Happy 2nd Anniversary

If you had told me two years ago to the day that I would be sitting here typing this to 130 readers while talking to an incredibly sweet guy I would have stared blankly at you and raised an eyebrow. That is because, almost exactly two years ago, I had plans – serious plans – to kill myself. But I am here, and my life is actually quite fantastic.

August 2012: The last two months have been spent convinced I had failed my A-Levels. There was no way I was going to get into university, I told myself. And of course if – I’m sorry, when – I didn’t get into university I wouldn’t get a good job and wouldn’t have a career and wouldn’t have even a slightly decent quality of life. It was all downhill from my final exam in June as far as I was concerned. I hadn’t felt a single emotion in months. Since the exams began in May I had been an empty shell, existing, drifting. Three months of this had gotten me to a point where I didn’t care about anything. I could no longer be happy, couldn’t even laugh at a joke. I could no longer get angry at anything. Not even mildly passionate about the subjects dearest to my heart. I hadn’t cried in months and simply, I just didn’t care. I couldn’t feel. It was scary. I was scared of myself, what I had become. But the scariest thing of all, was that no-one noticed.

I had decided. When results day came along and I didn’t get the grades or the university acceptance, I would get my things together. My family had all been on holiday in Croatia at the time, but I had elected to stay behind. I was home alone for the next week, but still had our German Shephard, Heidi, to look after. I would never abandon her while the family were away. I was emotionless, not heartless. So come results day I would organise: write a makeshift will; give my parents my bank details; arrange my funeral preferences and guest list; allocate my belongings; write letters to my friends and family; stock take (I would be crushing boxes of pills into a glass and washing it down with whatever alcohol I could stomach). It was all planned. Then, once I had everything together, I would sit tight until my family got home. I would see them one last time, say goodnight to them, to my dog, to my life. I was going to go downstairs that night, sit on the kitchen floor, and toast eternity.

Then I got in.

“Congratulations, you have achieved the necessary grades and have been accepted at Plymouth University beginning September 2012.”

I don’t know if that’s exactly what it said, but the point is I got in, and I was terrified. For every other final year college student finishing their exams they had been preparing for this moment for months. They had been packing, planning, anticipating. I had done none of that, and suddenly I would be moving across the country in 3 weeks. After the initial shock came the blinding panic. I text my best friend at the time to tell her I was in but I was freaking out, and she didn’t help. I had to deal with it by myself.

And somehow, I did.

I didn’t write my will. I didn’t write letters to my family. I didn’t hoard pills and booze. Somehow, and I don’t know quite how, I pulled my shit together and made it to university three weeks later.

Obviously I have had my ups and my downs – though, to amend the Robin Hood lyrics, “sometimes ups, outnumbered the downs, but not in Megan’s head” – throughout the last two years, including an ever-growing self harm habit, more tears than droplets in the Great Flood and a number of suicidal contemplations. But nothing has compared to the dull ache of emptiness I had during those three months.

Tonight, while discussing the success of my autistic cousin, my mood dipped to a significant low. In the last two years my cousin has joined respite care to learn independent living, done a money management course to better his knowledge of finances, joined a catering course to gain experience in the workplace and a qualification. What did I, an able-bodied 21 year old flake, have to show for the last two years?

The fact he keeps pushing forward is the best way to get the better of a bully. If you let a bully hold you back then they win. And from what I can see from the time we have known each other, you keep moving forward. You’re about to go into your 3rd year of uni, compared to where you were 3 years prior I would say that’s moving forward. You’re doing your best to step out and experience new things. You are doing well.

Upon speaking of my cousin and his success, this is what Bambi said to me. I don’t know if he realises yet, and I’m certain he didn’t at the time, how amazing it felt to hear him say that. Three years ago I lost all my friends as they left for uni and I was depressed, cutting, and failing everything. Two years ago I was nigh on friendless, emotionless, and perfectly ready to kill myself. Last year I was contemplating dropping out of university and shitting myself about moving into a house of strangers. This year I am mildly nervous about moving into a house of strangers. This year I am contemplating staying at university, and working out how to be successful at it. This year I am ready to feel, to live, to breathe. This year I have Bambi.

Ask me again if, two years ago, I thought that I would be sitting here now telling all of you that the simple kind words of an incredibly sweet guy had allowed me to see, for the first time in my life, that I have come a long way .. I would still be staring you blank in the face and raising an eyebrow. But I am. I am here. I am here.

Today was the first time I had ever been able to look back on that moment two years ago, almost to the day, where I was ready to die, and smile. Smile because I survived. Smile because it got better. Smile because I was my own bully, and I won. All this time I have said it was my acceptance into uni that stopped me from killing myself, but really it was me. I stopped myself. I made the conscious – or maybe subconscious – decision not to swallow a tumbler of pills and shnapps.

I saved myself.

And now, two years, almost to the day, later, I am here and I am alive.

And I am happy.

God it feels great to say that. It is so strange, as I don’t remember the last time I could legitimately say “I am happy with my life”. But for once I think it’s true. I am happy with my life. I’ve always known I had a good life, I had all the tools and all the potential to make something good out of it, but the one thing I lacked to make it work was motivation. It was too easy being depressed. It was too easy being in pain. I think to an extent I was in love with it. It was simple, familiar. Sitting, slumped, in a dark room staring at the wall while sombre music played out in minor key in my headphones. It was a safe zone. It had been my home for years. The place I returned to at the end of every night after a hard day.

But now ..

Now I think I finally have the motivation to make something happen. I have the support, the will, the drive. I’m scared, that’s not changed, but to quote a good friend of mine, I am “nervcited”. It’s terrifying but I am excited about the possibilities and the potential. I could make something good out of the pieces I have been given, and today is the first time I have ever seen the light in my word of black.

I am here.

It would have been around the two year anniversary of my death today.

I am happy.

I had forgotten what it was like to feel, but I broke down that wall and now I am free. Free to feel. Free to be human.

 

I can make it.