Content Advisory:

Please be advised: The following essay contains graphic content and includes topics of self-harm, suicide, physical abuse, and sexual content which some readers may find upsetting.

Suicide is preventable and help is available. For mental health assistance please contact CAPS at 858-534-3755. Crisis services are available 24/7. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 at 800-273-8255. Text crisis services are available by texting HOME to 741741.

Dying in Spring

The day I attempted suicide was in the middle of May. I remember the flowers vibrant as ever, the trees rising to the sun and their roots stretching while the birds sang a song of love for Spring. Waking up with no motivation blurred my days together. I wasn’t completely sure I would kill myself on that day because I thought about doing it for months without following through. I had no expectations that I’d survive my attempt. But after all, the roses must bloom. Before my attempt, I spent quite some time fantasizing over my ‘coffin look’ online. I decided that my coffin would be glass and chic like Snow White’s and my funeral would be lit AF. I liked the idea of being uncovered so that my beauty could be admired, shiiit (pronounced SH-i-ET). Maybe my corpse wouldn’t decompose for months and one day, true love’s kiss would wake me up from the depths of Hell. Maybe I would end up with eight dwarfs instead of seven.

My suicidal ideation began when I was a sophomore in high school. I had a narcissist as a boyfriend, we’ll call him Captain Baboso (Mexican-Spanish slang word for idiot). He would take hold of our relationship, and never once allowed me to take charge even though we were clearly going to hit a glacier. In our high school crusade, he thought he had all the power, and at one point he kinda did. He effectively controlled for my embodiment of his values. I’d wear clothes that I knew he preferred and helped him stand out by being his big tittied girlfriend. I tried carrying myself in ways that he would approve of, but deep down to the bottom pit of my body, I knew I was not me. Being a daily extension of this boy’s livelihood was exhausting. Captain Baboso knew about my self-harming tendencies and would give me the silent treatment whenever he’d see a fresh cut then proceeded to shut me out until he had gotten over it. No conversation to be had about why I’d done it. His reaction wasn’t too far off to that of my parents.

When I’d tell my parents that I had suicidal thoughts and show them the scars on my wrist from self-harm, they assumed it was for attention. I mean… HELLO. They weren’t completely wrong. Could they just take a closer look at me and see the inner screams for help, instead of judging me for them? Like, come on now. Your child has scars on her wrist from self-inflicted cuts, not even trying to hide it from you, she locks herself in her room all day long, she comes out only to eat, and she listens to Pierce the Veil and Crystal Castles far more than the recommended dose. If those chaotic vibes didn’t already signal, “Please, I’m dying here! For the love of God, HELP ME!” Then, how in the world would I ever get to the diagnosis that I was silently struggling with severe depression?

If I was to stand a chance against the torment of my own shadow, I needed the support of the ones whom I loved the most. I felt my light fading away each day, like a candle that is slowly melting down. While I tried to keep the fire alive, the coldness of Grim Reaper creeped up behind me. I’d try to shoo that motherfucker away, but the overthinking was so persistent and loud. Depression feels like you are cornered by a mirror, and you are trying to escape who you are. Giving myself grace wasn’t a habit that existed in my world at the time.

I was fifteen years old, never had a Quinceñera. Didn’t want one anyway, I’m not with the shits, nor was I a virgin by then, so wearing a gown that represented my virginal purity and having a celebration of my devotion to uphold it until marriage would’ve been…wEiRd. I grew up in a traditional Mexican household that held dense stigmas against mental health. My dad used to tell me, “Ni llores o te voy a dar algo para que llores de verdad.” Meaning, that if I was crying over something he deemed unsubstantial, then he would give me something to really cry about. Probably a spanking or some violent strike to regulate my emotions. His version of an antidepressant. My feelings weren’t validated growing up, instead they were hidden, buried, and I simply pretended they weren’t there. At family parties, I struggled to get along with my cousins because of this. Any sudden poke at my self-esteem and I’d slowly vanish from their sight to then desperately look for a place to hide and cry. I was ashamed of being human. I didn’t know emotions; they were strangers and well, we weren’t allowed to talk to strangers.

