throat, a grotesque cocktail of agony.

The relentless, mechanical hum of the machines checking my vitals, a constant reminder of my vulnerability.

The reminder that my identity was stripped from me. No personal items; just another patient.

And the unyielding, rock-hard bed beneath me, a cruel embrace of discomfort.

One year later – those memories have not shifted an inch. A year has passed since my suicide attempt and stay at a mental hospital, and here I am, still affected by the aftermath of my actions.

I agonize over the thought that I should be past this by now.

February 19th, 2023, is etched into the deepest recesses of my consciousness, an unforgettable scar that lingers within me. I can still feel the searing pain of that night, like a dagger twisting in my heart. My mind and heart were weary, exhausted from the relentless onslaught of anguish. I battled fiercely the silence that was raging within me, to release the vice grip of torment that my depression inflicted upon me daily. Depression knows no logic, no rationale. It strikes without mercy, without reason.

I can vividly recall every single conversation leading up to those fateful moments in the bathroom, each word a sharp blade etched into my memory, haunting me relentlessly.

Because of that dreadful night, what I thought were lifelong friendships have been shattered and my relationship that I thought was forever has been altered. I have felt completely debilitated. 

And that’s the most devastating part of it all. I’m having a hard time fixing something that I broke. I can’t heal my relationships because I haven’t even healed myself.

Sitting there, shattered and broken after my attempt, I felt the walls closing in around me. Each breath was a struggle, each heartbeat a painful reminder of my mortality. I was drowning, not just in the waters of my despair, but in the suffocating embrace of my own mind. Truth be told, that night stands as a monument to anguish, surpassing even the torment of my initial suicide attempt. It wasn’t planned out. It was rationalized. My life was thriving. My career was flourishing. My relationship was full of love. My friendships were strong: but my depression was as dark as a black hole. Little did I realize, the ensuing seven days in the hospital would unfurl a tapestry of distress far surpassing anything I had endured before.

Emerging from the confines of the mental hospital after my suicide attempt, I'm enveloped in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The memories of those sterile walls and the watchful eyes of the staff linger, haunting my every thought. The weight of shame and guilt sits heavy on my chest, suffocating me with its relentless grip. Stepping back into the world outside feels like navigating a minefield, each step fraught with uncertainty and fear. Simple tasks become monumental challenges, and the prospect of facing society's judgment looms ominously. The stigma surrounding someone who had to go into a mental hospital feels suffocating, isolating me further in my pain: yet true healing began there.

The PTSD from the mental hospital still claws at my mind, an insidious memory that refuses to loosen its grip. Wrapping around my mind like a vice, it squeezes the air out of me, rendering me entirely helpless against its overwhelming force.

Yet, amidst this darkness, there's a glimmer of hope—a tiny ember of resilience that refuses to be extinguished. With each passing day, I cling to the belief that healing is possible, that I am capable of overcoming this immense burden. 

The time spent in the mental hospital has shown me that it can provide the support and guidance needed for recovery. It offers a sanctuary where hope can flourish, where the journey towards healing begins. Though the road ahead may be long and arduous, I am determined to reclaim my life, knowing that with the help of the support of loved ones, my roommate in the hospital, and people who have been there, I can find solace and embrace the possibility of a brighter tomorrow.

Even though I still struggle, I've been given a second chance at life, and every day I'm dedicating myself to a journey of healing, self-discovery, and self-love. I'm reinventing myself, understanding my true worth, and fiercely fighting for my existence. This is the second time I've been saved, and I know deep down that I deserve to be here.

But let's be real—it's not a walk in the park. Some days are incredibly tough. I still wake up with moments of disbelief, wondering why I'm still here. There are nights when I question my value and purpose. Yet, despite these challenges, I keep on.

I’ll continue. Continue to try. Continue to be here. Continue to heal the wounds.

_________

Connect with someone who understands on WhiteFlag: a free, anonymous, peer support network. Now!

Your feedback matters! Share what you think.