Firstly: this post is going to be a longer one, but I hope that everyone can find something in it. I still have trouble collecting my thoughts at the moment on this subject, so I may have to redo this post after I make it, but I’m going to share what I have on my mind. That being said, let’s dive in.

I don’t know about you, but for me, breathing hasn’t always seemed to have come easily. Not just because I’ve been a heavy smoker off and on for almost 20 years of my life or because I have asthma, but because I sometimes feel like the weight of living seems to be too much; crushing me from the outside in and swallowing the air from within my lungs, filling them with what often feels like poison. I didn’t post the last couple of weeks, not only because I was dealing with life and often don’t take the time for things like this (throwing my voice into the void, hoping and praying that my words will help someone; occasionally even myself), but because I went and stayed inpatient for suicidal urges and nearly taking my life. If this is rattling you now, you may want to wait for the next post because this one is going to be heavy and hold a lot of dark content; but if you have the strength to muster through, I can promise that I am doing my best to make it worth the grueling effort.

A little over two weeks ago, I sat on my bed, holding my gun to my head, safety off and began slowly tugging on the trigger. Just so you know, it takes far more than two weeks to recover from actually pulling the trigger, I assure you, so don’t get too worried just yet. Not only that, but if I had, I wouldn’t be here typing this post right now, nor would I be telling you why, if you’re in that frame of mind, that the best thing you can do is to pray about a reason to keep breathing. That’s what I did. That’s why I put the gun down and told my fiancée about what I had attempted to do. Also: for the record, he’s not a big believer in that therapy and inpatient treatment can help, but I am because I’ve been (and just got back on Thursday as a matter of fact) a grand total of 9- or 10-times seeking help. There’s no shame in it; I don’t give a damn what anyone tries to say about it. The strongest man I’ve ever known, Pop, who served in Vietnam, had to go probably more times than I did during his own life.

That being said, I had typed up a text to send him with all of the information to all of my things; from passwords and pins to everything, all the way to telling him that I was going to refile my family’s ability to have power of attorney over me so that he wouldn’t get strapped with my debt and could still keep all of my belongings. I didn’t give power of attorney back to my family, thankfully, however, I could have and would have ruined not only his house more than I already had, but his life and the lives of those around him and even more who care about and love me. I know because I’ve lost someone to suicide; my husband, who hung himself when I left and filed for divorce because I couldn’t handle the abuse anymore. When I left him, who shall only be referred to as “R”, (yes, we were “R&R”, you can laugh or eyeroll or whatever else you want here) I tried to be friends with him because I knew he battled with mental illness, and I did still love and care about him. Was I angry? Hell yeah, I was. Did I want to see him suffer? Never a single moment.

When I lost my husband, my family (with the exception of my grandpa) all literally cheered and were boasting about how they had prayed for him to be out of our lives and that they were thanking God for him being gone for good. They cheered with glee at what was, at that time, the worst thing that I had ever experienced in my life. I felt responsible for a life lost because I knew he had done so because he couldn’t bear the thought of existing in a world where he didn’t have me as his wife… it was and still is a massive tragedy and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you how many people came up to me at his funeral to tell me that he was rotting in hell for what he had done… something that I had also attempted before, even within the very same house he had taken his own life inside. However, I hadn’t told a soul about my attempt in that house, not even my then husband, nor had I gone inpatient at that time. You can call me a liar, and I’ll let you, but all I can do is tell you what happened and let you think whatever you will of it.

See, I had been praying daily, trapped in isolation, removed from friends and family, forced to submit to anything and everything he desired me to do and be and I felt as though the only thing I had left to look forward to was Heaven. He made me feel like I was a burden and convinced me that everyone else thought so too. So, I saved up months upon months’ worth of medications and downed nearly a dozen or so bottles of mixed medicines to end my life, months of them. My stomach felt full I had swallowed so many pills. I didn’t write a note, I didn’t say anything, I just swallowed them all, laid down on the couch, and drifted off to sleep, thinking about how life would have been different if I had told a specific person, years before, that I had loved them, saying to God that I was sorry for what I was doing and to please forgive me. Then, I woke up the next morning on the same couch. I assumed that maybe, it just needed more time to take effect. However, time passed, yet I remained alive and still very much in abuse. I then went into a weird sort of psychosis, believing that perhaps I, in fact, had passed away, and was actually suffering in hell. I wasn’t, I’m here, still kicking, albeit with a bit of troubled body now, though my liver somehow remains mostly healthy.

