Hi, guys. Welcome to my blog. My name is Jessy, and I would like to share my story with you. I’m hoping that, by sharing this, people who are struggling with anxiety and depression the same way that I have struggled with it, may be able to recognize the same symptoms in themselves or in the people around them before it’s too late. This won’t be easy for a lot of you to read, and it's long, but bare with me. My story has a happy ending. A lot of others don't. I actually wrote this blog about a year ago. However, in the last 6 months alone, I've lost two more friends to suicide. Therefore, I'm coming back to this to make revisions and updates, as I've recovered more repressed memories from this time in my life. Also, feel free to share this story as much as you can, as I'd like to reach as many people as possible with it. This story begins in Nashville, Tennessee.

I moved to Nashville in September of 2012 from Marlow, Oklahoma. It was my first time moving away from home and being completely and financially independent from my family. I was 24 years old, and moved there to live with my roommate from college, who was one of my best friends at the time. She told me that I could move in with her, as her previous roommate had backed out, and I wouldn’t have to worry about paying rent until I found a job. I immediately jumped on the chance. I had always wanted to move away from my small town, and I definitely LOVED Nashville the first time that I had visited. So, I packed my bags and took my brand new Honda Hybrid vehicle, that my grandparents has just bought me, and drove the long 14-hour drive to my new home. Within the first week of my being there, I had an interview with a company called LifeWay Christian Resources, for a Universal Representative position, and I totally nailed it. That was also where my roommate worked at the time, so I was able to use her for a reference. They called me back after a few days and told me I had a second-round interview. I nailed that, as well. Then, I waited PATIENTLY for two weeks and didn’t even apply for any other jobs because I knew that’s where God wanted me to work. They finally got back to me and told me that I had the job, and that I would start on October 16th. I was ecstatic. I was so thankful that it had all worked out so well. I was living in Nashville, I was living with my best friend, and I got a job at an amazing company. It was the best I had ever felt. When I went in for orientation, there were about 10 or 12 other young adults who were going through training with me. And, to this day, I would say that those people were some of THE best and most amazing individuals that I had ever met. We all bonded extremely quickly, as a lot of us were new to Nashville and didn’t really know anyone else. So, we worked together, and we spent a lot of our free time together, as well. Some of us even got to be extras in a Gavin DeGraw music video. It was perfect. I was the happiest I had ever been.

me on my 25th birthday

gavin degraw duh

Cut to a year later, end of 2013/beginning of2014. My roommate was engaged to her longtime boyfriend, I was a bridesmaid in her wedding, I had been promoted at work to a Universal Representative 2 (which came with the tiniest pay raise) and my best friend from high school had decided to move to Nashville, as well! It was the best! My two best friends in the world were in Nashville with me, I had a great job, and I worked with the best people. My best friend and I were able to find a REALLY nice rent house (in a not so great neighborhood north of Nashville) but we were so happy! That house is still one of my favorite places I have ever lived, and that was one of the best years of my life. Of course, we had some hard times, too. Our house was broken into and ransacked and a lot of our things were stolen, but it could have been worse. PLUS, my old co-worker and friend was able to move into our third bedroom and live with us with his puppy! Amazing, right? What a life.

at my roommate's wedding

Well, after the year in that house, I decided that I wanted to live closer to my work, which was in downtown Nashville. The other two worked south of Nashville in the Franklin area. We decided to go ahead and go our separate ways, house wise. We were all okay with that, but we were for sure going to miss seeing each other so much. I had a hard time finding a place on my budget close to my job and it took me a little time. So, another co-worker of mine let me stay with her until I was able to get something. That was also great. She was an amazing friend to me and we had a lot of fun together. We both loved singing, and music, and coffee, and conversations. I was incredibly thankful to her for letting me crash. I finally found a little duplex house that was about 7 minutes from my work and that was in my budget. It was great! It wasn’t the nicest place that I had ever lived, but I wasn’t that picky. I was just happy to have a place. By this time we were at the end of 2014. I am still living my best life. I moved in in September of that year and I didn’t have any furniture. Luckily, I had a friend come through for me and let me have a couch that she didn’t need anymore. I had a bed, a desk, and a loveseat. Just enough to live a very minimalist life. There was also an opening at work with the Web and Technical Team. I knew that I was going to apply because I spent most of my breaks at work going over to that area of work and hanging out with the guys on that team. There were amazing and all treated me as if I were their little sister. Plus, I absolutely adored the supervisor on that team. I applied in October of 2014 and got the job! It came with a significant pay raise and I would become a salary worker, as opposed to an hourly one. With that raise, I went and bought myself a nice, little TV. I was so, so happy. I can’t even tell you how happy I was.

before

I tell you all of this, to give you the appropriate background info that you need. All of these things are significant pieces to my story. Let's continue.

During that next month or so, something shifted. I had an experience that shook me to my core and set off a series of events that has forever changed me. So, basically, I had always been a heavy girl. When I made the move to Nashville, I had just had a lap band surgery and just started a new routine of working out and measuring everything I ate and being on an incredibly strict diet. From June of 2012 to October of 2014, I had lost a little over 300 pounds. I looked amazing, but I still felt like a very heavy girl and I was the most insecure that I had ever been. I was self-conscious about everything. I was OBSESSED with working out and losing as much weight as possible. I got to a point where I was even passing out during my jogs because I wasn’t eating enough food. It went from a really healthy thing to a really unhealthy thing really fast. It was also the first time in my life where I had guys interested in dating me. I had no idea HOW to do that. I didn’t understand why anyone would want to date me because, in my mind, I was undateable. So, I would turn those people down and say to myself that I would date when I was skinny. Newsflash, I was skinny. I just didn’t think that I was. Hello, body dysmorphia. You honestly suck.

