WomenWhoSlayWednesday: When A Good Girl Gives Up Part Two

#WomenWhoSlayWednesday: When A Good 

Girl Gives Up Part 2

This is a continuation of the #WomenWhoSlayWednesday entry, “When A Good Girl Gives Up” WARNING: This is my story of my first suicide attempt.

I tried to overdose, then laid on the floor waiting to fade away. I thought about who would find me lying peacefully on the floor. This is so unbelievably morbid, and I’m ashamed to type this but it’s my truth. As a television reporter I knew there was a chance my station would never tell my story. Television stations I've worked for didn’t report suicides unless the person was a public figure. I hadn’t really risen to that level of fame so I imagined I’d fade into the distant memory of Hampton Roads viewers. That sucks to type. Gosh this is a hard blog to write.

My first suicide attempt was in May of 2014, and it still brings tears to my eyes. It tears my heart up to know I was so depressed that I wanted to die. Well, as I laid there on the floor wondering what death would feel like something in me panicked.

“What would Sara think?” I thought to myself.

My sister has Down Syndrome. She’s in her 20’s physically but mentally she’s like a school aged child. If you know anything about adults with special needs it’s like they are forever children mentally.  God I’m so ashamed….. It would have really did a number on my sister if I had died. I know that now. I do. My sister saw my parents go through a nasty divorce where they argued around her constantly, her favorite celebrity Michael Jackson died, she lost my Aunt Doris who was her best friend, and I didn’t want to be responsible for more heartache. So as much as I wanted to die that day I picked up the phone.

“Hey, mom! I’ve done something bad,” I said. My mother could always tell in the tone of my voice when I was sad.

“What happened Lauren?” she replied.

“I took some pills and I’m scared,” I replied. Before long my father was knocking at the door.

“Lauren, why did you do this?” he asked in his direct Navy father tone. I needed him to hug me in that moment, tell me it was going to be OK. But, my father bless her heart just doesn’t operate that way.

I very heartlessly replied, “I don’t know.” Before long my Dad was on the phone with my psychiatrist. They both agreed I should go to the emergency room. Long story short the doctors flushed the drug out of my system, and I survived my first suicide attempt. After that I was transported to the psychiatric section of Chesapeake Regional Hospital, and I waited for hours for a psychiatrist to clear me fit to return home. It took ages. When she finally arrived it was close to 3:00 a.m. She explained psychiatrist like her where always overworked and short staffed. She had gone to several hospitals accessing people’s mental health before reaching me. To me this ia a reflection of the tremendous mental health needs in our state, hell in our society. I had tried to commit suicide and it took hours for someone to be able to talk to because staffing is so thin.

The psychiatrist then asked me a series of questions. What was making me sad? What was I doing up until the point of my potential overdose? What stressors were affecting me? Did I have a preoccupation with death?

My responses: everything made me sad, I was researching ways to die the day of my first suicide attempt. My stressors: a hellish, at times toxic career, a man who would rather sleep with a married woman than love me, parents who didn’t understand, shame, guilt, anger, betrayal, and an intense sense of worthless, a feeling that if anyone in my high powered television career knew my pain they’d brand me as crazy and kick me off air. Oddly, death seemed like the best escape from my intense pain.

The therapist left the room, called my mother and came back in my hospital room.

“Lauren, I think you are severely depressed. I am recommending you go to the Virginia Beach Psychiatric Center for a few days. You’ll get stabilized on my anti-depressant meds, have group therapy, and you can recover from this,” she said in a soft voice.

“Well, I can’t leave work that long. People will worry,” I responded. Even in my depression I was still worried about what people thought of and my on-air persona.

“Listen Lauren this is serious. We can do this two ways. You can go willingly or I can have police come to your home access your risk and bring you to the psych ward in the back of a police car.”

With those options, I gave in… and a few days before Memorial Day I spent five days at Virginia Beach Psychiatric Center. 

TO BE CONTINUED…..