Cry For Help (New Article)

Cry for Help
By Janice Brabaw


It was my first night back to school after Spring Break although outside my dorm at St. Lawrence it didn’t look anything like spring. Snow was falling from the night sky in wet soggy clumps against the windows of the third floor lounge. I’m not sure how long I sat in that cold, drafty room watching the storm, listening to the howling North Country winds. One moment it was early afternoon and then it was dark, the street lamp outside casting an orange glow through the moist cottony swirl. I hadn’t moved, seemingly never blinked. I’d hear voices in the hall as my floor-mates carried their bags up the stairs and into their rooms. Life so close and so vibrant but yet out of sight, detached. And there I sat. Long after the sunset, long after the room faded to black. My eyes unfocused, staring into the white haze outside, lost and lethargic.

It was that night that it happened. March 22, 1998. The night I first tried to kill myself. I was six days past my nineteenth birthday.

The circumstances leading up to the overdose and the four others that would follow in the next five years were the same, a chicken or the egg scenario: I’d been rejected romantically and I was crippled by depression. Whether my moods had resulted in being dumped or vice versa, it became impossible to figure out what had precipitated what. Things had been blurry, water-colored, misty, and faded for weeks. Then the ache and the falling into depths. The loss of self, the endless seepage of energy, the flattening and the blue black bruising of my spirit. Either I was going crazy and then he left me or I knew he was going to leave me and I went crazy anyway.

Every moment of every day was trying and painful. I was confused, exhausted, and completely drained of pleasure and the desire to live. I had become a person I didn’t recognize – a shell of my former self. I had become a pathetic, codependent burden on those around me. My limited coping skills were exceeded by my pain and I was a desperate, frantic woman only wanting to stop hurting. As I wrote in my journal at the time, I was convinced I was chronically and intrinsically messed up on a basic, chromosomal level that could never be altered. I was a twisted and ugly doll destined for the Island of Misfit Toys.

After spending a week in the ICU being treated for acute Tylenol overdose, I had to tell my family what had happened. My parents were shocked and sad, scared and angry.
Part of me was annoyed and puzzled by their surprise. To me, my suicide attempt felt like surrendering to the inevitable while everyone around me were blind-sided. No one knew I had been thinking about death for years. In fact I had written my first suicide note at eight years old.


Recently I published my first book, Universe, Disturbed, which is a collection of poetry lifted directly from my high school and college journals – a first-hand account of what I was going through during these dark years. I was nervous about sending copies to my parents. While they knew I was a moody and irritable child, they never suspected my tidal nature ran any deeper than the usual growing pains and hormonal fluctuations of a normal teenager until my suicide attempts and subsequent diagnoses. They didn’t know the darkness I carried inside me as a child partially because I strove to keep my depression a secret. I was afraid they’d judge me, consider me weak and pathetic. Even more frightening was the thought of my two loving parents who always had done their best for me thinking that it was their fault; that they could have prevented these years of self-destruction. Who could blame them? Despite my secrecy, many signs that I was in trouble are now as clear as day – in hindsight. The reason my parents, my teachers, my friends and even I missed them is due more to a lack of education than a lack of compassion.

Even today, even with depression in the media and the stigma of diagnoses rapidly fading due to public awareness, people have a hard time contemplating childhood or adolescence depression. Or even worse, suicide.

The National Society for the Prevention of Suicide’s statistics finds that that 4,212 teenagers took their own lives in 2005 (the most recent year data is available). The same year, 272 children under twelve committed suicide. Although unpleasant to consider, suicide is the number five cause of death for children between five and twelve and number three in teenagers and people in their early 20’s. These numbers do not take into account how many young people tried to end their lives but failed. Or kids who are suffering and untreated who might eventually try later down the road. Suicide rates rose six percent in fifteen to nineteen year olds between 1999 and 2001 – and 100 percent in those aged ten to fourteen, following a continuing trend the NSPS has been documenting for years.

It’s true that the hormonal changes in adolescence and the stress of school and friends does lead to a certain amount of emotional turbulence, but the line between occasional sullen moods and self-destructive behavior is easily crossed – the center of the brain that controls impulsivity isn’t fully developed until the mid to late twenties. Combine flawed mental processes and the inability to make calm, rational decisions and you have a recipe for disaster. The situation appears even direr when considering this is the time when many teenagers start experimenting with drugs and alcohol. Untreated, undiagnosed depressed teens are in danger. They are hurting. Many times they are ignored or simply not noticed. And as the statistics demonstrate, more and more die needlessly every year.

It is during these turbulent years that a majority of mental illnesses initially present. According to research, people with depression or other psychological conditions and/or substance abuse commit 90 percent of suicides. It is more important than ever for society to educate themselves about the warning signs.

For me, I was a cutter. I would spend my nights locked in my room with just a razor and my journal. Sobbing and cutting, I’d alternate between writing poetry and slicing my forearms. I would hide the damage under long sleeves. I learned to cry when no one was around. My constant fatigue and reluctance to go to school was attributed to laziness, your usual teenage sloth. My weight continued to balloon throughout high school due to the late-night binges, long after my parents were in bed. I snapped and crackled and popped around our house – always irritable and ready to cry and scream at the most innocent comment. Instead of running toward people for help, I ran away. Seething, cutting, crying, hiding. I didn’t think there was any hope and I didn’t think there was anyone I could talk to.

