This is kind of a gush, but I'm happy and I want to talk about it:
I'm here tonight to say to anyone who's down, depressed, and/or hopeless: contrary to what I once believed, it really does get better.
But it doesn't get better on its own; it takes a special kind of hard work, the willingness to work hard on yourself.
I'm feeling like I'm on the end of a long road to recovery. Last November, I made a serious, bloody, and near-successful suicide attempt. I cut myself all over my body and had passed out from blood loss by the time the paramedics arrived. Because of the scars, I'll never forget, but more than a year later I'm in a totally different place.
After the attempt, I was involuntarily committed, and the psychiatrists there did more damage than good. Still, I was determined to get better, even though I was depressed and could only think about getting out so I could try again. But a volunteer promised me that things would get better if I was willing to work on myself, so I took any lesson I could from the group therapy there and spent much time in deep introspection. After I was out, the real healing began.
My doctor, a good doctor, took me off the bastardly amounts of antipsychotics the hospital had put me on. That was a big deal, antipsychotics are horrible demon drugs that block your dopamine channels and make you more depressed than ever.
Next came the research. I looked everywhere for answers; I left no stone unturned. I read all the posts and all the replies on AC about every topic, picking up nuggets of insight as I went. Wikipedia, as disreputable as it may be, was a good source of information about general topics related to psychology. Then there was Google; anything you could possibly wonder can be answered by Google.
Point is, I learned. I learned about myself. I learned to be honest with my feelings, that a real man is secure enough in his masculinity to address his emotions. I learned techniques to reduce anxiety and depression, I learned acceptance of my faults, and I learned that it's okay to be less than perfect.
Finally, I have my parents to thank. In the hospital, my mother hugged me and told me she loved me for the first time. My dad's support through this whole ordeal has been unyielding. He never had one single word of criticism.
And here we are today. My boss called last night and asked me to come in for my first day today. My first day back to full-time work in over a year, and I'm just so happy because it spells the end of an era for me; the end of my recovery from near-death.
In just over a year, I went from sincerely desiring death to a point where I'm legitimately happy and appreciating every moment of life; not just coasting, not just merely content, but actually happy.
So the moral of the story: work on yourself, and work hard, and I promise that it does get better. I'm still-living proof
I'm here tonight to say to anyone who's down, depressed, and/or hopeless: contrary to what I once believed, it really does get better.
But it doesn't get better on its own; it takes a special kind of hard work, the willingness to work hard on yourself.
I'm feeling like I'm on the end of a long road to recovery. Last November, I made a serious, bloody, and near-successful suicide attempt. I cut myself all over my body and had passed out from blood loss by the time the paramedics arrived. Because of the scars, I'll never forget, but more than a year later I'm in a totally different place.
After the attempt, I was involuntarily committed, and the psychiatrists there did more damage than good. Still, I was determined to get better, even though I was depressed and could only think about getting out so I could try again. But a volunteer promised me that things would get better if I was willing to work on myself, so I took any lesson I could from the group therapy there and spent much time in deep introspection. After I was out, the real healing began.
My doctor, a good doctor, took me off the bastardly amounts of antipsychotics the hospital had put me on. That was a big deal, antipsychotics are horrible demon drugs that block your dopamine channels and make you more depressed than ever.
Next came the research. I looked everywhere for answers; I left no stone unturned. I read all the posts and all the replies on AC about every topic, picking up nuggets of insight as I went. Wikipedia, as disreputable as it may be, was a good source of information about general topics related to psychology. Then there was Google; anything you could possibly wonder can be answered by Google.
Point is, I learned. I learned about myself. I learned to be honest with my feelings, that a real man is secure enough in his masculinity to address his emotions. I learned techniques to reduce anxiety and depression, I learned acceptance of my faults, and I learned that it's okay to be less than perfect.
Finally, I have my parents to thank. In the hospital, my mother hugged me and told me she loved me for the first time. My dad's support through this whole ordeal has been unyielding. He never had one single word of criticism.
And here we are today. My boss called last night and asked me to come in for my first day today. My first day back to full-time work in over a year, and I'm just so happy because it spells the end of an era for me; the end of my recovery from near-death.
In just over a year, I went from sincerely desiring death to a point where I'm legitimately happy and appreciating every moment of life; not just coasting, not just merely content, but actually happy.
So the moral of the story: work on yourself, and work hard, and I promise that it does get better. I'm still-living proof