The attempt itself involved strong pain killers left over from when I broke my pinky toe a few years back and a knife that my dad had bought me when we had gone to the swap meet. I created a playlist for my journey to the other side and the song that would usher me in was, of course, Comfortably Numb by Pink Floyd. The electric guitar welcoming the numbness of the pain killers in the most poetic way. I cleaned the knife and started to carve freedom on my wrist in the shape of a vertical line. Before I knew it, there was a pool of blood underneath me. The moment had come, and the deed was done. Just one eensie weensie problem… I didn’t hit the fucking vein! Hours had passed and I still felt alive. I was definitely not dead. I had to come out of my room to ask for help.

I remember being on the back of the paramedic’s truck. Rushing to the hospital, sirens booming throughout the neighborhood, with an oxygen tank and everything. I look to my side and see one sexy EMT cleaning my wound. I was very lightheaded and drugged the fuck out. I’m sure if angels existed, it took shape in this man. He talked to me about the value of life and about his children, while he wiped the blood off my inner thigh. It was blurry, but I think he anointed me with hope. I am also very sensitive to touch in my inner thigh area, so I got really wet. Maybe this was true love because I felt more alive than ever. Ok, but he was seriously so hot. My horny adolescence was unphased by the fact that I was going through one of the most traumatic moments of my life.

Once I got to the hospital, there were tons of med students in the room and the doctor prepping me for surgery was thrilled for my suicide attempt to be a grandiose teaching moment. That moment radically changed everything for me. My parents didn’t leave my side, and the presence of humanity in that room nourished me to my core. It was as if I was in a dream come true because I felt shamelessly exposed and relieved that my depression was no longer a secret. I survived my suicide attempt! Let me repeat that proudly once more, I SURVIVED MY SUICIDE ATTEMPT! Had I broken through the mirror that cornered me? Suddenly, I had a rush of feelings that I’d never allow myself to soak up in before. It was magical to be immersed in the healing power that community care did for me, even if I was mostly unconscious.

I wonder how different my life could have gone had I gotten out of my room more to search for community care before my attempt. I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a suicide hotline. Can you believe that?! I didn’t even try Googling anything because I didn’t even know what to look for. I had forgotten that the world was so much bigger than my family, school, and Captain Baboso. This is why mental health awareness and education cannot be procrastinated or dismissed as signs of weakness or something that’ll fix itself eventually. I never should’ve gotten to the extent of suicide to come to the wisdom of reaching out for help. No one should.

Yes, I did go to a mental institution. No, it was nowhere near as provocative as Girl, Interrupted. As the story typically goes, I wasn’t told I would be taken to this place for treatment after surgery. It was totally against my will, and I was freaking the fuck out once the nurses started rolling my wheelchair to the psychiatric unit of the hospital in a rushed manner. My parents tried to convince me that it was for my best, and as terrified and furious as I was to get there, I knew deep down it’s what I needed. The admitting physician gave me a pamphlet with information about my rights and didn’t bother to read them to me. In this pamphlet, I read that electroshock is legal if necessarily prescribed. The whole time I’m thinking, “They have me fucked up if they ever try that shit on me.” If I already started fighting to protect my own life before being admitted, then wow this may be a good sign of progress.

The first night at this place was brutal. It was in this institution that I saw her. And by her, I mean me. I inevitably exploded with emotion. I felt shame, longing, confusion, anger, guilt, disappointment. How could I do this to myself? I went into the room I was admitted to and met my roommate who was there because she was addicted to cocaine. I went into the bathroom and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I acquainted with those repressed emotions, and I sobbed for hours; my roommate stayed up all night pacing the room due to her condition but stopped a few times throughout to ask if I was okay. The grace of this stranger who was now my roommate helped me pick up the pieces. I didn’t know just how much I needed someone to check on me as compassionately as she did. A coke fiend with a heart of gold.

