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Writer's pictureAnonymous ReelChatter

Picking Up the Pieces

Trigger Warning: Suicide and Mental Health⚠️ This content addresses suicide, self-harm, and mental health, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. Please read with caution!

 

On a somber and overcast day in the heart of January, I made the profound choice to end my life.


At the ripe age of 20, I found myself as a college dropout, devoid of purpose and lacking any motivation. I severed ties with most of my family and friends, intentionally destroying every connection I had. I wasn't always this unhappy. I enjoyed a joyful childhood, had a lot of friends, excelled academically, and was heavily involved in sports. My senior year of high school was nearly flawless until the tragic day my father lost his life to a drunk driver.


I will always remember the day the principal came to pull me out of math class. It was a chilly day in early March. The moment I spotted my aunt, my dad’s sister, standing next to him, I sensed that something was seriously wrong. It was 1:12 p.m. when he asked me to collect my things and come with him into the hallway. Just outside classroom 102, a police officer stood and told me with the devastating news that my father had been involved in a serious car accident, struck by a drunk driver while returning home from his lunch break. The officer then took my aunt and me to the hospital, where my mother awaited us. At that moment, my father was still alive and being transported.


The ten-minute drive to the hospital stretched on endlessly. My aunt couldn't bring herself to meet my gaze, and that spoke volumes. Silence engulfed us as I focused on listening to the police scanner, my eyes shut tight. There was something oddly comforting knowing other people were having a crappy day too. I had so many questions yet could not bring myself to ask any. I contemplated praying but sensed that it was too late for that. Sadly, I was correct. My father had been pronounced dead upon arrival, only minutes before I rushed through the hospital doors.



How could I move forward without my dad? How could I continue living knowing that the person who took him from us still had their life? I wondered if he saw it coming or how badly he suffered. I was only 18, still so young, and completely unprepared for such a devastating reality. None of us were ready for this. I begged my mother to let me skip the wake and funeral, arguing that it would be too much for me to bear. I wanted to hold onto the memory of my dad as he truly was, not lying in a casket mangled, dressed in a suit he would have loathed. Despite my protests, my mom was adamant that I attend, and there I found myself facing my late father in that dreadful suit. His once strong and composed features were now swollen and heavily made up. I have to give credit to the mortuary cosmetologist and embalmer though—they worked hard to make him appear somewhat familiar—but the reality was, this wasn’t my dad. I felt a surge of anger towards my mom for opting for an open casket. It felt wrong, as if we stripped him of his identity and dignity. The burial itself was also brutal; not enough people discuss the harshness of that process. Lowering my dad six feet into the earth felt unreal, almost cinematic. That moment marked a significant turning point in my life. I’d never be the same.


I found myself trapped in a loop, replaying the moment I said goodbye to my dad for the last time:


“Have a great day at school sweetheart, and don’t forget to be kind to someone today. See ya later. Love ya!”

That day had felt like any other; he spoke the familiar words, kissed my forehead, picked up his work bag and keys, and left for the office. But this day was profoundly different and unfortunately, there would be no later.


It probably goes without saying that I struggled immensely with my dad's passing, we all did. My mom turned to therapy in the form of wine, seeking solace in her daily bottles. My sister, consumed by anger, started hanging out with the wrong crowd, often finding herself in trouble for getting into physical altercations and committing petty crimes. My aunt chose to withdraw completely, reducing herself to a frail 93 pound shadow. My grandparents lived in a state of denial, removing every picture and memento of him they could find. And then there was me. I wasn’t resorting to drinking, fighting, or starving myself, nor was I in denial. Instead, I was inside of a living nightmare. I was in a profound depression with a heavy, dark cloud following my every move.



Despite missing the last few months of senior year due to depression, I did manage to graduate from high school, though I suspect my teachers passed me out of compassion. They recognized that I was a good student who was given a rough hand of cards. I had already been accepted and enrolled in college for the fall, and although I felt no motivation or enthusiasm for it, I thought it might make my dad proud. During her rare moments of clarity, my mom encouraged me to take a year off to travel abroad. I think she understood, on some level, that I was the last hope for our family to find a semblance of normalcy. However, I felt too guilty about using my dad's life insurance money, and I worried endlessly that while I was away, my family would fall even more apart.


My first year of college was interesting, to say the least. Even though I was only an hour away from home, my mom insisted I stay on campus. I recognized that I needed to distance myself from everything, but I also realized I was far from being healed. I attempted therapy a few times during my freshman year, but I never really got anywhere with it. I tried to attend my classes, but many days, I found it impossible to step out into the shadow that had engulfed my life. I attempted to join a sorority, but that didn’t work out. I also explored other clubs and activities on campus, but I struggled to connect with most students. Thankfully I had two roommates who became like family to me, but their friendship wasn’t enough to quiet my mind. I was consumed by thoughts of my deceased dad and my fractured family back home. I felt utterly alone and completely drained. That is until I met a cute guy one night while out at a party with my roommates.


