#lismentalhealth Guest Post – Which tools; why build

The following is a guest post for #lismentalhealth week 2016. The author wishes to remain anonymous. If you have a long-form text piece that you would like me to post either anonymously or with attribution, please contact me at b dot yoose [at] gmail. Another option is to post at http://lismentalhealth.tumblr.com/.

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“According to the 2008 National Survey on Drug Use and Health3, in the US there were 8.3m adults who had serious thoughts of committing suicide, and 2.3m who had actually made plans to commit to suicide. Of those, 1.1m actually attempted suicide, but only just over 33,000 succeeded. Which would make the ratio of failure to success 33 to 1.”  http://lostallhope.com/suicide-statistics

Statistics are why I’m alive, and why I will remain alive. When I’m in a particularly bad spot, I read and re-read those statistics. I am not a person who does something where the odds are so clearly stacked against me.

My high-school journals are filled with various iterations of “I want to die.” When I was in high school, depression in teens was mostly written off as hormonal adolescent angst.

When I was 18, I took an entire bottle of Nuprin. I’m showing my age here; these haven’t been sold in years. They were tiny – their tagline was “Little. Yellow. Different” – and I have a hard time swallowing pills. I’m still alive, so they were little, yellow, and not especially toxic in the quantity in which I took them; I passed out for a few hours of the blackest, most dreamless sleep I have ever had, and woke up with a headache.

I have not made another attempt since, unless occasionally gazing longingly at tall structures counts (best to be above 6 stories for lethality). The fencing alongside overpasses in NYC, with their tiny holes and their inward curves that make them impossible to climb, are probably there for people like me.

I have anxiety disorder, depressive episodes, a mother who shut herself into the apartment for years only leaving it to go into the nursing home in which she died and thus a family history of mental illness. I fight every day to not become my mother. I have a therapist and SSRIs. I have a good life that I’ve made for myself; good friends; a decent amount of professional success; moments of absolute delight amidst the “meh.”

And I still read the statistics.

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