post-surgery suicidality & thoughts

content warning: suicide; suicidality; depression; mental illness

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I started to write this on Monday, when I thought I could handle the pain enough to stay awake with my thoughts and feelings. I was wrong. I wrote the following before sleeping:

When I found enough energy and desire, I looked at old photos. It's a coping mechanism I've developed. Look at the past times that I felt happy as a reminder that it's attainable. This time it didn't work.

I saw the two-year transformation post of my braces journey. The last photo from this past winter screamed happiness. The center photo showed strength, from the DC adventure I feared while there and miss while I'm anywhere else. The first photo showed a girl I don't remember much.

I was looking past the camera. I was likely looking for an answer as to who thought that I could handle the emotions that were drowning my soul, crushing my hope, and sending the darkest thoughts I'd ever had into my mind. I'm sure I've mentioned it before, and I'm sure that most of you already know what "it" is.

The only frat party I ever attended ended in 21 minutes to the sound of sirens approaching at the slowest possible rate and the rattled breathing that somehow managed to escape my lungs despite holding my dead at-the-time best friend (and more) in my arms. I still remember the wetness of the grass. I still remember a roommate telling my least favorite human to leave us alone as he drunkenly, double-fisted tried to "offer" CPR. I still remember that for days weeks months the forefront of my thoughts was, "That was your fault."

Nothing leads to darker thoughts, to more hopelessness, to less of a desire to live than the death and resuscitation of the person you care for most.

Except for the realization that you can't do anything except take your children's Tylenol to dull the level 8 pain, sleep through every possible second, and feel the constant dread of your existence being supported by anybody but you.

...

This surgery (tonsillectomy) was not a surprise. I've dealt with bouts of tonsillitis, strep, and scarlet fever for 17 years. The swelling started then. Usually, with enough antibiotics and steroids, it would return to a baseline swelling--just enough to worry every person to ever look into my mouth, but not enough to bother me. Until it did.

That's what happened last month.

At the end of my time in DC (December 2017), I surprisingly contracted severe strep throat and scarlet fever. Yes, you can still get it! I don't recommend it though. Since that time, my illnesses were seemingly ever-present. What would feel like allergies one day would turn into an infection of some sort the next.

Last month, I ended up in the ER after driving to an urgent care that closed early--I had a panic attack and couldn't determine if the lack of air in my lungs was due to that or the closing of my throat (the swelling of my constantly troublesome right tonsil). It likely was both, but the ER nurses were shocked that I could breathe at all. I denied the CT scan that night, fearing the cost.

Two days later, when the medications weren't working, the nurses and the doctors at a different urgent care were just as shocked... perhaps more. They let me leave only to drive to the hospital for a CT scan. Less than 48 hours later, I met my ENT. Everything since was just time to prepare for the surgery. It was inevitable. I accepted that.

I didn't accept that my mind would go back to the darkest place--I couldn't have. Why didn't anybody think to warn me?

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I still feel the weight of those words, two evenings later, yet I feel different. I feel more content--that I have more control, more freedom. Today I took myself to get breakfast at McDonald's, and I laughed (internally--it hurts to actually laugh) when I remembered something my mom said growing up: "I know you feel better when you start to ask for McDonald's." It's still true.

I drove home, put away the clean laundry that's sat on my floor since last Wednesday, and went tanning. I cleaned my boyfriend's apartment (as a thank you for letting my depressed, healing self stay here for so long). I haven't needed to nap or use my ice packs. And now I'm finishing this. I haven't stayed awake through an entire day in a week. I'm making progress.

But don't let that fool you. Those first days were dark. They were dangerous. I spent far too much time thinking, "If I wasn't allergic to it and would suffer so much, I'd just drink the entire bottle of hydrocodone and be done with this."

"This" being life.

And that was barely any time. I slept for the most part--thankfully. But when I was awake, I felt those feelings so strongly. This is why mental health matters.

This is why I told my surgeon and my anesthesiologist and my nurses that I fight anxiety and depression. This is why I go to therapy. This is why I am open about my mental illnesses. Because it matters. Because I hope that when I bring it up, someone else realizes the gravity of it PLUS whatever else is happening. PLUS surgery. PLUS ending my job next week. PLUS an upcoming life shift. PLUS everything else that comes with life as a 22-year-old woman living one hour at a time, constantly changing and adapting.

PLUS everything else.

Don't forget that part. It's heavy.