Oh, the Juiciness.

In October, I tried to kill myself. 

Ever since I was diagnosed, I've been reminded by several doctors to keep my anxiety low. I have struggled with mental illness most of my life. It's almost impossible for me to go a week without a panic attack or little sleep from nightmares unless I am on medications. I have written about my depression before, but I have never talked about the nights I am up until 4 am, panicking non-stop, just trying to catch my breath.

While anxiety does not cause inflammatory bowel disease, it does exacerbate symptoms. It's a vicious cycle. Without warning, my immune system begins attacking my colon.Then I start to worry how bad my flare will be. The symptoms get worse. I panic more. I get sicker and sicker and sicker, until I'm bedridden, and calling in sick to work between panic attacks. Luckily, these past few months have been very forgiving on my guts, even if it's been hell to my mind.

Summer of 2009, a week before senior year began, I was attacked by a classmate. I was seventeen. There were no witnesses. I wouldn't contact the police, because police in that town don't care what happens to young women who are alone in the woods. I told only my close friends. After that, my anxiety skyrocketed. I began having nightmares, and I asked my doctor to stop my trazodone, which made reliving the assault every night while I slept that much more vivid. I cut worse than I had in years. Only a month after I graduated, I began bleeding every single time I had bowel movement. I started college in 2010 and I became sicker. At the end of the semester, winter of 2011, I flew out to Baltimore to meet Holden. I was sick with a mild flare. I was only going 20 or so times a day, but was mostly just fatigued.

In summer of 2011, I wound up in the hospital, because ulcerative colitis was nearly killing me and I could not hide my symptoms any longer. (Apparently, people start to notice if you need a bathroom more than forty times a day.) Because of the assault, I had became very protective of my body. I panicked for every test, every probe. I hated that I was so vulnerable. I was a fall risk, and a nurse would have to help me to the toilet. I was so weak that I could barely crawl, let alone take a few steps to the toilet. I hated that my body was exposed to strangers like that.

The doctors released me from the hospital too soon. Within 24 hours of being discharged, the pain was so horrible I seriously started considering suicide. I was tempted to go to the kitchen, get a knife, and carve my colon out of my belly. I went back to ER, complaining of pain so horrid I'd rather be dead. My admitting doc saw some old, healing cuts on my leg, and then brought me some pink forms. She told me that if I did not willingly sign the forms to be kept on a 72 hour hold, I would have to go to a judge, and it may take up to a week or two to get to see one . In the meantime, I was told that if I signed the forms, I could be out of the hospital in as little as 72 hours. I was crying and begging them to bring my mom back, but they wouldn't let her come back. Being a terrified nineteen year old girl who didn't understand what was going on, I went ahead and signed the forms. After all, I didn't want to be there for more than a week against my will.

They lied, of course. They put me back on another 72 hour hold as soon as the first was up. They put me in a psych ward, and denied me my medications for IBD. I ended up collapsing in pain on the threshold of my bedroom, begging people as they walked by to please help me up. I needed medical care, and my doctor basically told me I was a drug addict who was faking my disease. A week prior I had been told by my GI that I was going to die with or without surgery.

My dad was visiting me once during that hospital stay from hell, and as he turned to leave, I suddenly stopped breathing. My entire body began thrashing in my bed, and I had no control over my movements. My heart wouldn't slow, my breath was so hard, the room was spinning around me, I couldn't make it stop and then I heard a calm voice over the PA calling rapid response to my room and there was a woman putting a mask over my face and everyone was yelling. I couldn't stop screaming. They took my blood pressure and the my arm was so fragile from so many blood draws that the veins in the back of my right hand exploded, and my hand turned purple in a second. I was lying there, trashing and screaming for my dad. My nurse told the response team that I was in the hospital for trying to kill myself. Through gasps of breath I tried to tell them that I was suicidal from the pain and they were hurting me. My colitis hurt so bad I was considering suicide, and rather than treat the disease, they punished me for wanting to kill myself. Through heavy, scattered breaths, I reminded them that I was coerced into signing a 72 hour hold, and I was suicidal because I had an incurable disease that was so painful, I didn't see the point in living. That didn't score points with anyone, but at least I was using a voice even in the midst of the worst panic attack of my life.

But in October, why did I feel so suicidal? It's been years since I was assaulted. It's been over two years since I was in the hospital. Why can't I just heal? Why can't I just get over everything that has happened to me and live like a normal human being? Why do I continue to have panic attacks at the smell of saline when my IVs are flushed? Why do I tremble in waiting rooms? Why do I wake from nightmares, my bed soaked with sweat, because I'm either dreaming about the assault or about being held against my will in a hospital that was denying me medical care?

I felt indifferent after I woke from my suicide attempt in October. I pushed aside empty bottles of prescription pills and the bottle of vodka I chased it down with. I could barely walk, but I went to work. I went home early, and was sick for three days, woozy and lightheaded, my body like jelly. I was too disappointed with my failure to try again. I beat myself up for not getting something so easy to do wrong. I really didn't like the unpleasantness of failed poisoning, but really, what's the point of living if you're too afraid to even sleep? I decided that next time, I would not survive an attempt. I would just do it.

In December, in an effort to save relationships that were falling apart in my personal life, I agreed to get help. I went to an adult partial hospital, and for a month, I worked hard in therapy. I struggled. I self injured some days, and kept to myself. I made it clear to the therapists that I didn't trust them. They treated me with respect. They understood that my chronic illness and my mental health are two separate things that sometimes affect one another. I was not the crazy cutter who has chronic suicidal thoughts, but a human being who was hurting. Slowly, I was willing to start "talking about talking about things".

It's February now. I'm not well, but I'm not terrible. I feel freer than I have in a long time. I can breathe easier. I still have panic attacks. I know I won't be better for a long time. I'm okay with that. I know that I don't need to heal this instant to have a full and rewarding life. To be honest, I don't really know what to do with life. I've been suicidal since I was ten years old. My spirit is still bruised more than my body after the assault. I don't trust authority figures. I struggle not to panic when I am alone with a man at a street corner, or in a vault at work. Even if it's just for a short amount of time, I am always planning an escape. I hardly ever see doctors anymore because they have failed me. I only trust my GI  in the medical world, but even then, I only trust him a little. What if he too,decides that I need to be held in a psychiatric ward without proper medical attention?

This isn't life. I don't want to survive trapped in my own mind. I just don't know if I really want to love life, either. Maybe someday I will want to embrace life, but for now, I'm very comfortable in my hidey-hole as long as my ulcerative colitis stays in remission and I don't need medical attention.