That Time I Used My 1UP Mushroom IRL—And You Should, Too

It's National Suicide Prevention Week.

So, I wanted to share a little story about a time where a high-achieving, beautiful, late 20-something almost ended it all. Twice.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder, and it's not what you think. I'm not schizophrenic—I don't have multiple personalities. BPD is actually characterized by unstable moods. It's basically bipolar, except instead of bi-weekly, the mood swings are hourly. Daily. Sometimes minute by minute.

As my comedic cousin once pointed out: "That's a lot of feelings in one day."

I didn't know that most people didn't experience this rollercoaster everyday, until he said that. Then I did some research. And it wasn't until my longest-lasting relationship that my boyfriend at the time caved and said "you need help" that I actually booked a doctor's appointment to refer me to a psychiatrist and a therapist.

It was at the beginning of 2020 that I was attending group therapy, and then it ended abruptly due to the pandemic. I thought at the time I had OCD due to family history. Nope. It was just good ol' BPD, hiding in the wake. I was also diagnosed immediately with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD), while the BPD took months to become apparent and diagnosed.

Currently, I take antidepressants for anxiety and depression, anti-psychotics to stabilize my mood, and I have another anti-anxiety medication on deck in the rare instance I need to shut down a panic attack.

The anti-psychotics have been a God-send for my relationship. I used to have delusions that my boyfriend would leave me for someone he would see on the TV—either a real person or a fictional person. My brain did not discriminate. Anything was possible. This is because Borderlines have a fear of real or imagined abandonment.

There came the time in the doctor's office where the nurse practitioner asked my boyfriend, "So, she thinks that Jessica Biel is going to come here and meet you," she said, throwing out a random celebrity that, in turn, instantly made my blood boil.

"Yes," he replied.

I wanted to retaliate and justify the fact that the doctor was correct. Jessica Biel could come here, and there is no reason she wouldn't want to meet my boyfriend. After all, I'd been around celebrities and I'd talked to them myself as a red carpet reporter in Hollywood. But I knew that because the doctor was talking to my boyfriend in a concerned tone, that now was not the time for arguments.

Because I had to get a referral to a psychiatrist, I struggled a bit more for a bit longer, but the doctor had the decency to start me on antidepressants while I waited for an appointment to open.

"Warning: may cause suicidal thoughts in those 25 years or younger" the prescription read. Deep inside, I was worried that the pills would affect me as it did my younger counterparts because I was a mere 28 years old. And there was something wrong with my brain.

"Your brain is not operating on the same level as your boyfriend and I are" the doctor told me bluntly, in front of the love of my life.

"It's brave of you to come in here and get help," she continued, but all I heard was that I was stupid, and I was the last to know. It didn't do anything for my confidence, and when I finally saw my psychiatrist, I was first diagnosed with a case of "anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem."

Borderlines are notorious for going from 0 to 60 with their emotions. Every time I felt jealous from a trigger (someone on TV that I thought my boyfriend was interested in, a girl that he saw on the Internet while looking at his phone, or any time he glanced for a split second at a female on the street) my adrenaline would surge and I would go full flight-or-fight mode. Except I wasn't going anywhere. I was going into full fight mode, and I'd induce myself into a fit of rage. There would be tears. There would be endless questions. There would be hours of reassurance to follow.

My boyfriend's reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere and that I was pretty and worthy was my drug. I was addicted to him and his validation. It's because Borderlines like me have an unstable sense of self, and we tend to only see things in black in white, or all-good or all-bad. This is called "splitting" and it means that we go from putting someone on a pedestal to thinking they're a piece of crap and that we should leave them.

Well, I also split on myself.

Frequently, might I add.

I would seek external validation to confirm that I was worthy when I split on myself and convinced myself that I wasn't. Then I became dependent upon it. I could no longer self-soothe, as they call it.

Don't get me wrong. Some days (or minutes) I felt amazing and beautiful. But most days, I wasn't sure who the hell was staring back at me in the mirror, and my brain played tricks on me as to whether or not she was worthy of anything at all.

I did everything I could to save my relationship. I dotted the calendar with smiley face stickers every time I successfully avoided a fit. My psychiatrist even suggested knocking myself out with the panic attack medication that put me to sleep instead of sabotaging my relationship. This was during the time I had to wait months to see my therapist, the only one who could help me with what I needed to learn to live with my, at the time, undiagnosed BPD.

During this time, I had another fit of rage. A fit of feeling unworthy. I fought with my boyfriend, and he fought back with me. We weren't aware I had BPD, and my fits of extreme jealousy made no sense.

After all, the dumb nurse practitioner said, "I can help with the anxiety, but I can't help with the jealousy." So I thought I was doomed.

I wanted it all to end.

I did not want to go on feeling like I wasn't worth it. I didn't know what the point of life was any more. I was either jobless, or in a job I hated. I was struggling financially. I was dependent upon my boyfriend at this time. I couldn't help but get jealous over TV actresses, game characters, and anime characters with their unrealistic body standards. I was incapable of letting my boyfriend's reassurance permanently sink in, even if I wrote it down.

