I did not know Irene, as many of you did, nor had I read her blog, through some kind of terrible oversight. I’ve read posts about her in quiet grief.
I am no stranger to effed-up brain chemistry. I can’t imagine that anyone is, in this world. Depression is a disease, and it is ruthless.
If you are in this place, please, please reach out, ok? Doing so is not weakness. It’s bravery. You are an extraordinary person, and the world needs you. Don’t let your depression tell you otherwise. Depression is a fucking liar.
There are people who are trained to help you, and who want very much to help you, if you feel you are unable to reach out to your regular support group, or if you feel like you don’t have one.
Here’s just one resource: the National Suicide Prevention Hotline. Call them at 1-800-273-TALK (8255). Please, please, please.
One thought on “Talking through it”
I think the greatest problem with both depression and admitting to feelings of suicide is the fact that in many instances, admitting to feeling this way gets you institutionalized. Which in most cases, does *not* make things better, because you are basically earning yourself the label of “crazy.” My husband's ER is one of the top ones in the state for dealing with psych cases and he sees A LOT of suicide attempts. It is a fact that the US health system does not know how to properly handle mental health problems.
My desperate attempt to get out of veterinary emergency work was initiated by finding myself at that point last year around the holidays. There is only so much death a person can handle before they fall into utter despair and hopelessness. I had been beyond the point of compassion fatigue for 3 years already, and I almost became another statistic: veterinary professionals are 4x more likely to commit suicide than the average person, and 2x more likely to commit suicide than professionals in the human medical field. Combine that with the fact that I had an injury that I thought I would never recover from, and well, there you have it.
A friend that I care about deeply happened to text me right when I was at my very darkest hour. And we started talking. And she somehow got me to laugh. And unbeknownst to her, she saved my life. I eventually got up the nerve to talk about it with my husband, who thankfully handled my confession in a constructive, caring way, and motivated me to actively start looking for a way out of the veterinary ER. Which only took 11 months (*sarcasm* -_-) but at least there was light at the end of the tunnel. For most people the solution sadly isn't that simple. I wish depression was handled in a more constructive way in this country.