So, I bet right now you’re probably thinking to yourself “Please tell me things are about to start lightening up, I don’t know that I can take this darkness much longer…” Well, worry you no more my friend, because I’m about to get into the part where things get better. You’ve heard all of the darkest parts, you’ve hopefully read my post “In the Valley”, which touches on grief and how I learned to overcome it and even view the valley as a blessing, even when it feels like a curse. I walked away from God in anger for a time and came back because of the fact that Pop loved me enough in his valley to come back enough for us to all have a chance to say goodbye. He also loved me enough in my valley to give me his Bible, which I hold near and dear to my heart, though I can’t exactly always find the best way to follow it. I love you enough, no matter whether you’re my friend or a stranger or even an enemy in your valley to impart the goodness of God in my latest valley to help you, hopefully, survive yours and maybe, find your breath of life.

I was told by my fiancée (who happens to be the same man I thought of as I was laying on my husband’s couch in my aforementioned suicide attempt) that I was going inpatient and I did. While I was there, I hated nearly every second of it, I won’t lie to you. That is, until I realized it was where God placed me for a greater purpose. I got there, expecting it to be the usual in for a week at the most, but found out how wrong I was. It was chaos in there. One of my roommates invited a random man she had met in there into our room in the middle of the night for some… fun… and I awoke telling him to get the hell out and told staff, who thought I was making it up at first until they checked the camera footage, where I then was placed in a different unit that was calmer after I lost my cool on that roommate for acting angry with me for the man getting transferred to a different unit as though I should just be okay with two strangers I never knew having relations next to me while I was trying to get well.

At first, the new unit seemed like a good thing, I was a bit more relaxed, although still wary of people. My new roommate SEEMED harmless enough, sweet, but apparently was a manipulator (which the staff themselves had told me AFTER she tried to choke herself out with her blankets after she told them I was suicidal, and she was stressed from the bullying and I confessed that I knew how to and told them about it, but that I wasn’t because I wanted to get genuine help) who was drug seeking and was known for it in this particular hospital and when I freaked out, crying and traumatized, thinking I was almost responsible for another life, they told me she had already pulled that stunt before, she just did it for shock value to me. I asked for a new roommate and got placed with the FIRST roommate, who had somehow gotten bounced to our unit, and I lost my temper when a teen with an attitude started yammering on and on about how big and bad she was and I threw my journal down the hall at the wall and yelled “F*** THIS S***” at the top of my lungs because I was reaching my wits end. So, obviously, I got bounced to yet another unit, the final unit they had available and the one I put my foot down and said, “I’m done moving any further.”

This final unit is where God moved though. I had heard about the girl on this unit from both of my previous roommates and was beginning to be afraid that I was destined for another bout of trouble, but I arrive and though a bit odd, she was someone who, in other circumstances, I could see myself having been extraordinary friends with, who cared deeply, despite having a bit of a temper towards those who committed acts of wrongdoing or harm to others. She wrote a piece of scripture on one whiteboard that helped us keep track of days; John 15:13 “Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” This quote rocked me, one, not only because it was scripture in a place that usually downplays God, but also because it bordered on suicidal in a place where people battled with those things and I found hope in it because I felt seen by the people there, though I had not said a thing to anyone yet.

The first person to greet me on this unit was a man who had fought in the marines, who, for his sake, I shall only refer to as AP. He welcomed me and invited me to sit with them. By the time I got to this unit, I was used to being bounced around so much that I didn’t have much hope of staying, so my belongings stayed in the brown paper bag on my shelves instead of setting them out like everyone else did, other than what I kept on my person. I sat after having placed my things in my room and he offered me a bag of chips, which I hesitantly accepted. I sat and observed and kept silent, only inputting when directly asked a question or being talked to directly, but no one took offense to my hesitancy. AP got up and went to the desk and H (the aforementioned girl my roommates had talked about) sat across from me and started passing out playing cards to everyone like it was nothing that a random stranger was angry at being in the unit and wary of being there and tried to give me a hand to play “Go Fish” with, which I declined rudely, but she took no offense, saying that I could watch how they played.