His name was Joshua, and whether you call it love at first sight or distraction at first sight, it was something special. Within just a few weeks of dating, I found myself completely captivated by him. There were several moments when I genuinely believed he could be my happy ending, my knight in shinining armor. Meeting Joshua felt like the dawn of a new chapter. I was filled with excitement and starting to feel the stirrings of happiness again. I was actually getting up and ready each morning, feeling a renewed sense of purpose in my life. I attended my lectures more consistently and even began to make some more friends. Caught up in the bliss and magic of my first love, I believed my mom and sister when I called home occasionally, and they assured me that everything was getting better. It was as if I suddenly stopped noticing my mom's slurred speech or my sister's angry tone on the other end of the line. I was in love and gave the key to my heart away to a man who I thought would be my forever.



I moved in with Joshua during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college. It felt like a natural progression in our relationship, and I wasn’t eager to return home to confront the haunting absence of my father. However, just a few weeks in, it became clear that this was a mistake. Initially, playing house was fun; we got a puppy and both found summer jobs. We partied hard on weekends, just like many college kids do. But only five weeks after the move, I started to feel sadness creeping back in. No matter how much I tried to suppress it, the deep sorrow eventually broke through. Joshua wasn’t fond of that side of me; he wanted me to be his fun, carefree sidekick who was always ready to party and fulfill his desires. His interest waned quickly when I transformed from his playful companion into someone grappling with depression.


Joshua was aware that my father had passed and understood enough about my family to see that they were struggling. He often praised me for my strength and ability to move on. But what he didn’t realize was that it was all a façade. I wasn’t strong, and I certainly hadn’t moved on. That’s when the realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I was just as unwell as my family. We were all in the same boat. I had jumped ship for what I thought was a brighter, shinier boat. I wanted to escape the pain, anguish, and heartache, to distance myself from the dysfunction and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Yet, in reality, I was just as troubled, if not more so, than the family I had been judging and left behind. Maybe I wasn’t a full-blown alcoholic. Maybe I had not developed an eating disorder. Ya know, maybe I wasn’t as angry as my sister or in as much denial as my grandparents, but I was struggling in my own ways. I was partaking in illicit drug use on the weekends. I was pulling 3 to 4 all-nighters each week, misusing Adderall to escape my feelings, since dreaming felt like losing control. Gradually, I began to distance myself from all of my family and friends, roommates included. Perhaps worst of all though, I allowed Joshua to treat me poorly which is something my dad would never have tolerated. What mattered most to Joshua was the fun version of me, the alluring side that catered to his dark and twisted fantasies. He wasn’t interested in a partnership or a relationship with any depth. For a while, I accepted that. My self-esteem wasn’t exactly at its peak. I fully consented to being treated poorly because, in truth, I felt I deserved it for deceiving him. He didn’t know the real me, and he never would.


Everything reached a breaking point when sophomore year began. Early in the first semester, Joshua and I had our most intense argument yet. That evening, when I returned home from class, I found all my belongings piled outside the apartment door. Furious, I began banging on the door so hard that my knuckles started to bleed. Eventually, Joshua opened the door, and standing next to him was my former roommate, one of the few true friends I had made in college, practically naked and draped over him. I stood frozen in the hallway, tears and mascara streaming down my face, completely at a loss for words. The silence lingered until I finally managed to whisper, "How could you?” He basically told me to grab my stuff and save my tears for my drunk mother. And that’s just what I did.


When I returned home, I decided to drop out of college without a hint of remorse. In fact, I felt nothing at all. Let me paint the picture: my mom was consuming around four bottles of wine a day, while my little sister was constantly getting into trouble. You could get your head bitten off just for asking her a question. My aunt who used to live with us was being hospitalized due to severe anorexia, and my grandparents were in their own turmoil—my grandpa had recently passed away from a stroke, and my grandma carried his ashes with her everywhere, which by the way was also a harsh reality. She hid my dad’s memory away in boxes yet carried her dead husband everywhere she went. But that’s depression for you, doesn’t always make sense. And then there was me, numb, dumb, and no longer the fun person I used to be. I hardly ever left my childhood bedroom. I had enough. It was time to take control of my situation and end this awful cycle once and for all.



And that’s exactly what I did one cold January night. I swallowed a significant amount of various pills—three handfuls, to be exact—and washed them down with some Bacardi. As I laid in my childhood bed, I waited for the deep sleep I hoped would last forever. One of the last thoughts I had was a profound sadness that this was my reality. This was truly happening. In a fleeting moment of clarity, I questioned whether I was making a mistake, if I should reach out for help or try to induce vomiting. But I was too weak and too sick to do anything other than close my eyes and pray for forgiveness for the added pain I was about to cause. And then it went black.


 

Of course we know that’s not where this story ends. Be sure to join us next Monday for the conclusion of this ReelChatter’s remarkable journey back to life. I hope we can not only support this brave young woman, but also flood her with love!


*September is National Suicide Awareness Month. If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal ideations or intent, please know there are amazing and anonymous organizations out there.


Suicide Prevention- suicidepreventionlifeline.org


Suicide hotline-

Call 998 or text 998


Please refer to ReelChat’s resource page to learn more.


1 Comment


angela
Sep 24

This is such an important topic. Thank you so much for your courage and strength in sharing your story. I , too feel the pain of falling in love for what ended up being for all of the wrong reasons, and letting our vulnerability decide our relationship choices. My takeaway is your strength. Your strength.

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