What Happened After I Didn’t Die
By: Jen Kim
Tags: Womens Health, Depression, Anxiety, Asian American, Mental Health

It is really hard once you tell someone you’ve decided to not kill yourself. Because then you have to follow through on a bunch of things, including not kill yourself.

I will rewind.

Depression and anxiety have been my north and south, long before I realized what mental illness was, let alone that I was wired that way. In my early twenties, I sought help. I tried and tried and tried — every permutation of medication and type of therapist as I moved from one country, city, and state to another. I fell in love, got married, had a baby, bought a house, adopted cats, got a dog, lost my father…through it all, I had the support of my friends and husband. I work hard. I like to read and drink wine; I usually say that the most athletic thing I’ve ever done is give birth. I cook and I am transfixed by pretty gross things. I have a sense of humor that rivals a 12 year old. To date, the highs in my life weren’t especially grandiose — trips abroad to Guatemala, Amsterdam — and the lows weren’t terribly awful — I didn’t get the negotiated salary, squabbling about unloading the dishwasher. By far, the worst thing that had ever happened was the death of my father in 2018.

My point is that I really thought I was ok. But I wasn’t. The reason I am writing my deeply personal story is multifold. My sense of urgency to share this is because I am still so ashamed of what happened just 5 weeks ago, even though with my public health background and career in the social service sector, I know mental health stigma keeps people like me and like you in the shadows. I know rationally that what I went through (and am still dealing with) is not shameful, but the fact that I feel the bright burn of stigma means I have internalized it. Another reason is I want to add my voice to the collection of others who have spoken out about this. Maybe you are like me, an Asian-American, middle-aged woman who is high-functioning but wanting to die and you want to know what it’s like on the other side. I don’t know. But I don’t hear from women like me very often. So here I am. I also want to touch briefly on how terrifying our options are in this country for mental health services, particularly for those with in-patient needs.

One of the greatest sources of frustration was that although my psychiatrist and I figured out the right medication to capture my depression, we could never quite find the right medication to address my anxiety. Part of it was because of the complex PTSD and trauma I carry with me, part of it is just how my brain chemistry works. It’s the chemistry that she and I wanted to address while I worked with another practitioner on figuring out how to unburden a lifetime’s worth of trauma. (I’ll jump in here and say that this is all very expensive and the majority of the really skilled practitioners don’t accept insurance because they don’t have to deal with what I am sure is medieval administrative torture since they have patients upon patients willing to pay premium prices.) My doctor and I decided to try a new medicine to see if one pill would take care of depression and anxiety, knowing we could always come back to the one that worked on my depression in case Plan A didn’t work. It did not work.

I don’t find the suicide details necessary to share, because the salient point is that in the past I have just wished I would dematerialize or not wake up. This was the first time I had a plan, from start to finish, to kill myself. I had a moment of clarity. I was in deep and for the first time, I couldn’t see myself clawing out of the darkness. I had a panic attack so severe that I nearly crashed the car (which, in hindsight would have been ironic; I can also see how the timing of dark humor is probably not optimal.) I called my psychiatrist and my therapist, sobbing for help. I had never felt like this before. I had just dropped off my daughter for a playdate during my lunch hour, and had meetings stacked for the rest of the afternoon. I had to finish performance evaluations for staff, get a draft outline prepared for our annual report, schedule my mammogram, um what else. Oh! The board meeting was coming up and I had to pull together the program report and shoot, our grant reports were also due in two weeks. Just do it. It’s time. Let’s just get this over with. Aren’t you tired? It will be easier for everyone in the long run. Let’s just go.

I never cried as hard as I did when I made the decision to voluntarily check myself into the local emergency room so that they could process me and then refer me to their affiliated psychiatric hospital. Before I left for the ER, after I spoke with my therapist and psychiatrist again, and after they both told me what to expect, my best friend stood in the bedroom as I took a shower. My husband and she packed a bag for me. I was numb. My husband sat for hours with me in the ER, and then drove me over to the psychiatric hospital. I hated it there. It had been nearly 12 hours from the time I lost it to the time I was shown to my new bed at the hospital. There was a nurse who did a top to toe body examination (for any markings, tattoos, scars, etc.) while another nurse observed. The beds had no blankets, the room had no doors. The lights were on in the hallway. Every 15 minutes someone would check in on you (to make sure you were alive.) Every two hours there was another vitals check of some sort. I had a roommate who talked nonstop.