Unfortunately for me, it took almost a decade and nearly dying at twenty-three to learn to open up about my depression, my borderline personality disorder. It took me until twenty-seven to admit that yes, I do need to take medication every day to calm my anxiety disorder and to ward off crippling panic attacks. I’m almost thirty and sometimes I feel cheated for the years I lost and whenever I have bad days. I get sick of having to apologize and explain myself. The fact is that I’m more sensitive than most people and that while I don’t want those around me to feel like they need to walk on egg shells, I am careful who I bring into my life. It is important to surround yourself with loving, supportive people who understand that sometimes its necessary to be extra patient and perhaps more vigilant in speaking up if I’m being erratic. It’s a fine line that I cross often – asking people in my life to keep an eye on my moods because sometimes I’m the last to realize I’m heading downward.

Living with mental illness has gotten easier over the years due to therapy, medication, and my writing, but also through trial and error and the benefit of growing older, of acquiring wisdom. Benefits you do not have when you’re young and just feeling the initial symptoms, the first surge and purge of emotions that you can’t rationalize. This is why it’s important to know where to go for help and just as crucial for parents and friends to be aware of the symptoms.

I’m sure my parents kick themselves when they flip through my poetry. My father, never an outwardly emotional man, told me on the phone, “Your book is hard to read. It’s some sad stuff. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Uncomfortably shifting my cell from one ear to another, I stepped onto the street outside my apartment in Brooklyn. Four hundred miles north, in the living room of our farmhouse, I could hear the pain in his voice. I wanted it to go away. “It’s ok, Dad. It’s fine. It’s in the past. It’s not your fault.

“I guess we just…” In the background I could hear the tv. A bus whirled by, and I paused at the corner. “I guess we just didn’t know. We were too wrapped up in our own troubles.”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. As uncomfortable as we felt, I was happy that were having this conversation – albeit a bit late - instead of my parents finding my dead body and a suicide note that no matter how long or well-thought out could never truly explain a thing. For years I envisioned my suicide as the final act in a Shakespearian tragedy, an event so grand and dramatic that only then could people understand how much pain I had been in. I felt that no one would “get it” until I was cold and pale and so very gone, lying in a wooden box. I thought that nothing could convey the agony I felt except my death. But I was wrong. It’s in the continuing to live, to struggle, to slip and slide through life, to ride the ups and downs and to write and speak about it that I can say the most. Where I can elaborate, grow and reflect instead storming out of the room screaming and closing the door and the dialogue forever.

I’d made it through somehow. Many others don’t. I wish I could reach out to every suicidal kid and say, “it won’t always be this way.” But I realize that they have no reason to believe me. Just as I didn’t believe anyone who tried to convince me of the same. You have to keep trying anyway. The alternative is too tragic and sad and wasteful to not.


Side Bar:

Early Warning Signs of Depression:

- Changes in Activity or Energy Level – either sleeping too much or sleeping too little, intense bursts of energy or extended periods of lethargy and fatigue. Loss of pleasure in activities the person used to enjoy. Withdrawing socially.

- Unexplained pains, aches

- Weight loss or gain accompanied with the corresponding change in appetite

- Slowing of movement, loss of agility, a feeling of being in “slow motion”

- Prolonged sadness with no specific cause or perhaps an over-reaction to an event that ordinarily would not illicit such a dramatic reaction

- Unexplained and extended periods of crying

- Guilt, feelings of worthlessness. Feeling that the person is hopeless, helpless, pathetic, worthless, a burden to others

- Loss of self-esteem

- Mood swings and overdramatic reactions – irritability, anger, anxiety, cynicism, ambivalence, frustration, putting oneself down

- Inability to concentrate, shortened attention span, problems in school or work, disorganization, feeling of distraction

- Feelings and thoughts about death or perhaps just “escape” in some vague, indefinite sense. Feeling detached or already “dead” in their body

- Other red flags – self cutting or otherwise burning or harming oneself, self-destructive behavior – promiscuity, drugs, drinking, getting in trouble with the law or in school, “acting out,” and other reckless behavior.

If you suspect that you or a loved one might be depressed, it’s important to bring in reinforcements. Seek out a family member, teacher, or counselor that you feel comfortable talking to. As hard as it may be, try to be as honest and open as you can. No one can help you if you’re holding back information. If you feel there is no one you can talk to, try calling a suicide prevention hot line in your area or find an online support group. Both of these services are anonymous and can be of great help when you’re feeling really alone. If you still aren’t ready to reach out, find someway to vent your emotions, be it journaling, acting, music, painting, collage making or even something as simple as going for walks. As hard as it is try to avoid staying in bed, over or under eating, alcohol, drugs, and other self-destructive behaviors.

If you are feeling suicidal RIGHT NOW, call someone immediately. If you feel you are going to hurt yourself and don’t know how to stop it, dial 911 and explain. It’s a terrifying place to be and the fear of hospitalization probably isn’t helping, but it’s crucial that you get yourself to a safe place. More than likely at the ER you’d be observed and you’d speak to a psychiatrist who’d allow you to go home once the urge has gone, perhaps with some medication and a follow up appointment. Your safety and your health is the ultimate priority and remember that people love you and want to help you. Don’t be afraid to reach out and ask. As scary and embarrassing as it may feel, trust me, in the long run it’ll be for the best. Think of it as if you were really ill or had been drinking – your thinking isn’t as clear as it should be before you climb behind the wheel to drive. Sometimes we all need someone to take our keys and there’s no shame in that.