So Now What?

One Month Mark of a Failed Suicide Attempt

TW/CW: Suicide attempt/depression

On Monday, August 12th, I made the decision to attempt suicide. I was at the point of no return. Over the course of the summer, I was fighting depressive episode after episode while trying to maintain a normal facade. The medication I was on for the past few years was no longer effective and became overpowered by my depression and anxiety. I reached out to friends but was scared of overwhelming them. My problems were mounting and spiraling out of control. I was losing my fight to continue. 

Two days earlier, I was watching Deadpool/Wolverine, laughing and feeling like myself. By Monday morning, I woke up planning my own death. The urge to complete this mission became my sole focus. I called off of work. A friend later sent me a text to check in. I responded with a brief, “I’m doing fine,” and thanked him for reaching out. I stayed in bed throughout the morning plotting my final move. By 1:30 pm, I was prepared to take on this mission. I took the two unopened bottles of antipsychotics with me, and quietly snuck out of my house without my parents knowing. 

I raced to the Peabody Estate Park located several minutes away with the sound of Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blaring in my car stereo. The title of the song provided that affirmed feeling that I was not going to be stopped in what I was about to do. I parked my car and started sending a text thread to 11 of my friends saying my goodbye, my apologies to them, and ended with the sentence, “This world is too much for this sensitive soul.”  I sent out a text to my brother Tony apologizing to him and told him where he could find me.  As soon as I sent my messages, my phone exploded with call after call. I kept ignoring them and was determined not to answer to anyone. I proceeded to take the bottles of pills and started swallowing them. In the meantime, I received a text from my brother pleading with me to call him. I began feeling disoriented and had trouble breathing. I decided to call Tony. I wanted him to hear me out. After all, I had never told him what I was going through and the least he deserved was an explanation from me. I was screaming between my sobs at him that I could no longer do this. He reminded me of how I am the “strong” one in the family. I shot back, “But I don’t want to be strong anymore.” What I needed in that moment was for my younger brother to console me during my time of need. Tony kept telling me repeatedly to hang in there. He had his fiancé on the other line with the 911 operator. The firefighters and paramedics came within minutes not long after I ingested the pills. I became angry and frustrated that my plan didn’t succeed and that I would later have to face my family about what I did. I then saw a missed phone call from my mom as I was taken on a stretcher and into the ambulance. She now knows. My heart sank. I badly wanted to disappear.

In hindsight, the decision to call my brother was an act that would save my life.  When he finally arrived to the ER, I was overwhelmed with regret and guilt. I started apologizing to him asking him if he’ll ever forgive me. Tony sat quietly with tears welling down his face. I asked him to hug me, and for the first time in a long while, I found myself in the role of being his big brother that wanted to protect him. This was a role I knew well, as I had always been there to provide comfort and protection for others, including my elderly, disabled parents. Yet, despite my need to care for others, I had never felt protected or safe myself, a feeling rooted in my abusive upbringing. The hurt child within me still lingered, casting a shadow over my present.

I stayed overnight in the hospital with a bedside nurse watching me around the clock. The psychiatrist came in the next afternoon and informed me that I would have to be transferred to a psych unit for a week. I was crushed. I felt as if I was getting punished for attempting to take my own life. What I desired was to return home and pretend that nightmare never existed. I reflected on how someone like me—surrounded by a strong network of supportive friends, equipped with resources, therapy experience, a frequent traveler, holder of a Master's degree, and with a stable full-time job, living a relatively privileged life—could unravel so quickly. Just two months earlier, I had celebrated my birthday at a karaoke party with a large group of close friends, confidently declaring that this summer would be amazing. I was fresh off winning a major award for my podcast and had booked an exciting end-of-year trip to Vietnam and Cambodia. Everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Yet, as the summer progressed, my mental health deteriorated to the point where my life was in danger and I found myself admitted to a psych unit—something I never could have imagined at the start of the summer. Ironically, six years earlier, I had arranged for my dad to be hospitalized in that very same psych unit for mental health issues. As the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—like father, like son. It is not lost on me that I’ve been carrying the intergenerational trauma that’s been passed down from him. His survival as a Khmer Rouge refugee created a lifetime of trauma for him, and through his parenting, oftentimes that trauma which at times turned both physically and emotionally abusive was deposited onto me and my brothers. I reflect on the loneliness I felt as a young non-English-speaking child, then later as a non-Vietnamese/Khmer speaker, and one of the few students of color in my neighborhood. These early experiences shaped my later struggles in my professional life, dating, and relationships, and led me to view myself as an outsider, someone without a true sense of belonging.

My weeklong stay at the psych unit began as I had anticipated—with considerable difficulty. I was sleeping on a twin bed with a hard mattress and two thin pillows, and there were no clocks in each bedroom. My window only offered a view of another hospital building, and my phone and personal belongings were confiscated. No outside items were allowed, and I was provided with only three days' worth of clothing for a seven-day stay (at least there was a washer and dryer). Sequestered on the third floor, I was confined to that area and felt like Rapunzel trapped in her ivory tower. On my first night, I sobbed as regret took over me; my new roommate tried to assure me that I was going to be okay eventually. I felt the crushing weight of losing my autonomy and freedom. On the first day of group therapy, I remained silent, barely able to make eye contact with anyone—a stark contrast to my usual extroverted self. I had to ask the nurses for permission for even the simplest tasks, such as shaving or getting a cup of water, and I had to adhere to the same meal schedule as the other patients. I had to wake up at 7 am to get my vitals checked. I was given a sleeping aid and an anti-anxiety med each night to help me fall asleep. I was most deprived of what keeps me sane—access to my music. How is any of this going to make me recover? 

