Three Years

* Trigger Warning *

March 8th, 2020. It was a Sunday night. My parents were on a flight back to Nebraska after a trip out of the country with their friends. I’ll never forget the text I got from my mom telling me that they were just getting on the plane and that she loved me, I told her I loved her too with tears coming down. In my mind, that was the last time I was ever going to tell my mom that I loved her.

Three years. Three years ago, I decided to attempt to end my own life. I had the plan on the back burner of my mind for weeks, maybe even months, but it wasn’t until that weekend that I knew I had to follow through. That Sunday night was supposed to be a normal Sunday night besides the fact my grandparents had spent the week with us. Before my parents left for their trip, it had been a huge battle between us as to whether or not my grandparents should stay with us while my parents were on their trip. In the back of my mind, I think I knew why I didn’t want them there, but years later I know that they were meant to be there. The outcome would’ve been much different if they wouldn’t have been there.

I remember this night so vividly. My grandparents were at my cousin’s wrestling meet, so my two sisters and I were home alone. My younger sister, Cadey, who is a mother hen at heart had hopped in the shower so I knew I had to begin executing my plan. A few months prior, I had another attempt. As a result, my parents had a filing cabinet that had all of our medications locked away. I remember tearing apart my parent’s room trying to find the key and finally found it. I grabbed everything I could get my hands on and shoved it into my sweatshirt pocket. I held the pills tightly against my stomach to prevent the contents of the bottles from rattling. I hid them in my nightstand drawer so that I could begin taking them after everyone had gone to bed.

I wrote notes furiously. I wrote them to my parents, my sisters, and anyone I could think of. Recently, I read these notes again and couldn’t help but cry. I cried for that 17-year-old girl who didn’t realize how much better life was going to get for her. I cried for the little girl that depression had put blinders on, she couldn’t see how many people wanted her and that she was worthy of life. I cried for the girl that was struggling with the demons of depression so severe that she thought this was the only way to escape. I just look back and realize how young I was. I look at my sister who would be the same age as I was and I just can’t even imagine her doing the same thing, I can’t help but get teary-eyed. I can’t imagine my baby sister going through those same scary thoughts.

The last person I would’ve ever spoken to would’ve been my grandpa. One of my favorite people in the world. So so many memories had been created with him, my grandma, and my cousins. Looking at it now, I’m grateful to continue to have made memories with him and the rest of my family. He told me that he had his alarm set for 6 am, and I was supposed to have speech practice the next morning.

It was around midnight when I began ingesting pills that weren’t meant for my body. I couldn’t tell you what I took or how many I took. Within 15 minutes, it felt like my body was shutting down. I felt a sensation in my head that I’d never felt before, I felt hot flashes, and a feeling of paralysis took over my legs. I was stuck lying there with the outcome of my decision, afraid to start screaming for help. Soon, I fell asleep…hoping I wouldn’t wake up. The only part I remember is waking up and vomiting before going back to sleep.

We don’t talk much about the morning after even though it does bother me that I don’t know much about what happened. I do know that we all slept in that morning and it wasn’t until around 7 that I was found. One of my grandparents came to wake me up, I wouldn’t wake up so they sent my sister in. My sister knew I was a pain to get up in the morning, so she nudged me and I began convulsing. Although I don’t remember any of it, a vision that I’ve created in my head is engrained in my mind. A vision of my 14-year-old sister so overcome with trauma that she can’t get the words to come out. My poor sister had to make the 911 call as she watched her older sister seize in a pile of her vomit. She was finally able to spit out the words that her dad was Casey Schaaf. My parents were and still are on the local fire department. Within minutes, EMTs and paramedics arrived. I don’t remember who was all there, but from what I’ve been told, there were a lot.

I was taken to the local emergency room, and I’ve been told there were lots of tears in that room. I was taken to Kearney, Nebraska via ambulance where my mind was still flooded with suicidal ideations that I was very vocal about. My first memory was in the Kearney emergency room (or I assume that’s what it was) where I said goodbye to a family friend that had taken the call, he told me he promised to bring his daughter over to see me as soon as I got home. I remember bits and pieces from the ER like fighting nurses when it came to a blood draw and the embarrassment I felt when I had to use a bedpan.

I wasn’t fully with it until the next day. My first thought was that there was so much happening to my body. I had two IVs, an NG tube, and ECG patches all over. My mom was by my side the entire time. I’ve shared this moment a lot on my page, but it truly is the reason I began sharing my story. My mom was sitting by my side, explaining what had happened and where we were and I couldn’t help but notice her phone kept going off. I asked her who she was texting and she said a family friend’s name, I knew they didn’t text often so I knew something was up. My mom told me she’d been praying and thinking about me. I immediately felt rage, this wasn’t supposed to be something people knew about. I immediately calmed down when my mom told me it was okay, people knew now, but it was okay. I finally felt free of all of the shame and guilt my mental illness had caused me all those years.

After I was stable, I was taken to a pediatric psychiatric unit in a hospital where I spent a few days. My mom had come to pick me up on a Friday. On this ride home, we had a conversation about how people may ask questions and act differently toward me now. I told her that I felt like I was given a second chance for a reason and needed to speak out. On my way home that evening, I wrote a Facebook post that would begin my healing journey and ultimately lead to sharing my experiences with mental health.

I would be a liar if I said the past three years have been easy. Something that I don’t feel is talked about enough is “survivor’s guilt” in those that survive a suicide attempt. The guilt comes in many forms. The biggest form of guilt I struggle with the most is simply surviving. In the past few years, my small community and surrounding communities have been impacted greatly by people that’s lives have been taken by suicide. These are kids I knew, these are adults I knew. I look at the grief their families and friends go through and can’t help but feel guilty. I feel guilty when I get to experience a holiday with my family while another family has an empty chair. I will never understand God’s plans, but what I will do is use the plan He has given me to help speak out about mental health.

So, today, I celebrate life. I celebrate the second chance I’ve been given. I celebrate the courage that came out of nowhere, the courage that fuels me to speak out about the topics we don’t want to speak out about. I celebrate the support system I have. I celebrate medication and therapy. Today I celebrate being able to share my story in hopes that it can help someone else realize life is worth living.