AP got back and handed me a Bible, one of the Gideon ones that had only the New Testament as well as Psalms and Proverbs, which I took, puzzled and watched him, H, and a teen boy play Go Fish like it was poker together. They seemed like comrades, almost as though they all were people who had weathered some similar storm, unlike the people on the other units who were all about petty, almost high-school-like drama. I longed to be a part of this comradery but felt afraid to allow myself to become too close, knowing what had happened on the other units. When their game was over, me laughing at times when one would say that the other had a terrible tell or something and finding a sense of peace for the first time, they all just acted as though I was now officially included without words. Then, trouble came. A woman came in who was looking to start trouble with people and I had grown sick and tired of drama and when she started trying to stir it up in there, I shut it down hard and forcefully, frightening myself at my own outburst on a total stranger, saying that I wasn’t going to have any more drama following me into this peaceful unit, that we were going to get along and that she needed to either get with the program or get to a different unit quick. She decided she was done trying to play the drama card quickly and went to her room. Then, the people at the table stood when I sat down, feeling like a fool and ashamed of my outburst, and said “Welcome to our unit, we are a family in here.”

I woke the next morning, unsure if what I had experienced would follow through to the next day, but to my surprise, it did. In morning group, we collected together, and I was surprised to see that the woman from the night before wasn’t there, sleeping off the meds I suppose, but an old man, who will be known as LJ, was walking around outside after he had initially come in, seen a stranger, and decided he would rather “patrol” outside. At first, I was hesitant, but the group leader called on me to share what I was feeling, and I was angry at the question and decided to speak only partial truths, but the people in the room started continuing my thoughts, saying them with more clarity than I actually felt comfortable openly discussing and my eyes widened in shock, staring around the room as each person looked me in my eyes and told ME what I was feeling. When I confirmed it, the staff group leader moved to flowing into what would help us the most that day and I found myself clamping down, as did the other adults, AP and H. The teenage boy started answering and started sharing how he felt uncomfortable opening up about his needs, so I felt compelled to speak, to assuage his burden and said that it was normal, especially for those who carried heavy trauma to not want to share their needs, but that the only way they get met is by talking about them. I could feel all eyes on me, but chose to hide my embarrassment for his sake and when he looked at me like he wasn’t sure how to proceed, I said that when I was his age and suffering, what I needed most was for someone to hear my pain, even if I didn’t know how to share it and he nodded his head in affirmation.

The group ended with us being asked to share what we wanted to be, so I shared that it was a complex question, that I didn’t believe anyone ever fully knew what they wanted to be, but that my response would have to be “good”, yet I wasn’t sure I entirely knew how to define it. I broke the silence because I could feel everyone else’s discomfort at the question and my instincts are to always relieve suffering to the best of my ability, even when it means my own discomfort in the process. I didn’t dare to probe the sense to see if eyes were on me as I stared down the group leader known only as “Coach”, so he said “let me reboot it then: if you could be any animal you wanted to be, what would you be?” I noted that only one person in that room did not answer, AP. H said a cat, either a tabby or a lioness. The boy waited to hear all answers, unsure of his own, so I said I wanted to be a mockingbird, for which my home state is known, and when asked why, I said for the ability to fly and the ability to be any other bird I wanted to be, while being unassuming all the same and the boy then answered he too wanted to be a bird, but AP didn’t answer.

E, my first roommate, eventually followed me like a rancid fart to this peaceful unit too and stirred up trouble. At first, I tried to take the peaceful approach with her, thinking, incorrectly, that it was the best way to shut her down, when in reality, she was too much like my mother, thinking that kindness was weakness. Friends, I want it to be noted that nothing is more difficult than kindness in the face of wickedness and cruelty. Kindness is the only way to save the souls of the lost; but kindness can look like many, many things. Kindness can be being sweet and tender, which is usually what most people associate it with, but it is the furthest thing from the only way to express kindness. When E came onto the unit, I was already thinking that everything was bound to be ensnared in trouble, chaos, and pain for all on the unit, but the only thing I could think to do in that moment to keep it from being the worst possible experience for everyone was to extend the olive branch of kindness. She came onto the unit angry, literally shrieking with rage and frustration at perceived injustice; and perhaps it was injustice that she had been placed on that unit. I knew that she had attempted the peaceful route on the unit prior and I knew the particular teen that had set me into my rage fit was the one who she had ended up being raging angry about for having to come to what was perceived to be the “worst” unit there was, as we had nothing compared to the other units. However, we had this: our freedom. So, when she arrived, shrieking in anger and frustration, I hugged her, despite my annoyance at having to see her again.