the beginning of my weight loss journey

yeah i was real super skinny, but thought i was huge

Sometime towards the end of October, my church friends and I were all going out to celebrate a guy from church coming back to town. He had moved away about a year or so before and was coming to town to visit. I didn’t really know him because he had moved away when I first started going to that church, but I knew that everyone loved him and that he used to be in a position of leadership in the church. We all met up at a local little dive bar to hang out. It was packed that night and we were only able to find one open booth. It was a large booth, but there were about 7 or 8 of us. We decided to all just squeeze into it, anyways. I somehow ended up next to this guy that everyone loved. And, yeah, he was great. He was kind, and funny, and generous. However, after about an hour or so, things started to change. He had had a few drinks, which we all were drinking, but then he started trying to buy ME drinks. Now, normally, my philosophy in life is to never turn down a free drink, obviously, but something about the way that he was pushing it made me say no. Then he kept insisting that I should drink more and kept asking over and over. I finally accepted one so he would stop harassing me about it. I was uncomfortable. I wanted out of the situation. But I talked myself down by saying, “Oh, he’s just a nice guy who’s had one too many. He’s harmless.” He wasn’t. After he bought me the drink, I felt his hand on my knee. Then I felt it move up my thigh. I squirmed in my seat to try and let him see that I was uncomfortable with it. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn't care. I was crammed into the booth up against the wall. There were about three other people on my side of the booth, including him, blocking me from getting out. Then his hand made its way to the small of my back. At this point, I stopped talking. I was completely out of the conversation. If someone had said my name, I wouldn’t have heard. All I could hear was the muted buzz of nothing in my ears. It felt like I had cotton in my head preventing me from fully listening to the sounds of people around me. Finally, his hand had made its way to my butt. He kept it there for a minute, and then started rubbing his hand up and down and back and forth. He put his hand in my back pocket and squeezed a little too tightly. I was in full on panic mode and I finally announced, rather loudly, that I had to go to the restroom. All three people that were sitting on my side had to get up from the cramped booth to let me out. I was so glad. I could breathe again, and I figured I’d go to the restroom and when I came back, he’d be on the inside of the booth and I’d be on the outside. Well, that’s not what happened. It turns out that, after I got up, he got up too. He went to the bar to get another drink. When I came back from the bathroom, there he was on the outside of the booth with the only open spot right there next to him. I didn’t want to ask anyone to switch spots with me because I didn’t want to say what had happened. They had known him way longer than they had known me, and I was silently hoping that he had taken the hint when I had gotten up so abruptly. When I sat back down, conversation kind of went back to normal and he was keeping his hands to himself. My good friend showed up at that point and had to squeeze in on the other side of me. I was hoping that would keep him from trying anything again. But then, after a few minutes, there it was again. That stupid hand on my leg. I stopped breathing. I was trapped again. And then that stupid hand slithered on up again. And up, and up, and up. Then it was down the back of my pants. I froze. He eventually took it out after a few minutes and I was able to take a breath. But then my worst nightmare happened. He moved the hand to my front thigh. Then, he was putting it down the front of my pants. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t talk. I just couldn’t. My vision went black and I just let it happen. Finally, after a few seconds that seemed like a million lifetimes, the group decided they were ready to head home. Mr. Hand asked me and my friend if we were going to keep hanging out. She saw my face and knew immediately that something was wrong, She answered for the both of us and said no. Everyone left but my friend and I. Then she asked, “Jessy, what’s wrong. I can tell by your face that something happened. What is it?” I spilled. I told her everything that had happened and let it all out. I was wrecked. I mean, I had never even held hands with a guy or kissed anyone. I couldn’t understand what had just happened. She nodded and said, “I had a feeling that’s what it was.” After seeing the shocked look on my face, she explained that it wasn’t the first time that this guy had harassed a girl in the church. And she then let me know that, guess what, HE’S MARRIED WITH A TODDLER. I think at this point I threw up in my mouth and just wanted to bury myself in a hole and never come out. Even as we were talking this dude had found me on Facebook and messaged me asking me to come over to his hotel room for an "after party." Gross. After this night, and after talking with my friend, I decided that I would tell someone. My friend talked to another girl that it had happened to and she agreed to talk, as well. I started with my pastor. I set up a meeting with him to go get coffee because I knew that the hand guy was still working with a church in his new town. I told him everything and didn’t hold back. I told him I wasn’t the only one and gave the other girl’s name and said she would also be setting up a meeting with him. He was incredibly compassionate, he apologized that that had happened to me and he told me that that’s something that no woman should have to go through. He then told me that he would take care of it. He said that he would talk to the guy and set up a meeting to talk to him and his wife and that he would talk to his church. I felt relieved. I didn’t want anyone else to feel the way that I felt, and I didn’t want him to ever do that to anyone else. After a few months and no word from my pastor, I decided to ask him how everything went. To my surprise, he said. “Oh yeah, I talked to him and he felt bad and said that he wouldn’t do it again.” And that was it. That’s all he did. He didn’t talk to the wife, he didn’t talk to the guy’s new church where he was in a leadership position. He basically just asked the guy about it and that was it. I felt betrayed. I felt wrong. After that, I didn’t go back to that church ever again. I didn't go to any church ever again. I couldn’t. I was broken.

Now we come to the beginning of my depression. Depression manifests in some weird ass ways, let me tell you. I couldn’t comprehend what I was feeling. I couldn’t comprehend that the encounter with Mr. Hand had triggered something in me. I actually didn't even realize that this was the event that had initially triggered my depression until years after the fact. I couldn’t function like I had in the past. I felt like being reckless. I felt like acting out. I started with my hair. One day randomly in November, I went to Sally’s Beauty and bought some supplies. Then I went home and chopped my hair off by about 6 inches and dyed it pitch black. I LOOKED AWFUL. And I guess, looking back on it, I did that to somehow show everyone else how I was feeling. I wanted to look on the outside how I felt inside. From there, I still wasn’t satisfied. I started to spend all my money on new clothes. I had lost a lot of weight and I wanted to look good because I didn’t feel good. Well, this turned into an obsession. I spent all my extra money on clothes. And then, after I had spent all my money, I decided I still needed more clothes. So, I started taking them. From everywhere. I started small with just a shirt or a scarf here and there. Then I graduated to taking an empty bag into places with me and taking an armful of clothes into dressing rooms with me and filling my bag and then leaving the store with it. Miraculously, this worked for a long time. Until it didn’t. One time, at Macy’s in Franklin, Tennessee, I basically put on a jacket right there in the middle of the women's clothes section of the store and then just walked out with it on. Of course, that means that they had a video of me doing it, but I didn’t care. The next time I went back, unbeknownst to me, the security guard had flagged me when I walked in because he recognized my face from that video that was taken when I took that jacket. I did my normal routine and went to the fitting room and stuffed my bag, and then browsed around the two-story store, all the while unnoticing of the security lady who was following me around the entire time. When I was finally finished with my shoplifting and tried to leave, I was immediately stopped by said security lady and escorted to the security offices. I was already bawling. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that I was shoplifting. I couldn’t believe I had been caught. In the office, they added up the amount of the items that I had tried to take and it came to around $250. They told me that they could either call the police and have me arrested, or that they could take my license and make a copy of it and I would be thrown out and banned from the store. Oh, how I wish I had brought my license into the store with me. But I hadn’t. I had left it in my car. So, the police were called. I was banned from the Cool Springs Mall in Franklin, Tennessee for one year and banned from every Macy’s EVER for life. FOR LIFE. I literally can’t even step foot into a Macy’s or they can detain me or arrest me for trespassing, probably. I don’t really know. I’ve never tried to go back, nor will I ever. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Even just typing this out and proofreading it makes me squirm with embarrassment. Anyways, the officer whisked me away in her cop car and took me to jail. I. Bawled. Like. A. Little. Baby. The whole time. I couldn’t stop, but I also knew that I deserved it. I didn’t have any money to bail myself out, obviously, that's why I was stealing clothes in the first place. So, I called my grandma. She was the one that had always been there for me no matter what. She answered my call and I told her that I was in jail. She immediately asked me where the baby was. Huh? What baby? What’s she talking about? Turns out, she thought that I was my brother’s ex-wife and she was talking about HER baby. I told her it was me, but this was something that was so out of character for me that she chose to hear that I was someone else. I told her again that it was JESSY and she finally realized who I was. She was shocked. She didn’t understand why I would do such a thing. Neither did I. She told me to call my dad. I hung up and stared at the phone for five minutes. I didn’t know what to do. You have to understand, my dad has always told my brother and I that, “If you end up in jail, don’t call me.” I didn’t know who else to call, though, and the guard was eyeing me, so I finally decided to call my dad. Another round of shocked disappointment and prying questions that I couldn’t fully answer came from him. But, to my astonishment, he told me he would pay the bail to get me out, which was a little over $200, if I promised to pay him back. I promised. (And then I didn’t talk to him again for about 4 years. I still haven’t paid him back, but I think he’s forgiven me. We've talked about it, anyways. So, thanks Dad! Love you!) Anyways, I sat in jail for a few hours and then finally the bondsman got dad’s money and I got a ride back to my car at the mall. I didn’t tell a SOUL that this had happened. I was too ashamed. That’s a big reason why I didn’t talk to my dad or my grandma or any of my family after this happened, because I felt so awful about what kind of person I had become. You have to remember, too, that I worked at a Christian company. If anyone found out what had happened, I would for sure get canned. So, I pretended like it didn’t happen. Then, I worked out how to use a vacation day to go to court for it. I got fined and put on probation for a year and was eligible for a diversion since I had never been in trouble before. I counted my blessings and decided to try and move on.

