I woke up in the ICU with tubes down my throat. My life had been saved, but I wasn’t relieved — I was devastated.
April is National Hope Month. But is hope real? Or is it just a beautiful lie we cling to?
My husband was leaving me. I had lost the privilege of raising my 16-year-old son, who moved across the country to live with extended family to finish high school. I was drowning in $150,000 in debt from a manic episode spending spree. I hadn’t worked outside the home in 20 years.
My bipolar disorder had not only driven me to attempt suicide, but had stolen my ability to perform daily functions like shower, change my clothes, or get out of bed. Rock-bottom felt endless. Hope felt impossible.
But hope is not a feeling. Hope is not a wish. It does not guarantee rescue, nor does it erase pain. Hope dares us to believe — not that everything will be OK, but that something could be.
As a suicide survivor, I know the razor-thin edge between hope and hopelessness. My hopelessness led me to the brink of death. Hope was what made the doctors fight to bring me back.
Hope redirected me from a blind alley to an open door, which appeared through Sharon, a store manager who took a chance on me when no one else would and gave me my first job. That opportunity set me on the path to repaying my debts through hard work, negotiating with creditors, selling my jewelry, and thanks to the support of my husband.
Hope rarely roars in. More often, it shows up in the quiet, ordinary form of another person.
Rebekah, my therapist, met me in my bipolar darkness — not to drag me out, but to teach me how to find the light myself.