In the morning, I did an intake with a doctor, a medical student, and a psychiatrist who was so haughty and condescending, I had to explain that the reason my face was twisted up was because that was my angry face. Yes, I felt angry and I often frown and purse my mouth when I am indeed angry. However, looking at these three men, I had the sudden realization that although I could voluntarily check myself out because I had voluntarily checked myself in, compliance was key. In a place like this, the more you acquiesce and the smaller you make yourself, your odds of getting out increase. You are more likely to get better treatment if you just don’t make a fuss. And I was starting to make a fuss. They completely pulled me off all of my medications, including my thyroid and hormone replacement therapy, and I felt very off. I kept asking what their plan was. I felt buzzy and uncoordinated. What I wish we had in this country is like a Canyon Ranch-type spa that took Blue Cross and had an on-site therapist. If you are critically ill, have attempted suicide multiple times and/or have never had mental health treatment before, a psychiatric hospital can be helpful. But if you are like me, and need help and a softer landing spot…well, there really isn’t a place for us unless you have deep pockets.

The hospital psychiatrist and I agreed that this was not the place for me. It was highly distressing (for a number of reasons, and reasons that I am sure only heighten other patients’ illnesses, like randomly bringing you part of care packages that loved ones drop off for you, or not relaying phone calls from friends or relatives) and I was going to have better outcomes working with my care team at home as long as I was safe. He wished me luck, and I waited to go home. I saw my husband pull up in our car and felt relief, remorse, and a rush of love.

We told a light version to our young daughter of why I had been in the hospital for two days. Something about how I had a bad reaction to my medicine, which essentially was true. I held her little sparrow arms and squeezed her tight. I had been so close. What had I been thinking?

I chose to tell a few of my closest friends. It was hard and very strange. There’s no natural opening for that kind of conversation. I answered old texts once I had my phone back again. “Hey! So sorry I am just getting back to you! Why don’t we get together next week? Maybe with the kids? Hope you’re having a great weekend!” I did not tell my biological family. For the next week, I was unable to care for myself simply because my body just shut down and I slept. Because my mother-in-law was visiting (another uncomfortable situation where the whole truth was withheld), I would escape to my best friend’s house for a measure of peace. She would bring me a cooler of drinks and leave me a tray of food and let me rest. Soon I was able to replicate that at home, to some degree. I started intensive therapy and EMDR therapy four times a week. I took medical leave of absence from work. I went back on my trusty anti-depressant and started a new medication for anxiety, which I am hoping will work.

I am meditating the fuck out of meditation. I have to take a class on how to breathe because in my 43 years, I apparently did not learn how to breathe properly. EMDR has healed some wounds and cracked open unknown ravines of grief. Some of it has been so acute, I needed an outlet for the emotional pain and to my dismay, I wanted to cut myself. Backward two steps. But visions of that psychiatric hospital were front and center and I worked on a harm reduction plan with my care team. I am working on walking through the fire.

This still isn’t easy. Some days are better than others. Some hours are harder than others. I get it though. It’s embarrassing and hard to reach out for help. I get how easy it is to just want to opt out. I hope you don’t. I hope you know that life is really hard and there are a lot of dumb therapists and psychiatrists out there, but there are also some amazing ones. Your family is also the people who choose you, and no matter who you are, someone is out there actively choosing you. You might not think so, but I will bet my stubborn ass that I can find you one person who chooses you, and that alone is enough to keep slogging through.

I fully accept that I am wired differently, and it is entirely possible that I will need to rely on medications for mental health wellness for the rest of my life. But the right medicines will keep me alive.

Before I sign off, if I know you and you are reading this, there is no way you could have known. You could not have seen it coming, or stopped this. I don’t know if it will ever happen again. I hope not and I don’t think so, but life is really strange and I can’t make promises like that anymore. What I can promise is that I am working hard on staying healthy, and I won’t ever stop trying.