How I Made It Through My Mom’s Suicide Attempt

What a long title for the post!  LOL  But its appropriate none-the-less.

Last Thursday when I arrived home after committing my mother to mental health because she attempted suicide, I felt drained.  Drained isn’t even a strong enough word.  I felt beaten down.  Like most people with bi-polar disorder and depression and most people who have been through sexual and emotional abuse, I have considered suicide.  In fact, I will say that it’s never far from my thoughts.  When I was having trouble with my medication not too long ago I caught myself staring at my kitchen knives and wondering if it would hurt if I sliced open a vein.  I thank God every day that the sound of my children playing video games or fighting 15 feet away kept me from finding out.  But my mother, being bi-polar, an alcoholic, and an abuse victim (many times over), does not have the in your face reasons to prevent her suicide.  So, with vodka courage, she held a knife to her throat. 

I understand the urge, almost a need, to end the seemingly endless pain that is life sometimes.  I understand the desperation to escape the feelings of worthlessness.  And on Thursday night, when my husband was leaving for work and he asked me if I was okay and would “all be right in his world tomorrow” I could only give him a blank stare and tell him I was fine.  In a way, I thank him.  He made me angry with his comment, as if “his” world is the only one that counts.  But at least I felt something, instead of blinding numbness.

I sat here on my couch, in front of my laptop for a while.  I listened to my phone ring, but I didn’t answer.  And then I picked up a bookmark that I purchased at the end of May on a day trip with my kids to some local caves.  It’s one of those ones with the penny that has a shape cut out of it.  This penny has a cross on it, and the bookmark one of my favorite writings:  “Footprints In The Sand.”  I know it by heart, but I sat here and read it anyway.  As I read, I could feel myself getting lighter and lighter.  By the time I got to the end, I knew I was being carried through this very difficult time and I knew I would be okay.  I prayed to God for strength all through Friday and he provided it.  When my mother called me screaming, I made it through.  When it was time to go collect my work for the weekend, I made it through.  When I was taking call-offs and emergencies (and there weren’t many), I made it through.

And now I know what I want my next tattoo to be.  I want something symbolic of “Footprints in the Sand.”  My tattoo artist thinks I have lost my mind.  If any of my wonderfully creative friends out here in internet land has any ideas, I am open to suggestions.  This has to be just right.



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