girl wut u doin with that cut

yes hello welcome to my mugshot

That worked for a few months, then I started feeling down again and couldn’t really explain what it was. I had never dealt with this before. I was always the happy one. To cheer myself up, I ended up rescuing a dog in February of 2015. She was PERFECT. Her name was Rue and she was the sweetest dog. I was able to pre-occupy myself with her for a long time. After a while, though, those dark feelings started creeping back in. I started to surround myself with people as much as I could, and that usually meant going out. So, I did. I went out. A lot. Like, a lot a lot. Like every single night of the week a lot. I would go out and drink and spend time with friends and be the life of the party, which I usually was, and get blackout drunk at least once every couple of weeks. I did this cycle for over a year. Work, dog, out, drinks, friends, repeat. Every day. Every single day. From April of 2015 to the end of 2016. There were some happy times in there, too. I did a lot of traveling with friends during this time, and those were the bright spots. My best friend from high school moved in with me at one point when her lease ended until she found her new place. During that time, I had to put on my one woman show of happy all the time 24/7. I was exhausted. I wasn’t myself. Eventually, those dark feelings started to consume me and I didn’t know how to talk about it. I started to isolate from the people who cared about me. I didn’t want anyone to know the way that I was feeling because I didn’t want to burden them with it. I felt worthless. I felt hopeless. Pretty soon, I stopped caring about things. I stopped caring about myself. I stopped caring about everything. I was going through all of the motions of living a life, but I felt nothing inside. All I could feel was numbness. Finally, life got to be too much for me and I decided that I didn’t want to do it anymore.

i honestly miss this baby everyday

visiting the troll in seattle

My first “suicide” attempt wasn’t really a suicide attempt. I'd like to think that I wasn't actually TRYING to kill myself. But one night, after work, I went out with some friends and just felt like I didn’t want to wake up the next morning. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. I told myself that I wasn’t suicidal, because I wasn’t that girl. I had never been that girl. My childhood hadn’t been the best, and there were some dark times when I was growing up, but I was never the girl who thought about ending her life. But now, I was thinking about it. I say that it wasn’t really a full-fledged attempt but, if I’m honest with myself, it was. I had recently purchased a new bottle of ibuprofen. So. I went home and, as I sat on my couch cuddling with my dog, I decided that I would take some. Then I decided that I would take a little more. Then more. Eventually, I had forced myself to take the whole bottle. It was one of the big bottles, you know, 500 pills. I told myself that it wasn’t a suicide attempt because I didn’t actually believe that it would kill me at the time. I just thought to myself, “Maybe if I take this whole bottle, then I won’t wake up tomorrow and I won’t have to deal with life anymore.” Now, I don’t know how many of you have dealt with trying to take a whole bottle of pills, but it’s not easy. It’s actually really hard. After about 10 or 11 pills, your body, at least mine anyways, tells you that that’s enough. Your body doesn’t want you to take anymore. Your throat starts to contract and won’t let you swallow. I say this to tell you that you have to be DETERMINED to swallow a whole bottle of pills. It’s not just something that you can do on a whim. It takes time and effort. I think it took me about 4 hours to take that entire bottle that night. All the while I was on Facebook posting happy pictures of myself and making it look like I was living my best life while also hoping to myself that I wouldn’t wake up the next day.

picture i posted on facebook the day of my first attempt

what i did the evening leading up to my first attempt

Spoiler alert: I did wake up. About an hour after I finished taking the pills, I went to my bedroom and drifted off to sleep, praying that it would be over. That was around 12am. Around 4am the next morning, I awoke with a slight stomach ache and then I drifted back to sleep. Finally, at around 7am, my daily alarm for work went off and I felt fine. So, I woke up and got ready and went to work like nothing had happened. I didn’t tell a soul about any of it. In my mind, I thought that I didn’t need to tell anyone because it wasn’t an actual attempt; I had just been hoping that it would turn into one. But it didn’t, so, to me, it didn’t count. Stupid. From here on out, I started to sink. Further and further into my depression. However, I didn’t know that it was depression, at the time. I don’t really know what I thought it was. I just remember not caring about anything and avoiding my responsibilities to the best of my ability. Things got worse, of course. I just kept slipping further and further down until, finally, I made a conscious decision to end my life. One morning, after a night out with friends, I had given a friend a ride to work. It was a Sunday, so I was off. On my way home, I was overcome with apathy and despair at the same time. I couldn’t function. I didn’t want to function. I was done. Whilst driving my car down I-65 from Franklin to Nashville in Sunday morning church traffic, I accelerated. I accelerated to 90mph. “This is it,” I thought. “Now or never.” I took off my seatbelt, checked my blind spots to make sure that there weren’t any cars around me, miraculously there weren’t, and I turned my steering wheel completely to the left and ran my car head on into the median at full speed. I remember it like it was yesterday. I hit the median wall, and then it was basically like my car had just bounced off of it. Then my car did a full spinning turn. It kept turning around in circles and my car skidded from the median in the middle of the highway all the way to the shoulder on the other side of the highway going across 4 lanes of church traffic in the process. Spinning all the while. I don’t know how I didn’t hit anyone else and how no one else hit me, but it was like the road had amazingly cleared in the exact right spot just for this purpose. My car ended up on the shoulder of the highway, and there I was. Completely fine. I didn’t register that I had any injuries at all at the time. I didn’t understand how it was possible. I mean, I ran my car head on into a median at 90 miles per hour. How was I still alive? I sat there for a minute or two and didn’t really know what to do. My car wasn’t running and it was WRECKED. Like, the whole front of the car was practically gone. After what felt like an eternity, I heard a knock at my window. I looked over and there was a lady standing there asking if I was okay. I told her that I was and she said, “Wow. That’s amazing. I saw you hit the median and I honestly thought that you might be dead. You might want to get out of your car, though, because it’s on fire.” “Oh,” I said. “Okay,” probably because I was in shock, and I stepped out of the car. The lady asked me if I needed her to call an ambulance or to call the police. I lied and told her that I already had. I told her that I had called a friend and was waiting for them to pick me up, as well. She reluctantly went ahead and left at my insistence. After she was gone, I knew that I couldn’t stay there. Why you ask? Because remember that pesky bit of trouble that I had gotten into at the mall? You know, the shoplifting and the arrest and all that? Well, after I had finished about 11 months of my probation, I STOPPED SHOWING UP. That’s right. I had ONE meeting left with my probation officer, but I didn’t have the money to pay the fine that I was supposed to pay, so I didn’t go. A few months after that had happened, I got a letter in the mail that told me that my license had been suspended and that it would be suspended until I paid my fines, which were around $500. Guess what, I didn’t do that. Then I figured that I just wouldn’t pay my insurance either, because ‘why should I?’ How dumb was I? You guessed it, REAL dumb. Sidebar: turns out, the suspension didn't even have anything to do with those fines, but instead a $20 fine from a parking ticket that I had gotten and didn't even know about. It took me 5 years after the car accident to actually find this out. Anyways, back to the wreck. I stood there on the side of the highway, staring at my totaled car, realization setting in that my suicide attempt didn’t work, knowing that my license was suspended, and fully aware that I didn’t have car insurance. I was beyond screwed. So, what did I do? I ignored it. That’s right, I pretended like it was fine. I called a Lyft right there on the side of the highway next to my smashed box of a car and hoped my Lyft driver would pick me up before a cop or highway patrol happened to drive by. He did. He asked what had happened, and I told him it was a long story and just laughed it off. So, yeah, I left my beautiful car, that I'd only had for about four years, right there on the side of the road and never looked back. I still, to this day, have no idea what happened to that car.

