Love is the Answer: My Second Chance at Life

My life hasn’t been easy. You see, I should have been dead a long time ago. As Langston Hughes says, “My life has not been a crystal stair.”

I was an outwardly happy teenager. Inside, I was very depressed and broken. I am not entirely sure why. I had some trauma in my life, but only God knows for sure. I was approximately seven when I noticed that I was not like the other kids. I was always playing by myself.

The earliest memory that I have is sitting on the highest pull-up bar looking down at the other kids playing with each other on the playground at recess. I wanted a friend of my own. I was lonely, something that I still struggle with as an adult. I could be in a room full of people and still be lonely.

Everyone liked me but no one wanted to be around me.

Many people took my shy nature and lack of speech as standoffishness. I actually was very nice to others, unless I was angry. I was often called weird, retarded, and other “nice” words. No one likes anything quirky or different.

The good times, for me, were spent wondering when the other shoe of anxiety, deepening depression, and sadness would drop. I had constant anxiety that consisted of shaking legs and constant stomach issues. Sadly, the best time of my childhood was in middle school.

Mental health and discussing that there might be a problem with it was taboo in my house. Any sign of “weakness” was met with “get over it” or “you need to get stronger.”

Little did I know that I was stronger than I thought.

Outwardly, I appeared happy, sweet, and kind. But inside, I fought a battle no one knew about or didn’t care to know. In addition to anxiety and severe depression, I was angry a lot. My pets suffered the most because, like me, they couldn’t talk and ask for help. Sometimes it extended to other people. When I was eight, I went into a rage and almost strangled my little sister to death. Mama had to get me off of her. Until I was twelve, I had no problem biting other kids, especially my sister. I stopped when my braces cut my sister’s arm. Later, I started turning on myself. I have the scars to prove it.

I was ten when I thought about taking my life for the first time. I was not okay. My body was changing in ways I couldn’t understand. I looked more like a teenager than a child. My family was going through a lot with my father deep in his addiction to crack and cocaine. My mother had to work. She could have worked more but she wanted to spend time with her daughters. She worked hard to pay the bills because his addiction kept him away from us. Life was complicated.

Through the years, I really started to hate myself. I was an academic standout. I felt it was the only thing I had going for me. In middle school, I actually felt happy for parts of the time. When high school hit, however, the grits hit the fan.

Things started off well. I had a really high grade point average for the first year. I made the honor roll the first six weeks…and that was it. After freshman year, my grades took a nose dive.

This distressed me to the point where my already deep depression got worse. I was anxious every time the clock rang at 5:30 a.m. I didn’t want to get out of bed because of severe anxiety and depression. I heard voices in my head telling me to do bad things to avoid going to school, but I was too much of a chicken. I had an hour to get ready for the bus at 6:35 a.m. because the first period bell rang at 7:30 a.m. on the dot.

Junior year was the worst. I was in a bad way mentally. Things got worse at home. Mama’s anger was constantly spilling over to me. She started drinking even more on the weekends. I also had to witness her crushing lows. To this day, I can’t listen to certain songs she used to listen to on repeat. The constant name-calling got worse. In my mother’s eyes, I was a lazy cow and a heifer. This hurt more than I thought. These were names she called my sister and me, even when we were skinny. Unfortunately, when I hit high school, I put on enough weight to put me into the overweight category. I suspect that I was more than those names in her mind but those were the words she used the most.

My classmates pretty much ignored me. I started purposely cutting myself. I was smart enough to hide the wounds but I did show them to some friends once. It scared the hell out of them.

My self-esteem was so bad that my US History teacher noticed. I was making hiccupping sounds because her class was after lunch and I often had a burning stomachache from reflux and stress. I would say disparaging things about myself so much that she became concerned. One day, when she had some extra time after her lecture, she motioned for me to step out into the hall. I told her about the name-calling. I didn’t tell her that I was hurting myself, the mounting anxiety, or the fact that I was very suicidal. She told me a quote by Eleanor Roosevelt that I still remember to this day:

“No one can make you inferior without your consent.”

In November 1998, I was home alone. I had just turned seventeen the month before. I was having a crisis that I was trying to handle myself. I felt my world tilting and spinning out of control. Mama put me in charge of hiding the car keys and money from Daddy. I was a nervous wreck when he came in demanding the keys. I didn’t know what to do so I gave him the keys. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back in my already broken mind and spirit.

I decided to end it all. It was better than facing a very angry Mama. I was just tired of being sick and tired every day. I was tired of being used as a beating board and doormat. I was tired of being used in general.

I tried to think of how I was going to do it. In my addled mind, the strongest thing I could think of was my rescue inhaler for asthma. I didn’t have any other medicine to take because back then, other than asthma, stomach issues, and my budding mental health issues that my family loved to deny, I was pretty healthy.

I put it in my mouth and started pumping. One pump, two pumps, three pumps, four. I was ready to hit the floor. I kept pumping until my lungs couldn’t take anymore.

With a racing heart, I lay down on my bed and closed my eyes. I waited for God to take me. I was just too tired to care where I went because at the time, I believed that those who committed suicide went to hell.

Then I passed out. No one in my family nor my close friends at the time knew that I just attempted suicide for the first time. I don’t think anyone knew I was struggling because I always wore a smile.

When I awoke, I realized, just like everything else in my life, I sucked at committing suicide. I realized God had a reason for me to be here. I was given a second chance, whether I wanted it or not.

Years later, as I reflected on that moment, I felt no one loved me or cared if I had died. I just wanted to be acknowledged and remembered. I needed to learn not to let stress get to me.

I should not have let things get that far. I should have talked to someone, no matter how scared I was of losing Mama’s love. This was because when I asked a psychiatrist (I meant therapist. I didn't know the difference for years), she told me that she would stop talking to me. After all, obviously, her words weren’t working.

Apparently, God loved me enough to keep me here. I guess I had a purpose to fulfill. I know now that I would have been missed by many. I would not have met the love of my life, eighteen years in the future.

In the end, the person I needed to love and give a second chance to was myself. I am still learning this today.

I’ll end with my favorite lyrics from my favorite England Dan and John Ford Coley song:

“Light of the world, shine on me, love is the answer.

Shine on us all, set us free, love is the answer.”