Perhaps it was a bad idea, but when you see a suffering soul, is it better to do nothing or to be kind? Is it better to lash out at them for being miserable, simply because you are miserable? Or is it better to give something that you don’t receive in your pain and suffering to help them to find something that maybe they needed in them all along? She acted out on the unit. She caused trouble. She lashed out at everything and everyone. At first, I tried to be the tender sort of kind… however, when she began to be a problem by intentionally triggering others with things she knew upset them and started shouting about how it was unfair to censor her desires just to tend to someone else’s needs, that’s when things became a different sort of kind. Instead of saying the things I could have said and acting an ass my own self, I kept quiet at first, putting myself between her and the people she was trying to trigger and distracting them with the kind of kind I would have wanted or needed in the moments she would set of my worst triggers. That quote about how the only way evil wins, is for good people to do nothing comes to mind right now, but while it may appear that good people are doing nothing, they perhaps may be ignoring your particular brand of negativity or wickedness in order to help the people you are hurting to not be hurt worse or act wicked themselves based on your actions.

Eventually though, my kindness began to wear me thin, and I began to become her target, since she wasn’t getting the reaction that she wanted from others. I became silent, trying instead to keep myself from thinking or behaving wickedly. That, though, is when others began to take a stand for me and began to be kind to ME in a way that I wasn’t expecting kindness to look like. I wasn’t aware that kindness could be anger towards injustice. Fighting back against malice and wrongdoing. Two people in particular displayed this form of kindness to me on that unit. AP and LJ, both of them are marines who served, AP in Afghanistan and LJ in Vietnam. I would love nothing more than to give their real names and give them the honor and respect they more than deserve, but since I do not know if that is something they would want, I will merely give their initials in the hopes that, should one day one or both happen across this blog, or if someone who knows them sees this can show them, they know their service both in the marines and out of it doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. They wouldn’t share about their personal stories with anyone other than each other, but I would often pick up bits and pieces of their conversations in passing being near them and knowing for certain that they were not like everyone else. They were stronger than most would ever know and were often viewed as weak by others because they elected to keep their personal stuff to themselves. I noticed their strength because, though I am in no way remotely close to being marine, military, or any kind of first responder strong, I know how to recognize when someone is carrying heavy burdens on their shoulders that they feel the world shouldn’t have to see. At some point, living the life I have lived, seeing the things I have seen, and knowing about the things I know, you can recognize the look in someone else. I recognized it in my husband when he was alive. I recognized it in several of my friends who made suicide attempts, or at least wanted to do so, whether they are still in my life or not. I recognized it in Pop long before I recognized it in anyone else because I had become intimately familiar with the expressions over the course of my life. The one person who had a state of calm; the only person I felt safe to be around half of my life, but who probably was the one in the most pain of anyone I ever knew, all without me even being fully aware of it.

Whenever E would target someone, I would notice that they would team together to get her to target them instead of the other people in there. Whether it be by AP going and talking about how everything was a trigger such as one morning saying to me personally and looking in my eyes that politics were important for every person to get into and asking if I agreed, to which I agreed, but without sharing my own views because I’m the sort of person that believes that politics, when shared in the wrong environments, can be triggering, but being confused about where the conversation was going and then him going from saying that to me privately to starting to tell staff that he didn’t want to watch anything political when they were turning on the tv because they were a trigger (when I knew for a fact from looking in his eyes that they weren’t because growing up with a family of liars and having only one person who tells the truth to you, you begin to know how to spot a truthful person telling a lie too) and going on until even cartoons were political (which, when you get down to it, all things lean in some direction or another, depending on the times I suppose) until they turned it to a blank channel. I didn’t mind, I enjoyed the quiet, but E didn’t like that he was “being such a baby” and threw a fit until the staff got her under control so the morning could pass easily because she liked to watch shows which had disgusting or violent things on it, which were triggering for some people. After that, the staff only played the old timey cartoons and everyone left it alone.