After two days, I began to accept my current reality. I joined in on the group sessions, engaged in other group activities and bonded with my peer mates. I journaled regularly and did coloring activities to pass the time. Jessica, one of my peers who was 20 years younger and had arrived two days earlier, reassured me that this was a safe space for all of us. She became a person that I closely bonded with as we shared our stories and laughter together. She kept reminding me that there’s no possible way that I’m over 40 years old as she insisted that I was still in my late 20’s. This made for a good self-ego boost. I was able to joke with and had meaningful conversations with the nurses and counselors. One of the nurses commented on my Yeah Yeah Yeah’s t-shirt which then turned to a discussion about Michelle Zauner’s “Crying in Hmart” book. The social worker I was assigned to was quite supportive and provided emotional support. The hospital psychiatrist was encouraged by my gradual progress each day. I was away from the outside distractions of the world and my responsibilities, and I became increasingly safe in my current environment. I was given a change in medication. My diet and health were under control. More importantly, I had people actively looking out for my safety and protection—a feeling that was long unfamiliar to me.

I was granted limited visits from Tony, who was allowed to see me twice, each visit lasting one hour, but it was more than enough. My brother does not have a gift of gab. After 20 minutes of talking, we ran out of things to say and spent the next 20 minutes in awkward silence, locking eyes and then repeating the same things we had already discussed. Yet in the silence, I found comfort knowing that I could finally trust him with my feelings—something that had never existed in our relationship before. 

I made significant progress during my stay that I was granted my discharge a day earlier after spending my time there for a week. The thoughts of suicide dissipated and was replaced with how I planned to retake my life again. I spoke with my brothers and a few close friends using the hospital phone, and took comfort knowing how many people were reaching out to them to get an update from me. My brother asked what I wanted for lunch once I got out, and I simply replied, "Panda Express." Surprised, he asked, "Why?" I told him, "When you're stuck eating hospital food, anything from the outside tastes good." He laughed and said, "Please, pick something better." So, Lao Sze Chuan it was!

Coming home to my mom was difficult. How could I explain what I had done? Would she ever trust me again? Will I ever be able to express how I feel to her through our shared broken tongues? As soon as she saw me, she broke down, hugging me tightly. Through her tears, she feared that the next time I leave, I might never come home at all.

I saw the 100+ Facebook and Instagram notifications, and several missed texts, DMs, and calls. I finally listened to the frantic voicemails from my friends and saw the text thread that I created. On the thread, my friends rallied and didn’t waste a second trying to find out where I was in the midst of their collective frenzy. I was overwhelmed as I scrolled through my phone after not having it for a week, and figuring out how to slowly reach out to my loved ones without feeling overloaded.

Late Chinese American author Iris Chang said in her final letter, “When you believe you have a future, you think in terms of generations and years. When you do not, you live not just by the day — but by the minute.” Throughout the summer, I was living between the hour and minute, not even considering the big trip I have planned for the end of the year, or the concerts that I have coming up, the projects I’ve been planning, or the hangouts that I promised many of my friends, and even a promise to take my Mom to Asia on Argyle to get Vietnamese food. I was often thinking of whether I should end myself tomorrow, and in some cases, in the next hour. I would distract myself with music, a phone call to a friend, or a quick walk outside, but soon my suicidal thoughts would return, and the cycle would start all over again.

Since coming back home, I’m adjusting well to my new medication. I often tell my brother and mom where I’m going and who I’m going with as their fears for me are still fresh. I have built a stronger bond with my brothers. I’ve had many heart-to-heart conversations with friends and family each night.  My friends and family provided me with a supportive, non-judgmental space to share my feelings, which was crucial to my recovery.  I went to two concerts (Missy Elliott and Green Day) with my closest friends. I have since returned back to work. I find myself having a sense of humor about my hospitalization. I have had many more pleasant days than I do bad ones. I’m back to working on my Substack newsletter and floating around a few new ideas. I am going to embark on my trip to Vietnam and Cambodia in December. I have a new therapist and psychiatrist, and I’ll be entering an Intensive Outpatient Program (IOP). 

However, I am far from recovered. I’m not the same person I was after my attempt. I still face flashbacks to August 12th on a daily basis.  I refused to drive near the park where I attempted. I find it difficult to go to places by myself. I recently found an extra bottle the other day (same prescription that I was trying to unalive myself with) and knew that if it was in my reach on that day, I would have no doubt taken it and be faced with potential dangerous consequences. I still have passive suicide ideations that come up from time to time. I recognize how healing and recovery are not linear and do not have a one-size fits all solution. I know that this will be a lifelong and sometimes messy process in my journey. The increase in suicides are high among those who were recently discharged from hospitalization. Here's an article about the increase in suicides after discharge. I face chances of another relapse, either into re-hospitalization, or worse, a successful attempt. What I hope for are opportunities to improve the quality of my life, surround myself with those that make me feel safe and cared for, and a more manageable outcome in dealing with adversity. Here's an important read on this topic by Dr. Devon Price on how to comfort those that face suicidal ideations and attempts. 

As I reflect on the one-month anniversary and that September is Suicide Awareness Month, I am grateful to be alive and able to share my story, yet mindful of how quickly my brain can still betray me at any given moment. I am thankful to my friends and family that rallied me in my recovery process. More importantly, I do feel a little more hopeful and working to find ways to heal with the new tools that I’ve been given. Mental health is a long game and I hope to be there thriving when it’s all said and done.