Chapter 2 -The Almost End
Thirty-two years ago, at the age of 17, I had a plan. I would die.
I had been living away from home, a teen runaway, on and off for the past few years. The first time I decided to run away from home, making the decision was difficult. The next four times were much easier. Each time I left home I would return home a few months later, desperate to achieve a normal teenage life. But the raging explosions that came from my father, the threat of his fists and the oppressive rules of a conservative Indian home chased me right back out.
At one point, after runaway attempt number 3, I stood up to my father and told him that if he ever laid a hand on me or my sibling again, I would go right to the police. I remember his astonishment, tinged with fury as he screamed "you wouldn't do that!" I responded decisively with "yes I would!" And I convinced him, because he never laid a hand on us again. But it didn't help quell my anxiety. Nor did it quell his words.
I was still a prostitute, drug addict and devil possessed banshee, as far as he could see. Quite an achievement for a girl who hadn't even kissed a boy or ever seen drugs. And then there was the fact that every night I would lock my bedroom door but then watch the door knob to see if he would come in. I'm not sure where the fear came from. But it was there. It was enough to make me leave again and again.
I had certain rules for my runaway attempts. I called my mother and sibling each day to let them know that I was alive. I learned to keep the phone conversation short because I knew they had a tracer on the phone. If I hung up quickly enough they could not trace my location. With a knack for making friends quickly, I never slept on the streets. Instead, I jumped from one new friend’s house to the next. I had gotten used to staying in each home for a few days, with no certainty as to what the next day would bring. Somehow I was not kicked out of high school, though I was failing every class. On the occasions I would show up again after a long absence, the teachers would just remark with surprise "oh, you are here!"
And then one day, during my fifth runaway stint, when I had been gone for 4 months, I felt done. Something made me snap and I made the decision that it was time for my life to end. I had thought about this day for so long and it never felt like it would materialize. But this time, it would. On the day I finalized this decision, I was standing in a snug kitchen with a friend whose family had taken pity on me and let me live in their house for a few days. The house was small but cozy, the ceilings were low and my friend was tall. She looked like a tall beautiful green-eyed giant as she huddled over the stove, stirring a pot of pudding she was making from scratch.
Her energy was as warm as the kitchen had become from the burning stove. I listened to her explain her recipe with genuine interest and enthusiasm, just as I simultaneously started making a mental note that I should go back to my parents’ house. It didn’t seem right to saddle this benevolent family who had taken me in with having to find my dead body. “That honor may as well go to my parents,” I thought. In that moment, I didn't think too far past that decision.
The thing about mental illness is that...the person is ill. People without mental illness don't get that. Through the years I listened to people criticize suicide attempts, asking questions like "how could they be so selfish?" or "they had everything!" But they were missing the point. A suicidal person's brain is so ill that it doesn’t work correctly and doesn't think the same way as a healthy brain. Right then, my brain said “you are in pain and you can end it.” I did not think about the fact that my younger sibling would also have to deal with my dead body. I didn't think about the future, or hope, or anything other than wanting to end the pain.
Soaking in the warm smell of vanilla emanating from the stove, I embraced the peace that came with knowing the pain would soon end. I walked up next to my friend and huddled over the stove with her, looking like a frail wisp of a human next to her stately frame. I had never made it past being 5 feet tall. I smiled at her as we watched the golden pudding mixture thickening on the stove. She did not know I had made the decision to die. She only knew that I was hungry for homemade vanilla pudding. If you had asked her how I was at that moment, she would have said "she seems fine."
The pharmaceutical adds get it all wrong with their depiction of depressed people laying sullenly in bed, in frumpy clothing and unkempt hair. Then, bring in the American Psychiatric magic! The ratty depressed person would take a medication, and voila! Everything was fixed! Now they could frolic in fields with puppies and smile at their families again! But it wasn’t a good depiction of a high functioning depressed person like myself.
Even at my worst, I was dressed to a hilt and had a smile on my face. To me, these were fundamental components of my psychological armor to keep everyone else at bay. Why give anyone cause to think that they needed to enter my brain? Also, depressed or not, I was a hedonist, enjoying what I found pleasurable. In that moment, eating homemade vanilla pudding was pleasurable, and I did just that, sitting at the small dining room table, smiling, looking well put together and taking small bites of the pudding before it had properly cooled down.