This is the part of the story where my desperation sets in. And by that, I mean my desperation to die. I was still going through the motions of everyday life, but it was like I was half-heartedly living each day until I was able to work out what to do for my next suicide attempt opportunity. When I went back to work the day after my wreck, I was kind of limping, as I had tweaked my ankle a bit in the car crash. When my coworkers asked me what happened, I told them that a truck had ran me into a median on the highway and then drove off. They made a big deal out of my wreck. So much so, that my lovely coworker, who I will forever adore, even drove me to the Urgent Med on her lunch break. Turns out my 90mph collision had sprained my ankle. That’s it. A barely sprained ankle. Talk about luck, right? I didn’t view it that way at the time, though. I kept going on my downward spiral. Things were even worse now. I had no vehicle to get around, which meant that I had to pay to take a Lyft or an Uber everywhere that I went. That ain’t cheap. I decided that, in order to keep going out every night with friends who thought I was completely happy, I would stop paying some other bills, like I did with my insurance. Bills like my rent. I thought to myself, “Well, I’m going to die soon anyways, I won’t need a house.” Can we all say it together this time? STUPID. At this point, my best friends had started to notice that something was off. I started isolating myself more and more and talking to them less and less. My best friend from high school had already moved out at this point, but she still had some things at my house that she had left behind and needed to get. She had been texting me asking when she could come move them out, but I never responded. I just ignored her. Again, I thought to myself, “I’m going to commit suicide. It will be easier on them if I cut them out now. That way it won’t hurt them as much when they find out that I’m dead. If I stop being friends with them now, then they’ll be too mad at me to be sad.” UGH, I still hate that this is how I felt. It still burdens me to this day. The pain and confusion that I put them through. I just cut them out, and unfriended and blocked them on all social media. No explanation. I reached out to my best friend from high school on her birthday last year to try and reconcile things. No response. Can you blame her? At this time last year, while thinking about this time in my life and those decisions, it definitely brought me back to a deep and utter self-loathing that I hadn’t completely dealt with yet. But, over the last year, I've been able to work through those feelings and understand that I was sick and what happened was unintentional on my part and, most importantly, I was able to forgive myself. Anyways, back to the story. By now we’ve reached my third suicide attempt. We’re at either the end of April or the beginning of May 2016, I can’t really remember the timeline. When I had gone to Urgent Med after the car wreck, the doctor had given me a prescription for a month’s worth of muscle relaxers and some prescription strength ibuprofen with one refill for both. I didn’t take any of them for my pain because I felt that I deserved to feel it after what I’d done. So, I saved them. I waited until the month was up and then went to the pharmacy and refilled both prescriptions. Then I went home and took all four bottles of medication. Right after I had finished taking them, my best friend had texted me and told me that she was coming by to pick up the rest of her things. I panicked. I couldn’t leave because I had already taken the pills, and I had used the rest of my money on the Lyft to and from the pharmacy and for the refills. Ergo, I locked myself in my bedroom. Mature, right? Yeah, I locked myself in my bedroom while I was in the midst of a suicide attempt and while my best friend of TWELVE years was IN my house moving out her things. I should say, too, that the house was trashed. Honestly, I can’t even explain how bad it was. The water had been turned off weeks previously, so every single dish in the house, including my friend’s dishes that she had recently purchased, were stacked almost to the ceiling with dried on food and mold. I hadn’t taken the trash out in weeks. I hadn’t done laundry in weeks. I was living hour to hour, basically. I just didn’t have the drive to care about any of these things knowing that my life would soon end and that none of it would matter. That was the state of the house when my friend came by to get her things. I could hear her in the house moving out the rest of her stuff. I’m pretty sure she left all of her dishes behind, because they were disgusting. After she had retrieved everything that she had come for, she knocked on my bedroom door. I remember her doing this., even though I was out of it. Remember, I had just taken four bottles of pills. I don’t really remember exactly what she said, but I remember her saying that she knew that I was in there and she was asking what happened and what was going on. I just laid there, pretending she wasn’t there, and waited for death to consume me.

That was dark, sorry. I don’t know how else to describe what I went through, except to be bluntly honest about it. This is my first time going into detail about everything that happened to me and how I felt while it was happening. From there, all you need to know is that the attempt was unsuccessful. I didn’t dwell on it. I just pretended like nothing happened and kept living my unhealthy life, per usual. By now, we’ve reached the end of May 2016. I was still going through the motions and ignoring all responsibility besides work. My lovely coworker who I mentioned earlier was kind enough to drive me to and from work every day. Finally, one day, she took me home and every single item that I owned was out of my front lawn and the locks had been changed, as I had been evicted for not paying rent for about two months. I was mortified. I made up some story about me fighting with my landlord about not being able to have a dog in the house and that that was why they had kicked me out. Of course, that wasn’t true. My coworker felt awful, I could tell. She wanted to help me get my things and take me somewhere, but I wouldn’t let her. I told her that I had a plan and that I could handle it, and she left.