Whenever she would end up making crude jokes around the younger ones (they were teenagers, but still), LJ would steal her books and sit on them or hide them until she went into a tantrum. At first, I just sat back and watched, confused about the interactions, unsure of the motives and the means, but one day, I eventually saw exactly why they behaved in the manner that they did. One day, in the cafeteria, while I was sitting with the young girl who was my roommate and the H woman, I was watching her interactions carefully, something wasn’t sitting right with me, and it made me uneasy. I don’t entirely know if it was their behavior around her or if it was my own perceptions, but regardless, I recognized that something was off. H was angry because she was making out with a guy that had just arrived on the unit that day, but I noticed that the boy was sitting in front of her and when she looked our way, she smiled and turned her head away and acted like she was talking to the guy next to her, but her foot ran up the kid’s leg and he jumped up and fled across the cafeteria, sitting next to a burly man and white hot rage flooded through me, but instead of going towards her, I went to the kid and checked on him and told him that if he ever felt unsafe, to tell someone, whether it be me, staff, or one of the two marines on the unit and then I told staff about the encounter, where eventually, the kids finally got moved off of the unit and I felt more comfortable, having ensured that they were safe.

After that, the LJ spoke more openly around me and didn’t have as many outbursts where he would be locked in the “comfort room” to calm down and that made me feel better about my position on the unit. I still felt unsure of my standing, but safe knowing that they were around. AP seemed more content too once the kids were safely on another unit and was more plain around me also it seemed. They didn’t try to hide that LJ wasn’t as “crazy” as he acted at times, both talking about their service and not seeming to mind as much if I was nearby or even at their table when they did. Whenever E would make a fuss so bad that it would upset my PTSD, reminding me of my unsafe prior environments, one or the other would be near my room looking out to make sure I was okay or would check on me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one that recognized the certain look I previously mentioned and it made me feel better, knowing that someone, even total strangers cared when it felt like literally no one else in my life did. I tried calling people I cared about, but people in my life had begun to get tired of my recent mental and emotional issues before I went inpatient, not that I blame them, but many don’t really know just exactly how close it ever came. A single muscle twitch when I had my gun to my head and I wouldn’t be here right now. A split movement more before the flood of thoughts God sent into my mind and I’d not be here right now.

In the groups, when everyone else would share their traumas, I couldn’t share my own. It didn’t feel right, knowing that I get descriptive and knowing all too well exactly how triggering those things are for people trying to recover their own sanity. AP certainly helped a lot, but LJ helped more in ways hard to explain. I know from experience of being around the older people, especially those who served, that they have a better sense of judgement on a person’s character than people my own age simply cannot even begin to fathom. It comes from wisdom gained through experience and years of it, years that younger generations of people don’t always seem to grasp. Perhaps it is because I lived with my grandparents more often and spent more time around the elderly than people my own age, perhaps it is that I’m autistic, but regardless, I can sense an impatience in trying to understand people, especially those who are different from themselves, in the younger generations, whether they be Gen X, Millennial, Gen Z or Gen Alpha. LJ never attended the groups and AP rarely spoke when he did. I spoke on occasion, but when I did, it was usually in an effort to help someone feel more comfortable processing and opening up about their own stuff.

On the day that AP left, he drew on my piece of paper that I had been doodling on an insignia and told me what it was supposed to be. “Indian Battery 3/12 tip of the spear” and he gave it back to me. I asked what it was supposed to be, and he told me, and I asked if he could clarify and he said no. I wrote it down because I knew it was significant if he was giving it to me though and saved it. At first, I was confused because LJ had been taking my practice sketches for my future in tattooing that I had been talking about and I tried to give him the paper with my doodles, but he seemed upset by it, so I crossed out my doodles and wrote “sorry” and showed him and he shook his head, as if to say that there was no need, understanding finally that I didn’t fully understand. I saved the paper though and with the help of my fiancée discovered what it meant, what area he had served through it and recognized it was his way of telling me his story. A story that, because I never shared my own stories unless I was alone with the therapist, I recognized he felt was too heavy a burden for others to hold, but showing me that we all carry a burden and all have a heavy story on our shoulders and that others CAN hear it and it not be too much. His way of telling me to focus on my own recovery instead of the recovery of others and getting better to get where I can get back to taking care of the things that are important.

