A Second Day

CHAPTER TWO

Hurt and Healing When the bitter tree was planted

“For everything under the sun there is a time. This is the season of your awkward harvesting, When the pain takes you where you would rather not go, Through the white curtain of yesterdays to a place You had forgotten you knew from the inside out; And a time when that bitter tree was planted That has grown always invisibly beside you And whose branches your awakened hands Now long to disentangle from your heart.” by John O’Donohue

A Second Day

I tried to end my life in 2008. I want to be clear on the terminology because it is important to name it correctly. I tried to die by suicide. Fortunately, I was unsuccessful. I used to describe my fall into the darkest nights of my soul in just a few words. I would say, “I went from a successful, happy business executive, wife and mother to suicidal in the span of two weeks.” As I reflect now at the age of sixty-one, I know it is not that simple. Maybe the fall took thirty years and not two weeks.

Either way, I almost ended my life at age forty-eight. I grew up in a happy home with a life of privilege. Our parents were loving and kind and modeled for me what a happy marriage could look like. They provided well for us, gave to charities, volunteered for organizations that helped others and every Sunday; we went to a Presbyterian church with liberal views. I was the late life “accident” as my brother and sister were 10 and 13 years older than I was. I don’t remember much about living with my siblings, especially my sister, as she moved out to attend college when I was only five years old. So, I grew up attending church every Sunday. I sometimes describe to others that I felt like I was “allergic” to church from a young age. Perhaps moderately agitated, like having a “church intolerance” in my gut, would be more accurate. I remember suffering a series of verbal abuses from the director of the children’s choir at a very young age. Generally, I cannot recall that people behaved much like Jesus would have in the church building, so I spent most of my formative years trying to get out of church.

They did not see me as an equal colleague but only as a woman in their male environment.

Stress and inner conflict propelled me forward through college and in my early career. I was outwardly friendly and cheerful but internally somewhat angry and wanting to prove my worth. I was not called to any particular profession, so I ended up with a marketing major at the University of Maryland because my father had described what “business” might look like as a career. I landed a successful job in the food retail business and rose through the ranks over the years, eventually becoming a high-level executive. For the next thirty years, I loved life, or so I thought. Most of my time was spent trying to be the perfect employee, wife, and mother. Proving myself. In the background, I was burdened by guilt. At work, I felt guilty that I wasn’t at home. At home, I felt guilty that I wasn’t at work. The retail food business is a grind, with razor-thin profitability and a 24-hour cycle of success or failure. In marketing, you could go from hero to zero several times a week. And early on, being a woman in a primarily male-dominated industry was challenging. I recall snippets of names I was called, including Yankee (weird to me moving from Maryland to North Carolina in 1995), bitchy, bossy, and one gentleman even filed a sexual harassment claim against me for a harmless situation that he regularly tolerated and participated in with his male counterparts. I was asked to fetch coffee for salesmen, who were later embarrassed when they saw the title on my business card. I always cheerfully served them and do admit to some delight from seeing their discomfort. They did not see me as an equal colleague but only as a woman in their male environment. Once, a salesman asked if a co-worker and I wanted to meet with him at a mall restaurant because he thought we would love to go shopping afterward. But besides these more subtle innuendos and treatment, I was often verbally abused by several bosses. I tried not to be bothered by any of these behaviors. But now that I work in the mental health profession, I suspect they were adding up to years of “little T trauma”. A wise co-worker once told me to consider this. If you have a car, and every day you hit the side of it with a small hammer, it will do a small amount of damage. But after 30 years of this, you would have a dent that looked like you had experienced a major car accident. Maybe that is what happened to me.