Here’s where the story starts to get bad. I know, it was bad before, but it gets REALLY bad. And uncomfortable. There I was. Standing on my lawn looking at all my earthly possessions thrown onto the ground like trash. I grabbed a couple of bags and filled them with as many of my clothes that I could carry and then filled another bag with my bathroom essentials. I didn’t even think to grab my birth certificate or anything like that because, to me, it was indispensable. My dog, Rue, was there waiting for me. She was such a good girl. I didn’t know what to do. My world was on fire and I had no way out. I decided that I would walk to my work, which was about a 20-minute walk, and try to think things through. I couldn’t bring my Rue, though. So, I told her to stay. She did. Good baby. When I got to work, the only option that I could think of without telling someone what was actually happening was to just stay at work. So, I did. There was this little closet that had a lock on the inside that I would sometimes use during my break time to take a nap. I decided that I would sleep there. No one ever went into that closet, I could get away with it. Then, for showers, I was already a member of the Y, which was right next door to work, so I could take my showers and get ready there. Then I could just spend all of my free time with friends and no one would know. And they didn’t. The next day, my coworker asked me what happened, so I made my decision. I decided to lie my ass off. I told her that I was staying with a friend and I also told her that my dog ran away. (What? Why?? I don’t even know why I said it.) But alas, my coworker is good to the core, so she decided to drive around my neighborhood on her lunch break and SURPRISE, Rue was still there waiting for me. She scooped her up and brought her back to work with her and told me she found her. At this point, I was lost. I didn’t know what to do. I took some time off for the afternoon and told her that I would call my friend, who I was pretending to stay with, to come pick Rue up. Then I went outside of my work and took Rue to the lawn with me and spent about half an hour with her and told her goodbye. I called animal control after that and surrendered her. Of course, I told them that she was a stray. I had taken her collar and tags off and kept them with me. I went back into work and lied about it because that’s what I was now, a liar. After about a week or so, I told people that she ran away from my friend’s house and that I thought she had been hit by a car. WHAT? Why did I say that?! I don’t know, because I was stupid, I guess. Alas, I had more amazing friends who were trying to help me and decided to scour the internet for lost dogs, and they, of course, found her at the shelter. I tried to lie and say that it wasn’t her, but they knew it was. She had very distinct markings. They caught me in the lie, and told me that they didn’t feel comfortable being friends with someone who would lie about something like that. I didn’t blame them. I was the worst.

Here, we reach the beginning of Summer 2016. I had a new coworker who had just moved to Nashville and she had a three-bedroom house and was looking for roommates. She heard my fake story and offered me one of her bedrooms for $250 a month. What a steal! I couldn’t pass that up, and it would be nice to sleep in a bed again after sleeping on the floor of a closet for a couple of weeks. She even had some clothes that she gave me and shoes since I had so few. I stayed with her all of that Summer, and I was living my life atrociously. I had another few suicide attempts. One of them being locking myself in her garage with her car on while she had been out of town. I was hoping to die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but that was unsuccessful, as well. I didn’t do it properly. Good thing, because how awful would it have been for her? I didn’t even think about her feelings at the time, I was too swept up in my own. That whole summer, I was basically drunk all the time. I mean, you know, at night and stuff when I went out. Never at work or during the day or anything like that. That's at least one line that I didn't cross. But drinking is definitely what I spent all my money on. Going out with friends who I hadn’t pushed away and new friends who didn’t know me before the depression had manifested. I would come home drunk every night at 3 or 4 in the morning and then wake up at 7 and go to work and be exhausted the entire day. Then I would do it all again the next night. Luckily, I’ve never had an actual hangover. Genes, I guess. I drank plenty, don’t get me wrong, but I never had the bad side effects of drinking. That’s probably why I did it so much. I got to the point where I was a complete MESS. I was calling into work all the time and not really taking it seriously. One night, I came home and tripped when I was going up the stairs. I spilled crackers, that I stole from my roommate, all over the staircase and scuffed up the walls with my shoes. I was too drunk to clean it up, so I went to bed. I called in the next morning because I had come in so late. My roommate and coworker knew what was going on, so she texted me a long letter asking that I clean up the mess that I made and asked if I would start looking for a new place to live. I didn’t blame her, I blamed myself. I texted her back and told her I had cleaned up the mess, and I apologized. I told her that I would be gone by the time that she got home. She immediately texted back and told me that I didn’t have to go that day. She wanted me to find a place before I left. She wasn’t kicking me out, she had simply wanted me to start the looking process. But I was too embarrassed by my actions to stay there anymore, so, I packed up the few clothes that I had, and took a Lyft to my work and snuck in while everyone was working and went back to my closet.

this picture and the next several are all documenting

falls i had while blackout drunk and

what i usually looked like the day after drinking until blackout

welcome to the abandoned graveyard of my old snapchat memories

I lived in my little closet from October of 2016 to February of 2017 (Ah, yes. 2017. The literal worst year of my entire life.) All the while, I continued to go out every night and drink my life and problems away and then come to work at my Christian company and pretend that I was living a perfect life. This was also the point in my life where I was looking for male attention. There were many factors to why I did this. The first time it happened, I had texted a guy friend after another friend’s birthday party. I was drunk and I liked him. He told me to come over and we could hang out, and we did for a little while. I was too drunk to try and Lyft myself to work and to try and get myself to my closet without being noticed by the security guards. I asked him if he minded if I crashed at his place. I told him I could sleep on the couch. He said that was ridiculous and that I could have the bed. We both went to his bedroom and decided to watch some TV. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up a few hours later, he was on top of me and in the middle of intercourse. There went my virginity. I had no say in the matter. I didn’t really say anything about it the next day. He didn’t know that I was a virgin. And I told myself that he was drunk, too, and that kind of stuff just happens when you’re drinking. This became my new routine. When I didn’t want to sleep in my closet, I would text a guy that I knew. Or I would go home with a guy that I had met the night of and use them as a place to stay. I guess I was being used, too, if I’m being honest with myself. I kept with this pattern during that whole time period. One night, in January of 2017, I had been out with a few friends. I remember buying two drinks that night. Early the next morning, around 6am, I woke up in the middle of an alley with two people shouting at me asking me if I was okay. I was disoriented. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t move. My legs were wrapped up in some loose chain link fence wire, like someone had wrapped it around my legs to keep me there. I was scratched up and bleeding and I had no memory of how I got there. The two people standing over me sighed their relief when I woke up and said that the cops were on their way. They helped get the wire off my legs while we waited and told me that they had found me in the alley behind their house. When the police showed up and asked me what happened, I told them that I had gone out with friends the night before and only remembered having two drinks. They asked me if I got drunk easily and I told them no. They informed me that I had bruises on my face and asked if they had been there the night before. They hadn’t. Then they asked me if I was missing anything. I checked my bag, and everything was there so I told them I wasn’t. Then they asked me if there was anything else that might be missing. When they noticed the confused look on my face, they looked my body up and down and that’s when I realized that my panties were gone. Missing. The police told me that I had likely been drugged the night before while I was out and then sexually assaulted. They insisted that I go to the hospital to be checked out and have a rape kit done, but at this time in my life, nothing mattered to me. Not even that. I mean, hadn’t I already technically been raped by my friend? How was this any different really? What would going to a hospital do? I didn’t remember meeting anybody the night before, so what did it matter? I told them no, and asked them to just give me a ride to work so that I wouldn’t be late. I couldn’t miss another day of work for no reason.