There was a classroom in the institution and that is where I spent most of my time. The instructor would mainly give us worksheets of algebra. I understand the therapeutic strategy behind this now. It is incredibly validating to work through equations by myself. When I’d get stuck on looking for an answer, the instructor was there to aid in the different approaches that would get me to finding my own resolve. He was also a comedian. One joke he often said when a new person would come in was “It is so hard to stay positive with all of these negative numbers.” I thought it was pure comedy every time and it has stuck me throughout the years.

Arriving back home after my treatment felt unquestionably like Dorothy waking up in bed after being in Oz, embraced by all of those who love her. I was not going to miss being lulled to sleep by the shrills of people banging their heads two doors down and hysterically screaming, “LET ME OUT!” And I was also not going to miss being forced to be a guinea pig for new antidepressants. Nor the abrupt security checks in the middle of the night shining a flashlight in my face to make sure I was still alive. I’ll admit, however, that the mental institution got me to deeply connect with others who had suffered through somewhat similar experiences as me and that was my first taste of what being in community felt like.

My family, my friends, my teachers, and even Captain Baboso were there once I came back. From that experience, I gained knowledge and a diagnosis: depression. The statement “knowledge is power” rings true. The reason why I tried to kill myself was because I wanted to alleviate the world from the burden that I felt I was. It seemed like everything I did wasn’t good enough and I honestly felt that when I was gone, I’d bring honor to the ones I loved. I was so wrong because after being intimate with all of me, the need to seek approval from anybody else wasn’t as desirable as before. I was starting to get to know myself. Loving myself and being happy with who I was despite it all is the highest honor I can bestow. Sure, I was one messy little hornball that let herself get played by Captain Baboso for years to come, but the revolution of my inner being had begun and it was chanting mind back, body back, soul back.

I navigated this new revelation throughout my teens and continue to carry it over onto my adulthood. I write this memoir in the shivers of Winter, and I won’t lie to you, I didn’t heal from one day to the next. It has taken work and commitment to be one with myself. To not escape when I get cornered with the mirror and instead, pause to find some room within me and the mirror, turn around against the wall, look back at it, and twerk it out. With distance, I reflect on the fact that I have created so much out of my life and became a part of so many loving communities. Captain Baboso and I are no longer a couple, but we co-parent a radiant little star that we call Rosita. Now that my emotions are my homies, I vow to do my best in passing that wisdom over to the next generation. I am a mother, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a student, a teacher and sooo many other things to come. I’m one to brag and fuck yeah, I’m an extraordinary human being.

I have two brothers; one is two years older than me, and the other is two years younger. Forgot to mention those divine fuckers in this short snippet of my life, but I love them dearly and I’m grateful to confidently assert that my brothers can now express themselves freely without any violent repercussion. This tragedy paved the way for us to be vulnerable and grow in ways we hadn’t known before. The process of healing from this suicide attempt not only educated me, but it taught our family about the critical importance of breaking the deadly cycle that mental health stigmas create. I may have this scar on my wrist forever, but it is my daily reminder of the battle that I fought and won. It has become a symbol of the power that I’ve gained in knowing my shadow.

Shadow work is of utmost importance, but so is the work of accepting the love that resides within me for me. This is the most challenging part, but also the most rewarding. I love myself and I accept that this is a lifelong commitment for as long as I live. Whenever I need inspiration to shy off the glimmers of depression and suicidal thoughts, I meditate on the movie Captain Philips and mentally fast forward to the part where the Somali pirate looks into the eyes of Captain Philips and says, “Look at me. I’m the captain now!” In this scenario, my highest self is the Somali pirate, and my intrusive thoughts are Captain Philips (the entire plot of the rest of the movie is irrelevant, so just don’t). The point is that my journey didn’t end at my attempt, and it will continue to unfold after this story is told too. The sails of my vessel are resilient, I would even say indestructible. We sail onwards to the grand passage of my education, and may I learn and pass on all that is offered in this lifetime on to the next. Remember this, every day is a chance for a new beginning.