As a writer, this has probably been the toughest story for me to write. Although, I wish I could erase the memories, I know that my story will help other people understand mental illness, and, most importantly, I will help people realize that their not alone. My story begins with the darkness; the darkness that overcomes your world, clouds your mind, and develops into hopelessness. On May 17th, 2016, I attempted suicide for the second time in my life. I wanted to end all of the pain and I wanted to drown in my depression. I had no faith in seeking help or praying that their was a light at the end of the tunnel. I called my parents right before I proceeded to cut my wrist. I was laying on the kitchen floor, my eyes closed, and silently crying while my parents begged me to not give up on life. “Please, Kasmine, don’t do this,” My daddy cried. “Please, live for me.”
That’s the only reason I’m here to write my story. My neighbors found me, took me to the hospital, and the next morning I was admitted to Peachford Mental Hospital in Atlanta, GA. I stayed in the hospital for three days and at first I refused to believe that I belonged there. I thought that I was stronger than the other patients and I desperately begged to leave, and continue my chaotic life. I was a writer, a blogger, and playwright. I had rehearsals to direct, a cast to manage, and show to put on at the end of June. However, once I accepted the fact that I had to put my mental health on the forefront, I knew that nothing else mattered until I received the help that I needed; the help that I deserved. I met the most amazing friends while in the hospital. For so long, I had battled with depression and my phobias and I felt so alone, but at Peachford Hospital I was able to find women who could relate to me. We were like a group of super heroes with secret powers that the rest of the world couldn’t handle. Sometimes we couldn’t even handle our own “powers”. After I was released from the hospital, my parents picked me up and they, along with my oldest sister, helped me pack all of my belongings from my one bedroom apartment. I had to break my lease and move from Atlanta back to Alabama with my parents to seek much needed therapy, and that’s where I am right now.
That’s pretty much how I ended up sitting on my old bed, in my old bedroom while typing this story to share with you guys. I begin cognitive behavior therapy to confront my two phobias of dogs and cats on Friday. Although I don’t know what the future has in store for me, I no longer allow PTSD, depression, and anxiety to dictate my life. Right before I attempted suicide, I had barricaded myself in my apartment. I was afraid to leave because of my fear of cats and I felt so alone. Only a few people understand how confined and empty you feel when you’re living with a phobia. No one realizes how many times I would sit in my car for two hours hiding from my neighbor’s cats. Once I finally was capable of getting out of my car, I never made it to my apartment door without peeing on myself. That’s only scratching the surface of my phobia, but I am determined to overcome it.
No one said that life is always roses and cupcakes with extra sprinkles. Life isn’t always easy but I’m devoted to ending the stigma of mental illness. I no longer suffer from it but I fight it everyday and I will continue to fight it because I am not a victim, but a survivor. I will conquer this even if it’s only because I need to for someone else. I just want others to know that you’re not alone and we can survive together. Please don’t allow the darkness to drag you down and drain the hope and faith for better days. You have a purpose to live so, please, don’t give up on yourself.