In February of 2017, my work had started to catch on. I had been given two formal warnings about my attendance and they told me that I couldn’t miss any more days. I did, of course. And then one night a security guard saw me there in the middle of the night. I was drunk, but I'm not sure if he realized that or not. One day my boss at the time called me into his office at the end of the day. He told me that they had pulled the records of my badge scans into the building. It was crazy, he said. There were records of me scanning into the building at all hours of the night every single day. He told me his suspicions that I was somehow living there. I denied it, of course, but it didn’t matter. My attendance had gotten so bad, that they had decided to let me go. I wasn’t shocked, exactly, but I knew that it was officially over. I had nowhere to go, because I still refused to tell anybody what was going on with me. I did have a friend at the time that I considered to be my new best friend. I called her and told her that I had been laid off and asked if I could stay with her. She was actually the only person that I had told that I had been living at my work. She, of course, said that I could crash with her until I found a new job. Don't make me laugh. I wasn’t even planning on looking for one. I was planning on dying. I stayed with her for about a month, until my last paycheck ran out. Then I bought a shit ton of medications from the store, the highest number of milligrams that I could find. If I remember correctly, I think I had 7 bottles. I knew that 4 bottles wouldn’t work because I had already tried that before, but 7 was all that I could afford. Also, a bottle of booze. I can’t remember what it was. Probably tequila. That was my jam at the time. That day, I took my 7 bottles of pills and washed them down with a bottle of tequila while my friend was at work. I slowly faded from the world. I don’t remember what time I had taken the pills, I think it was around 2 in the afternoon. I woke up at about 6 o’clock the next morning with the worst stomach cramps I have ever experienced in my life. I actually thought that I was finally dying. Which, newsflash Jess, you were. But that was my body’s way of telling me to suck it. It was rejecting the pills and trying to save my life. Then here came the vomit. I was so violently ill and I couldn’t stop it. I tried to keep it down, because I wanted the suicide attempt to work, but my body refused to let it. I ran to the bathroom and I was on the floor throwing up for four hours straight. I actually recently saw my facebook memories from this time. I had posted a lot on facebook about being ill and running a fever of 104 and change and was asking for advise. Why? I have no clue. I know I didn't want actual help, so I assume it must've been for attention. I do remember having that high fever for at least a day straight and my buddy commenting on the post saying that I needed to get to a hospital because that was a stroke level fever. At the time, I was thinking, "okay, great. bring it on." Finally, my friend woke up and she came in to check on me. I lied, of course, and told her that I thought that I had food poisoning. She felt bad, but then she had to get ready for work. This was the first turning point. I decided that I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing. I needed to tell someone what was happening. I texted my friend who I had been staying with later that day and told her everything. I told her that I didn’t have food poisoning and that it was actually a suicide attempt, and that it wasn’t the first one. I told her that I needed help. It was a little while before she responded. It felt like hours before she responded. When she did, she said, “That’s not really something that I can help you with.” Granted, it wasn’t. But I felt betrayed. I felt thrown away. I felt defeated. I felt like a burden. I felt worthless. I felt like trash. I felt like she didn’t even care enough to suggest that I go somewhere to try and get help. I couldn’t do that on my own, because I did my part, right? In my mind, it was her job to help me. I couldn’t do it myself. It was hard enough to just tell her. I felt rejected. So, I packed up all my belongings, once again, and used my last 10 bucks to Lyft back to my old job. The two of us have never spoken again since that day. By this time, it was April of 2017. I hadn’t worked at LifeWay for almost 2 months. But I had a plan. My bank was still technically the LifeWay Credit Union and it was inside the building. I went to the front security desk and told them that I used to work there and that I needed to go to the bank. Then they just buzzed me right in. I walked casually in the direction of the bank and then stowed myself away back in my little closet, no one the wiser.

a picture i posted while living at lifeway

around christmas using the company's lights

to pretend i was decorating my non-existent house

this is a picture i posted the night that i attempted suicide with my friend's car