In 2008, in the middle of the Great Recession, it all hit me at once. I went from my “normal” self to suicidal in about two weeks. I started waking up at 1:30 a.m. and could not get back to sleep. I lost my appetite for food and all activities I used to enjoy. I was supposed to go on a business trip to Germany (across the Atlantic and back in three short days), and I did not sleep the entire time. I became paranoid, convinced I was going to lose my job and panicked because I was the sole financial supporter of my family. I even thought that my work computer was “watching me”! After the trip to Germany, I was sure my family would be better off without me and more secure with my life insurance money. Instead of going to work, I drove to the parking lot of a local church, and I tried to swallow a handful of Tylenol PMs. In and out of my mouth, the congealed wad of gel caps went until finally, I spat them out. To this day, I can still taste the bitterness of that sticky blue mass. I bumbled through the complicated web of getting mental health help. It did not help that I had no idea what major clinical depression was, and once I was “in it”, I was incapacitated. The local primary care office was of little help, as they told me, “Everyone feels this way right now” when I mentioned my low moods. They never asked me if I was contemplating suicide, and I walked out with a bag full of pills and prescriptions that essentially could have aided my attempts to take my life. By now, I was also paranoid about taking any of these drugs, so that was fortunate. A three-session “free” Employee Assistance Program experience was of no assistance as I never forged a therapeutic relationship with my counselor. But it was enough for me to check the box that said, “I have gone to counseling.” I fantasized about suicide as the only way to free my tormented soul. “What if I just step out into traffic? How can I hang myself in the garage and make it look like an accident?” Researching my life insurance policy assured me that it would pay out. I felt utterly worthless – my family would be better off without me but with the money. I was convinced.

I became paranoid, convinced I was going to lose my job and panicked because I was the sole financial supporter of my family.

I kept my suicidal thinking a secret from my family because of my upbringing.

I kept my suicidal thinking a secret from my family because of my upbringing. My mother always said that suicide was the worst of sins. It is murder, and only selfish people commit suicide. My evangelical sister told me to pray more and read the Bible. I later found that both suffered from significant depression but kept it a secret or did not believe it themselves.

I now know that judgement (of self and others), stigma, and secretiveness with an overlay of religious messages around sin and what it means to be worthy are common in the mental health journey. All through this, I was going to work six days a week, trying to be the first there and the last to leave. My paranoia told me they would fire me if I missed a day. The workplace was not friendly to my depression. I heard a slew of unhelpful advice – “Put on your big girl pants”; “Go get a massage”; “I hate to pee in your bowl of Cheerios, but you need to get a grip”; “You were not well at the beginning of the year but did better at the end of the year – but you are ‘rounding down’ to be generally effective.” I had never been rated anything less than outstanding in my career, so this was devastating. More than a year later, I finally found the help I needed from a combination of a good therapist and antidepressant medicines.

I felt like a superwoman when I recovered because my brain was back online. I returned to school while working to earn a master of Entrepreneurship as I wanted to start a business that helped autistic adults find meaningful work after I retired. I told this to a coworker “friend”, who then told my boss, who I believe interpreted it to mean I was not committed to the company. It is odd to think about this now, but I did end up losing my job, and my depression was, in my opinion, a contributing factor. But it was one of the best things that could have happened to me. I was spiritually awake for the first time in 48 years. I started a new career as an administrator in a spiritually integrated mental health organization. That is where I am now, and it gives me great fulfilment. I can tell my story; whenever I do, it frees people to tell theirs. Fe Anam Avis coined a term for those who think about or attempt, but do not complete, suicide. You cannot call them survivors because that term is reserved for those who have lost a loved one to suicide. Fe calls “us” Second Day people, and I am proud to be one.

Paula had invited Joel, Amy, and her friend Kofi to her apartment for supper after Bible Study the following week. They bustled in, all cheerful and happy to be there, but she was still feeling quite shaken after hearing Barbara’s story. It brought up many personal memories, questions and fears. Paula asked Kofi to say grace as they sat down to a hearty meal of pumpkin soup, hot crusty homemade bread, and generous amounts of butter. She appreciated his poetic prayers, which had a simple depth that filled her with much gratitude.

Dear God, please bless the food before us The friends beside us And the love between us There is always something that wants to thrive within us.

A perfect storm of abuse and stress

Over supper, the conversation has been light and easy and helped Paula to put her unease aside. After the dishes had been stacked, she asked Joel to help her organize the coffee while the others settled on the comfortable sofas.

Kofi was speaking as they returned with the tray; his voice was clear and soft. “Barbara’s story so moved me. The term ‘Second Day People’ is new to me. She was courageous to share such a personal and difficult story.” Amy took a long, slow sip of her coffee. “She didn’t talk about what helped her get through these profound struggles. I’d love to ask her what the strengths are inside her that helped her get through. Healing Centered Engagement teaches us that it’s important to look for what’s strong, especially when the challenges seem so overwhelming. There is always something that wants to thrive within us. Understanding more about that impulse for life that Barbara carried in her spirit would have helped others to know how to support and care for her.”