This morning, my reflection in the mirror was atrocious: frizzy hair sticking out in all directions like beams radiating form the sun, a messy pony tail done with a blue rubber band, ears pink and flushed, glasses fogged up from the change in temperature as I stepped inside. In my head, I pretended to be my own best friend and said to myself, "I am really proud of you."
I had spent my night as an overnight volunteer at a youth homeless shelter for young adults my age, and, for the first time in a months, I felt like my life was worth something. Last year, I couldn't get out of bed to do my own laundry, but it felt like real progress that I could clean sheets, do dishes, and sweep floors in a space people my age have to call their home.
But it was far from a perfect night. A couple of hours before the shift started, I had an anxiety attack. My heart was thrusting itself against my ribcage, my chest hurt, my neck felt constrained by some invisible cord, and my legs felt weak. I was nauseous, dry heaving, tearful. I dunked my face in a bowl of ice water to activate my dive reflex. It got a bit better, but I still felt overwhelmed. I worked on a puzzle to distract myself. I played the game 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, listing 5 observations about what I could see, hear, smell, taste, and feel around me. I started listing countries from A to Z. I lay in bed and tried "riding the wave," sitting with my emotion. I imagined my sadness moving away from me on a conveyor belt. Fiddling with my fidget toy, I headed to the shelter.
At 1am, things escalated. The bins of toiletries, communal snacks, 15-minute checks, and locked doors past 11pm transported me back to the in-patient unit. I had a 4-hour break to sleep for the night, but I lay in bed feeling like my soul was being sucked out of my body. Every time I closed my eyes, I thought I was lying in the hospital bed. Every time someone opened the door to the volunteer break room and the light flooded in, it was like the staff at the hospital were shining flashlights into my bedroom every 15 minutes to make sure I was still alive. I tried paired muscle relaxation. Square breathing. I felt so stuck and so tired. I texted the crisis line. I was lucky that 2.5 hours later, I fell asleep.
I am proud of myself because I wasn't suicidal for a minute last night, despite feeling like I was in crisis and out of control. I had more control over my thoughts and actions than I thought I could ever have. My suicidal planning from before was replaced by me reminding myself of all the reasons I have chosen to stay, despite this being the thousandth time I've felt this way.
I kept whispering to myself, "your now is not your forever." And I reminded myself of things I looked forward to, convincing reasons to staying alive.
I choose to stay because of the way I feel when someone makes me laugh uncontrollably. Because it gives me a chance to find my people and for them to find me. Because of the feeling of wonder when I stepped out of the car and saw the Milky Way and learned that a bright-looking "star" on the horizon was Jupiter. Because of the "spark" from childhood I occasionally have, walking in a Buc-ee's store during my first trip to Texas, listening in awe when just four instrumentalists generated sound effects that transported me into a scene from the movie Dunkirk, and learning how astronauts used the bathroom in space. I stay because of the adrenaline I get from running across the airport, making it just barely in time for a connection. Or slipping on board the subway right when the doors are about to close. I stay for Cilantro, who meows like crazy and climbs onto me when I return home after being away for a night. I stay for the chance to convince other people to also stay, to explore the unexplored, to see the person I become.
Comments