I have always been proud of my candidness when it comes to talking about uncomfortable topics. Suicide, suicide prevention and experiences related to mental health are a few that come up quite a bit. Maybe it’s because I’ve worked in an addiction and a mental health treatment center since graduating college, maybe it’s because my mom founded and runs a nonprofit organization whose purpose is to erase the stigma associated with mental health and suicide; maybe it’s because four generations within my family have met their untimely death at the hands one of the most unforgiving illnesses: depression. I’m proud of my candidness because I have been desensitized to the weight those terms carry for many people. I have been able to converse about this topic, not because I felt like it affected me personally but because of the many people in my life who did. I believed by speaking on their behalf and not mine, I was able to understand the complexities of my own mental health. I have in a lot of ways, but I have always skipped over a lot.
Writing has always been something that I believed came easy to me. In fourth grade, I was reassured by a teacher that this is something that I am good at and needed to continue to pursue. This meant a lot because throughout my life, I didn’t think I was especially good at anything. When it came to school, sports and hobbies, I was painstakingly average and sometimes below average. Except, when it came to writing. Language arts was the first class I was excited to challenge myself in and I wanted to continue challenging myself. So, I chose that as my degree in college: English writing. Academically and socially, I had my hurdles. Hurdles that at times seemed impossible to get over; for instance, my sophomore year of college was the first time a professor or teacher had ever told me, “I don’t think writing is for you.” At the time, I brushed this off and said to myself, “I don’t care what he says, I know I’m good.” Externally, I began making changes to completely change what I wanted my outcome of attending college to be. I no longer wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be a lawyer, or something that I felt was more attainable than being a writer.
I was able to finish my degree with English writing, but I added a double minor in social justice and legal studies in order to ensure a more realistic career path. I was excited to attend my senior seminar class for my degree because our final project was a piece of writing that could be written in any format about anything that I wanted. At the time, my mom was also in the process of writing her book: i understand: Pain, Love and Healing After Suicide. Her publisher had read a few of my previous blogs and was interested in working with me on a book of my very own. A book that also may have included a collaboration with Mariel Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway’s granddaughter. This is a dream for anyone who may have the slightest interest in writing. The planning of how the book could have unfolded, was the most exciting feeling that I had ever experienced. However, as soon as I began the writing process for this project, I felt defeated.
The premise of my senior seminar project that would have unfolded to the beginning of my book with Mariel Hemingway was essentially a memoir of my life. I don’t think my life story is especially exciting or traumatic than the person next to me, but I do believe that I can articulate my experiences in a way that would hopefully connect with people. Through sharing my experiences and my families experiences with mental health, suicide, pain and loss,I hoped that someone might read it and say, “Me too” or “I know what you’re talking about.” I had a similar revelation after I read Mariel Hemingway’s book, which inspired me to begin writing blogs in the first place. Although, writing this book and sharing my story was what I believed I was meant to do, I felt defeated because I underestimated the emotional toll writing this would have on me. I don’t really remember my childhood and it’s because depression is linked to memory loss. So, when I began writing chapters about specific family interactions, I relied heavily on my mom and my sister to help me fill in the gaps. I was shocked at some of the situations that I didn’t remember and a lot of the time, I felt extremely heartbroken about the reality.
I was able to muster up enough emotional capacity to finish my school assignment, but after that I refused to continue writing or even look at what I had written. Simply put, it was too painful. I’m really proud of what I wrote, that’s not the issue. When it came to talking about memories associated with my father, I enjoyed hearing about my time with him but I also got really sad thinking that a lot of the book wouldn’t have happened if he was still alive. It felt like if he was alive, he could have saved me from a lot of the emotional turmoil that continued to happen throughout the rest of my life. I started writing about my experience going to a new school my freshman year of high school, moving in with my mom’s fiance and his family. The intention of my book was to be honest about everything, but I didn’t include the bullying that took place at that new school and the intense feelings of suicide ideation I experienced when I was fourteen. I think the tipping point of me not feeling like I could ever finish this book was realizing I would have to put my entire being out there and that everyone in my life would perceive me in a much different light than the one I had created. All those memories and feelings that I spent years trying to bury and forget about, all those memories and feelings that I associate with immense shame were brought up again.
My blogs and what I thought I was good at when it came to my writing was when I wrote about my own experiences with mental health and suicide. After I realized I wouldn’t be working on my book anytime soon, I deemed myself a failure. I believed that I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to write this book right now, but deep down I didn’t think I would ever be. When my school year finished and the feelings I felt after turning in my senior seminar assignment were so fresh, I began feeling extremely depressed and feelings of suicide ideation crept into my head again. This period and when I was fourteen, were when I genuinely felt like there was no light at the end of the tunnel for me. I have always experienced depression but when my mom or therapist asked me if I was suicidal, I genuinely told them no because I was excited for my future. Within these two time periods, the excitement was extinguished. It wasn’t that I hated my life, I genuinely didn’t think I was adequate enough for the life I had or the life I thought I always wanted. Luckily, I was able to work through some of those feelings and honestly, I still am.
I believe that by telling someone how you are feeling is one of the most important steps when it comes to dealing with mental health issues. When I have felt at my strongest emotionally, was when I felt connected with other people or actively having conversations about my mental health. I was able to talk to my mom about these feelings; I hate asking for help but I knew I needed it and I knew I needed someone to know in case something happened. I began the process of trying to find a medication that could help me and I say process because it really is, when it comes to anxiety and depression there isn’t a cure that works for everyone. Some medications that work great for other people, either made me feel worse or feel nothing at all; unfortunately, it’s trial and error. Although I had been in therapy while I attended college in Illinois, I realized it was important for me to find a therapist while I was home in Michigan. To this day, I am so happy I made those decisions for myself. Once I found a medication that worked and a therapist that I looked forward to talking to every week, my emotional health went up exponentially. I’m not “fixed,” I’m still depressed and anxious but the days I make decisions that are good for me, I know that I’m adding another day to my life and I’m really excited about what this life has to offer me. Maybe I’ll write a book, maybe I won’t; that’s not the point. I need to accept all the good and the bad that has happened to me and work to use the bad to empower me, instead of using it as a weapon against me to fuel those feelings of inadequacy.
Woodrick Writes 