sinisterporpoise

Note: This post is part of a writing project. It's working title is Fireside Chats with a Sinister Porpoise. I have told this story elsewhere, so I do not care if it gets read here. 2nd Draft.

A number of places offer help for people who contemplate suicide. The Trevor Project reaches out to LGBT Youth, and Dan Savage's It Gets Better Project works to reduce the statistics. I am aware of the controversy surrounding Savage, and I have been targeted by him once. Although I disagree with some of Savage's positions, I applaud him for his efforts. However, this is not his book. Discussions of mental health frequently come from people who mean well but who have no experience dealing with these illnesses. I do not wish people to think I am some role model of good mental hygiene. During dark times, I contemplated taking my life, and one time I actually tried it.

Despite the misery I felt during my junior and senior high school years, I managed to get through it. I do not recommend anyone else used my method. Sheer stubbornness and a desire not to let my tormentors win allowed me to make it through my graduation day. It took the tragedy of my adolescent, post adolescent and adult years to weigh me down. I tried to end my own life when I was in my mid-twenties. It took place the year after my mother died. I had lost my job, gone through four clutches in a six-week period, and I faced losing my apartment. I could not see any way out of the situation, except for the Zoloft bottles that rested on my dresser. Ending my life, it seemed, would solve all of my problems.

My attempts to resolve the situation failed. Losing my job had forced me to go on welfare. The $174/month welfare gives an individual did not cover my rent. I lived in public housing at the time, and if I had talked to the landlord, the situation would not have gotten out of hand. Dealing with the person face-to-face terrified me. Social anxiety disorder always made it difficult for me to deal with people in these situations.

I wrote a note and gathered and took all of the Zoloft I had. I left the note by my bedside and made sure the cats had extra food. As I went to sleep, the cats, as they always did, lay down beside my ears and purred loudly. Guilt came over me as I drifted off to sleep. The animals depended on me, and I had let them down. Leaving extra food out for them seemed like an inappropriate measure. If I achieved my goal, someone else would have to find them a new home.

Sleep came that night. Strange dreams that took the form of black and white drawings dominated the next eighteen hours. One of the dreams involved a rocket. Not one of these dreams contained deeper insight into my life or my situation as far as I can recall. If one of these dreams did have a deeper meaning, I had forgotten it long ago.

Anyone who reading this knows the attempt failed. The situation did not improve. I lost the important and someone else found the cats a new home. Even though I like cats and eventually overcame my fear of dogs, guilt prevents me from getting another pet. After getting evicted, I lived for a few days on the street. My caseworker, who learned of the situation, had me involuntarily committed. During the three weeks in the hospital, the doctors increased my Zoloft dosage and provided an incorrect diagnosis. After the hospital stay, I lived with my sister for a few years.

Living with family forced me to keep Lara hidden. I tried and failed to make it on my own again. Gender dysphoria did not contribute to the second attempt's failure. The experience taught me two things. First, I learned that I should deal with these situation as soon as they occur. Second, I learned that I overreacted to this situation. Dealing with the landlord and other support structures face-to-face would have prevented the downward spiral.