See, I was admittedly supposed to get out the same day as him, but I didn’t. My breath of life was still not found, it still felt like poison. I couldn’t find evidence that I should exist; it felt (and still does at times, admittedly) like my breathing had caused so many to suffer, or at the very least was a nuisance to everyone I knew and loved. I prayed daily and still do, but the weight of breath in my lungs was so heavy that I felt as though it was dragging me down to the core of the earth and was burning me in the fires of hell for merely existing. Despite all of the good I tried to do for others, it didn’t matter. Me sitting between E and H in the cafeteria so that H didn’t have to see her when I knew E was egging H on to cause her to fly off of the handle as she tried to do with me and AP and everyone else and glaring E down until she dropped it, me protecting the kids as best as I could until staff moved them to safety… none of it felt like it mattered. When I would call my fiancée, I couldn’t even bring myself to tell him how much pain I was in and how deep my suffering ran. I couldn’t tell him that I was fighting my suicidal thoughts still and trying to get home because things needed to be done at home. I couldn’t tell the people in group, I couldn’t tell the people around me who tried to talk to me, not the therapists or staff, I could only tell God. I know I should have, but by the point I had gotten to, it felt as though everyone I knew was tired of hearing me.

The only one who wasn’t was God. He wanted to hear it all, but even with Him, I kept a lot of it to myself, feeling my burden was too heavy. breathing was too heavy, too hard, too much… but I prayed, sometimes every few seconds, “God, please give me a reason to keep breathing” because when I would go back to my room in the hospital, not getting a call from anyone, having to call someone to be able to hear from loved ones and still feeling like a trouble for having called for a few moments, I would have those thoughts of wanting to tie my sheet around my neck and wait to die since the unit I was on wasn’t really monitored too heavily; the rooms being left unwatched most of the time by the staff. AP was the only one who saw me have my panic attack/seizure thing caused by PTSD and announced it and staff came, but when he left and the kids left, I was alone at the back. I could close my door unless fits were thrown. No one would know until it was too late, but God would show me that I would end up being my husband… that I would cause pain and not even know it. That my struggles in that moment that seemed so big weren’t as big as they felt and I would go back to trying to fight.

Then, LJ started patrolling the hallway, watching over me, checking in on me. He had the look that Pop used to have, but because of that, he knew that I had the look now too… so he looked out for me. He reminded me that my breath was worth breathing, even when it was heavy because of the fact that if I was breathing, it meant I was useful, even if it meant it was only to a stranger; even if it was as simple as hiding a book to cause a little chaos for one person in order to give someone that needed it a little more peace for a moment. Even if it meant that my breathing was only useful to speak truth, no matter how dark or painful it is to let someone know they’re not alone. My breathing was valuable because God breathed it back into me for a reason when He saved me on my husband’s couch. Breathing can be painful and harsh and ugly, but the breath of life is too precious to let it be ripped away over a moment’s feeling of suffering the wickedness and evil of the past or even present try to hold over you. Those are the lies of the enemy. Do you know that when a baby cries at birth, it is partially because their lungs hurt from air flowing into them? Life hurts, but it is valuable. It is meaningful. If you can think of even one person who ever made a moment easier because they breathed, then the breath of life means something, no matter whether it is light or heavy.

Take a moment right now and breathe in a breath and feel the power of GOD in you; because the fact that you breathe means He knows the world and people in it need you, even when it feels like they don’t.

Remember, you can call or text 988 for help when you are feeling suicidal and if you need help with other sorts of resources, you can go to 13reasonswhy.info if you’d like, but if you are struggling and want to find more to fill that void and don’t know where to look, where to find something to bring you through that darkness, I hope that I can help on this blog by sharing how He helped me and by extending the same help I would want to receive where you can have someone that can be reached for you to contact someone who has faith to pray over you, the Billy Graham prayer line: 1-855-255-7729. Keep going, He’s got you firmly in His grasp and won’t let you fall.