and the picture i posted the next day after it didn't work

I stayed in that closet until May. MAY. One entire month I was able to live in that closet and had nightmares every single day about someone finding me. I would sleep during the day while everyone was working, then I would wake up at around 6pm and wait for everyone to leave. After they did, I would scour the building looking for something to eat for the day. I knew that, when I worked there, my department had an issue with someone taking other people’s food out of the department refrigerators. I figured if I went around to every single department in the building and just took a little bit here and there, then it wouldn’t cause too much of a scene. That’s what I did for an entire month. I slept in the closet, got food from the department fridges, avoided security at all costs, and then used the internet to watch TV on my phone. I couldn’t shower during that time, of course, because I couldn’t leave the building without knowing for sure that I could get back in. I also kept up my façade on social media during this time. I would post on social media a lot. I wouldn’t post anything that I was actually doing, because I didn’t want anyone to know what I had become. I would go through my iCloud account and find old pictures that I had taken of myself or of places that I had been that I had never posted. I would post those pictures and flat out lie on the captions. I pretended like I was living somewhere in a house and just told people that I was too busy or that I didn’t have the money if they called or texted me asking me to meet up with them. I was lying to the world, and avoiding everything else. I was still suicidal, but I didn’t have any means to try anything that would harm me. The only way that I can describe it is that I was just living on cruise control until I could make my next suicide attempt. I actually lived in that mindset for about 2 and a half years. Around the first or second week of May 2017, while I was asleep in my closet, the recurring nightmare that I had been having the entire month happened. Someone tried to open my closet door. I was jolted awake. I looked at my phone and saw that it was about 8 in the morning. I had only been asleep for a couple of hours. I listened, hoping that I had only been dreaming. I wasn’t. Someone tried the doorknob again. Thank goodness I had locked the door when I went to bed. But then more anxiety came, because I could hear keys jingling. “Oh my god,” I thought. “It’s the janitor. He has the key to the door. Will they arrest me for squatting? Is what I’ve been doing technically called squatting? Will they announce it to all of my old coworkers who I had been lying to about my whereabouts, and out me as the tremendous liar that I was?” All of these thoughts entered my mind as I heard the janitor fumble his keys and try several different ones to try and unlock the door. None of them worked. I was frozen. I didn’t dare make a sound. I couldn’t. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to announce my presence unnecessarily. After what seemed like a frozen eternity, I heard the janitor, or whoever it was, give up and walk away. That was too close. I wasn’t going to risk him coming back with another set of keys and trying again. I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse and left everything else behind, as I didn’t want to draw extra attention to myself in the halls of LifeWay. I opened the door quietly and shut it behind me. I then sneaked into the hallway and went out the double doors that led to the outside world knowing that I was officially homeless. Whew! Everyone still with me? Okay, good. Here's where it gets even more interesting. There I was, like I said, homeless. I was also broke, jobless, and carless in the streets of downtown Nashville. What the HELL was I going to do? Call a friend or a family member who I knew cared about me and would immediately jump to my aid if they knew my circumstances? Hell nah. Because, as I’ve stated previously, I was being stupid. I don’t know if it was my pride or if I just genuinely didn’t want help from anyone, but I decided that I would rather be homeless than ask anyone else for help. Cool, Jess. Real cool. Another sidebar: looking back on this now, I realize that I did this because I WAS SICK. Depression is the reason I didn't reach out to anyone and tell them what was happening. There was an actual chemical imbalance in my brain that was literally ruining my life and telling me that, if I didn't give a shit about myself, there sure as hell wasn't going to be anybody else who cared, either. Depression is a LIAR, y'all. Plain and simple. Alright, back to it. This is the part of the story that people usually find a little humorous. I find it ridiculous, but I guess I’ll let y’all decide. After I left the comfort of the Lifeway building, I found myself walking around downtown Nashville, mid-morning, on a weekday with no money or food or anything else. I had a dress on and a light cardigan. That’s it. I didn’t even grab my extra bag that had the few clothes that I had managed to keep up with over the last year. I had my purse, with my makeup inside, my phone, and that’s it. Yikes. I decided that I would walk down to the Renaissance Hotel in Nashville, which was just a couple of blocks away, and chill in the hobby until I figured out what to do. I had been in the hotel lobby before, because there was a Starbucks inside, and I would sometimes stop there for coffee during my lunchbreak at work. So, I was familiar with the layout. I didn’t really want to hang out in the main lobby because there were so many people going in and out and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself. I decided to take a ride up the escalator to see what was on the second floor. When I got up there, I was surprised to see that it was also a lobby. This one didn’t have near as many people in it, though. I picked what looked like a comfy chair and sat. As I was sitting there and trying to make a game plan, I eventually drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, it had been about an hour. I had been asleep in a chair in the lobby of a fancy hotel for an hour and nobody even noticed. Then, lightbulb. There it was. My plan. I decided that I would just pass myself off as a guest in this hotel and sleep when I could. That would work, right? Right. My next problem was food. Now, I didn’t really eat a lot at this time, because I couldn’t, but I knew I needed to eat at least a little bit or I would feel miserable. I took to the internet. I looked up the Renaissance Hotel and checked their guest amenities. To my delight, there was a free breakfast for guests. Great! That works for me. Uh oh, though. It looks like you have to have your room key card in order to get into the room to access it. Where was that room anyways? It certainly wasn’t in the lobby, I had looked. I decided to be bold and just ask someone else. I saw a sweet looking lady walk by and asked her if she knew where the breakfast was served. “It’s on the 11th floor, sweetie,” and she told me how to get there. Perfect. I thanked her and headed for the elevators. When I reached the 11th floor, I stepped off, not exactly sure how I was going to get into the breakfast room without a key card. However, once I had gotten down the hall and found the room, another guest had opened the door to leave and asked, “Coming in?” I thanked him and walked right on in. Honestly, to this day, that may be the best meal I have ever eaten. I mean, it was a fancy hotel buffet with just about everything that you could ask for. Pair that with the fact that I had been living off of people’s string cheese’s and frozen tv dinners for the last month, and you have yourself a very fine feast. I gorged. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able get into the breakfast every day, so I wanted to make sure that I had plenty of food in my system for a while. After breakfast, I took a trip back down to my lobby and took another nap. This time I was out for a few hours. This was my routine for the next month. My hair had been in a top knot, so it didn’t look that dirty, it just looked like a messy bun on purpose. And I had all of my makeup and makeup remover, so I was able to wash my face in the public restrooms and put on a fresh face every day. I was wearing a nice dress and cardigan, already, so it really did look like I belonged there. I avoided the front desk and hotel employees, because I only had the one dress, and I didn’t want them to catch on. The guests pretty much changed every day, so I was able to get away with it with them. I also wouldn’t spend the entire day there, either. I had a friend who had worked at the Westin Hotel, another fancy pants place, and told me one time the code to get into their guest lounge. I would sometimes walk the mile or so to the Westin and go up to their top floor and get myself into their lounge. They had comfy chairs and TVs and free lunch and breakfast and free snacks throughout the day. I would alternate which breakfast buffet that I attended, turns out that if you wait around in a huge hotel long enough outside the breakfast buffet in the morning, then odds are you will find someone coming or going. I would usually spend my afternoons at the Westin, and both places had free WIFI, so I was set on entertainment. Of course, my cell service had been turned off the month before, but I had an iPhone. So, WIFI is all I needed. I took little naps here and there to keep from being too exhausted. My only problem was the middle of the night. Security and hotel employees started to patrol the lobbies at around 3 o’clock in the morning to about 5 in the morning. I couldn’t sleep there because of that, and I couldn’t stay in one place too long. I ended up just kind of roaming around from floor to floor and I learned where security would be at what times. If I got really desperate or tired and needed to sleep, I would either sleep in the stairwell propped up against the wall on a random floor, or I would go hide in a stall in one of the public restrooms and sleep there. Those were some of the most uncomfortable and stressful nights of my life, but no one ever caught me.