There came a time where I was in a fit of tears, and I had enough. My boyfriend was a gun collector and he had multiple guns lying around the house in case anyone ever broke in. There was one lying in the open, right by the TV, where I sat, bawling. I was so mad and so sick of it all. I was a Dean's List and Honor Roll student, deep in debt. I was young and beautiful and approached for dates all the time, and then I got fat. I was a former employee of a well-loved entertainment company, and now I lived in Wisconsin with nothing to show for it. I split on myself constantly, and that day was no different.

I reached for the gun, and I cocked it back as quickly as I wanted to disappear.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" my boyfriend yelled, carefully taking the gun, unloading it, and popping the bullet out of the chamber.

He was so mad. And he tried to make me feel bad for trying it.

But for a little bit, I felt no remorse.

I felt nothing at all.

I ran through the list of people who would miss me if I would have ended it, and then I started to feel bad.

I cried like a child, and we held each other after that. I think I was just misunderstood. After all, how could any one understand what kind of mental torture I was going through?

I chalked it up to the warning on the antidepressants, and I called the psychiatrist to cut down my dose.

----

The second time wasn't an attempt. It was just intense thoughts that I should probably die.

I was happily in my new apartment, separated from the same boyfriend who turned out to be verbally abusive. He took the liberty to text me about my every flaw and every insecurity that he kept track of for the past 3 years of our relationship.

I read the text message again and again. The contents were horrible. Terrible. They were something that no one should ever have to read.

It triggered that voice of doubt in the back of my head. It made me think that I was not good enough. I would never be good enough. Even though I had found another boyfriend who loved me already, I felt that I had been cursed. After all, this boyfriend gave me a lifelong STD. What was a 29-year-old diagnosed with BPD, PTSD, and GAD to do? It felt like there was nothing left.

I started to panic. I couldn't remember where I left my panic attack pills. I was living alone, and I could only manage to remember that you should reach out in the instance that you felt alone and suicidal.

I contemplated calling the national hotline. I was scared what I would be met with on the other line. So I told some friends what happened and what he texted. I was mostly met with "sorry" but I told someone that I felt really down. Like, really low. And she asked me, "Can you call your therapist?"

I proceeded to call my therapist and I burst into uncontrollable tears. I could barely talk on the phone, but I was put on the phone with a nurse who tried to calm me and who called my brother to help me in person. He was instructed to take me to the ER. Borderlines are notorious for not having money, as we're so impulsive. I didn't have money to go to the ER. I felt like I had no other option. My mind scanned through the things in my apartment to help relieve me from my pain.

I couldn't think of anything but my knife.

"Do you have a plan?" the nurse on the phone asked.

"I am trying to think of something but I can't think of anything," I wailed back into the phone.

"Okay, hang in there, your brother is coming soon," she said. "I am going to stay on the line with you until he gets there. Okay?"

"Okay," I agreed. She asked me about weekend plans and, though I could see through her attempt to switch my mind to the positive, I couldn't help but gush over things I wanted to do this weekend.

My brother arrived shortly after, sleep deprived on third shift, but there for me. I was so nervous that he was going to be mad at me or disappointed in me for having these thoughts. But he wasn't. He just wanted to make sure that I was okay.

I consider my brother to be an angel on that day. The nurses, too. I got to speak to my therapist shortly after my brother arrived at my front door, and she said something to snap me out of my line of thinking. I read her the text messages.

"He's listing all of your insecurities and using them against you. What he's saying is not true."

That's all I needed to hear, apparently. I instantly broke out of this intense brain fog, like I was just released from some sort of otherworldly spell.

My mother arrived later to my apartment, with a message from my grandma--the last one I would ever get from her before she passed.

"Don't listen to him. He's trying to hurt you," she said.

No wiser words were ever said.

I was thankful in that moment for everyone around me who came to support me. It meant everything to me that they tried to help me, and I will keep my loved ones in mind if I ever do feel low like that again in the future. I also know now that I should call my therapist.

My brother ended up helping me take my panic attack medication, and therefore I didn't need to go to the ER. I was calmed down and I didn't have a plan when it was time to go to the hospital.

I survived words on my phone that could have ended up killing me, and I am so grateful that I got to power through that moment. Today, I have a job I love with a company I adore, and I have a cat who loves to cuddle with me. I have family who loves to be around me, and friends who do, too. I have a new boyfriend who loves me more than anything, and I have people that are inspired by my words.

If I left this world, I would be doing it a disservice.

I promise myself and you, dear reader, that I will not go on my own accord. I will go when the universe takes me. And hopefully that's not until I'm 100.

Are you experiencing suicidal thoughts? Call 800-273-8255. Did you learn anything from this article? Consider leaving a tip. I wish you all the best. You and I are worth it.