The next morning, I returned home. My parents didn’t even blink. I had left home so many times and then returned that it had become common place. This time I had been gone for longer than any of the previous times, and walking into my home felt like entering a surreal fictional place that only existed in my memory.
The day after returning to my parent’s home as the diabolical daughter of shame, I sat on our scratchy green couch in our living room we had owned since I was born. Worn, unsightly and the color of Oscar the grouch, the 1970s relic had been dragged by my parents to the suburbs from our small apartment in Chicago. My dad could not bear to throw anything away.
I planned carefully. My mom's medicine closet was a gruesome candy store, filled with barbiturates and amphetamines. She had recently had surgery for a brain hemorrhage and had a buffet of potent prescription medications. I read the medication package inserts of the most formidable medications and did some calculations to work out the perfect recipe for a lethal dose. I thought about how I could take all the medications and then lie down on that awful scratchy living room sofa where I always napped. I knew my parents would think I was taking a nap and wouldn't disturb me for at least 24 hours, giving me a chance to die without interruption.
I had thought about this moment my entire life. I hadn’t wanted to be alive for as long as I could remember, and I was finally getting my exit. The relief. The pain was going to end. I felt at peace with my decision. I started rhythmically consuming one pill after another. Taking the first pill was mentally hard. But once I took the first pill, taking a second came easily. So did the third, and eventually the 44th. At least that was the number of pills they told me they had retrieved from my body when I finally woke up in the intensive care unit.
There were so many things I didn’t think about that day. The profound impact my demise would have on my younger sibling. I didn’t think about the grief that would consume my friends upon learning of my death. I didn't think about my cousins who loved me and knew how difficult my home life was and just how devastated they would be. The weight of my parents' emotions did not cross my mind, since in my mind, they harbored no affection for me, as far as I knew. I definitely didn't think about the possibility of a brighter future in adulthood, though I was merely 17. When you have never seen light, how exactly are you supposed to recognize a light at the end of the tunnel?
After ingesting every pill I could gather from the second floor medicine cabinet, I descended down the carpeted stairs to the sunny living room that looked out onto the mundane streets of the suburbs, laid down, and settled my face onto the abrasive fabric that scraped at my delicate cheek as I prepared to embrace my imminent end. I was drifting towards oblivion, but there was no peace. I was starting to feel the faint hints of nausea from the excess of pills and my hands were shaking. An uncomfortable cloud of panic lurked over my head. Then, the shrill ring of the phone pierced the air. It was the olive-green rotatory dial phone, rivaling the sofa in putrid color. I am not sure why I chose to answer. There was no caller ID in those days and I had no idea who was on the other end of that call.
On the other end was the police social worker who had been actively involved with my family. His role in the police department was to work with troubled teens and their families. As a girl who was always running away from home, I fell under ‘troubled teen.’ With an iron will, I summoned my mental strength, ensuring that no trace of my chemical alteration could be detected by him. This innate ability to hide my mental state would accompany me into adulthood, empowering me to remain composed in any circumstance that arose. It would allow me to remain externally calm in the worst of disasters.
Straining to maintain an even tone and trying to steady my shaking hand that held the phone receiver, I asked, "Oh, were you looking to speak with my parents?" His characteristically gentle and concerned voice responded, "no, I simply wanted to check on how you were doing." Though my consciousness was quickly waning, I assured him that I was fine, sensing my grip on awareness slipping away. The drugs were working. Ignoring the wave of queasiness that surged through my stomach, I clutched the receiver of the phone with trembling hands and thanked him.
I hung up the phone and laid my head back down on the scratchy sofa. I was starting to disappear into nothingness, but I could still feel the coarseness of the awful sofa fabric on my face. But something changed in my brain. I was no longer at peace with dying. I was touched. This man had called for no reason other than to just care about me? My final cogent thought prior to succumbing to the void of unconsciousness was a plea to God, whom I did fervently believe in. "God, I've changed my mind. I don’t want to die." And then I was out.