the infamous dress and me while i was homeless

The next few months are where things start to blur for me. The next thing that I remember, is being at the hospital in Nashville. I’m not 100% certain on the details. As far as I can remember, I believe I had another suicide attempt. I don’t know how and I don’t know what I did. (Alright, while I was proofreading this just now, I literally JUST recovered a memory of myself walking down to the Walgreens in downtown Nashville three or four days in a row and stealing some sort of medication from them every time that I went in. And that's what I used for this suicide attempt at the hotel. Wow. Even 4 years later, and I'm still uncovering repressed trauma.) I do remember being in a hospital room and them telling me that my kidneys were failing. I remember them putting me on dialysis, and I remember having a babysitter to make sure that I didn’t try and harm myself. This was at the very end of May 2017. I’m not sure how long I was in the hospital either. I do know that, when they released me, they released me to a great organization called Mental Health Cooperative in Nashville. They basically provide support for adults with serious mental health disorders and children struggling with emotional/behavioral challenges. So, yeah. I was technically committed, if that’s what you want to call it. I wasn’t allowed to leave, so that’s definitely what I called it. But, honestly, they were amazing there. They were trying to help me even though I was homeless with no money to give and no insurance to bill. The first few days that I was there, I literally didn’t leave my room. I didn’t eat and I just slept all day and night. Finally, they asked me if I would be okay with meeting a doctor. I finally decided that I needed to do something to try and get better, so I agreed. The next day, I met with a nurse practitioner and told her everything that I had been through. She listened quietly, nodding and writing in her notebook all the while. She asked questions and I answered. After speaking with her for about an hour, I was officially diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Major Depressive Disorder is a significant medical condition that can affect many areas of your life. It impacts mood and behavior as well as various physical functions, such as appetite and sleep. People with MDD often lose interest in activities they once enjoyed and have trouble performing everyday activities. Occasionally, they may also feel as if life isn’t worth living. MDD is one of the most common mental disorders in the United States. In 2015, nearly 7 percent of Americans over age 18 had an episode of MDD. Some people with MDD never seek treatment. However, most people with the disorder can get better with treatment. Medications, psychotherapy, and other methods can effectively treat people with MDD and help them manage their symptoms. I hit all the marks. And then Generalized Anxiety Disorder (GAD) is characterized by persistent and excessive worry about a number of different things. People with GAD may anticipate disaster and may be overly concerned about money, health, family, work, or other issues. Individuals with GAD find it difficult to control their worry. That one basically described me to a tee. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental health condition that's triggered by a terrifying event — either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares and severe anxiety, as well as uncontrollable thoughts about the event. PTSD symptoms are generally grouped into four types: intrusive memories, avoidance, negative changes in thinking and mood, and changes in physical and emotional reactions. YUP, got that. She told me that all of these disorders could be treated with medication and I agreed to try it since, clearly, life had been kicking me in the balls for the last few years. I stayed at MHC for a few weeks while they waited for the medicine to kick in. I don’t have a lot of memories during that time. From there, they set me up with a case worker and started to try and find housing for me. I let them because I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I told a few friends what was going on with me, and they seemed to understand. I still wasn’t particularly happy, but I figured that I was on the right track. Eventually, they found a group home for me and I moved there in mid-June of 2017. It all happened kind of fast. They were all really nice, and I mostly enjoyed my time there. At this point, they were able to help me track down my W-2 from my previous job, and I was able to file my taxes and get my refund. I was able to buy some new clothes and get my phone turned back on, and I was also able to meet up with a friend or two. Then, my case worker let me know that they found transitional housing for me. It was still a group home, but I would go through a program to try and maintain my mental health and, eventually, I could transition over to an apartment of my own through their organization. I did this all through the Summer of 2017 and into the Fall. I didn’t really like a lot of my housemates or the rules of the house, but I really liked the people and counselors who ran the program. There were some happy points during this time, though, I had met a guy. A great guy. A guy that respected me and treated me the way that someone you care about should be treated. We started dating, and then he was my boyfriend. Weird, right? My very first boyfriend. How did that happen? In the actual worst time of my life, when I wasn’t even looking, there he was. He was kind to me, and I would still call him a friend to this day. Of course, the relationship didn’t last, because I was focused on my drama and illness and couldn’t bring myself out of it. I was still going through the motions, and I started to notice that the darkness had begun to creep back in. I was still having suicidal ideations and fantasizing my own death. In my mind, dying would be easier than trying to live. I needed an outlet to my frustration, but I didn’t know what. By this time, I had run out of money. I couldn’t buy anything and I couldn’t go anywhere. Then, one day, in mid-October, I was walking home from my therapy session and I glanced over at someone’s porch when I walked by. There was a package on it. I kept walking. Hmm, I thought. Someone could easily steal that. I kept walking and ended up at a little coffee shop down the street from my group home that had free WIFI. I used the internet for a little while and watched a few videos on my phone. I got caught up in my own sadness, though, and I started to feel like I was going to explode. Explode from sadness. Explode from stress. Explode from loneliness. Explode from plain despair. I needed something to live for. What, though? I didn’t have anything. Then, that little box on that stranger’s porch popped up in my head. And right then, I decided, I was going to take that box. I didn’t know what was in it, but I knew that I wanted it. And I knew that I needed it more than that person who bought it did. I walked back to the house, and I snuck up on the porch, rather nonchalantly, and I picked that box up. Then I turned around and walked off. Nobody saw me. And now I had something to live for. My perfect little box.

Alright, everybody, you know what to say, right? S T U P I D. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. That’s right, I’m a porch pirate now. Ugh. Boy, oh boy. Of all the decisions I’ve made in my life, I would consider this one my absolute worst. After I left the porch and went back to my group home, the guilt had already began to set in. What did I just do? Sure, I’d shoplifted before, but this felt different somehow. I stole from an individual. Someone who purchased this specific item because they needed it. They spent their own money on it, and I stole it from them. What was I doing? I was being a horrible person. When I entered my room, I sat the box on my dresser and I stared at it. I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to ruin the feeling of anticipation that I had initially had when I took the box. The next morning, after I awoke, I looked at that box again. Instead of feeling anticipation, though, I felt dread. Pure dread and guilt. I knew that I couldn’t keep it. But, surely, the rightful owner would have noticed that it was supposed to be delivered, wouldn’t they? Would they have filed a report? It didn’t matter, I knew I needed to make it right. So, I wrote out a full apology letter explaining myself with my name and my phone number on it. I felt awful. I walked the short distance to the house and knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. So, I left the box and taped my apology letter to the door. Then I went to my therapy for the day. When I got back home that afternoon, the housemother (I don’t really know what else you would call her, but she was in charge) told me that she needed to talk to me. I walked over to her desk and she handed me a piece of paper. I looked at it, and I saw my picture. It was me, holding that stupid little box. The picture was taken from the women’s security camera that was on her porch. “Oh,” I said. That’s all I really could say. I couldn’t deny it, because it happened. Turns out, the lady had had packages stolen from her in the past. So, she had a camera installed and caught me red-handed. Of course, she assumed that I was the one who had pirated her in the past, and why wouldn’t she assume that? As soon as she pulled the video, she turned it over to the police and it aired on all the news stations in Nashville. Multiple people called in to tell them who I was, which honestly defeated the purpose, because I had already confessed to her front door. My housemother let me know that the police would be collecting me the next morning and that I needed to be packed and ready. This was two days before my 30th birthday. I won’t really talk a whole lot about jail. Mostly because I don’t really remember a whole lot about it. I know I spent my 30th birthday in jail, and I know I spent at least a week in the Williamson County jail and at least a week in the Davidson County jail. Why, you ask? Because remember that one month of probation that I didn’t finish for shoplifting? Yeah, they count that against you. They removed my diversion and decided that I would get jail time instead. Luckily, both offenses were so small that I didn’t have to do any major time, but I was still wrecked. This definitely didn’t help my mental health at the time, either. I remember exactly one story from jail. At Williamson County jail, they have lockdown every afternoon. You’re supposed to go to your little cell and they lock it shut for an hour or two. However, for some reason, one day we had the option to either go into lockdown, or to play Beauty Shop. Beauty Shop was basically where they brought out a lot of hair and beauty supplies, like hair straighteners and curling irons, and we could do each other’s hair and makeup. Obviously, most of us chose to do Beauty Shop as opposed to going into lockdown. I paired up with this girl who I had sat with at lunch a few times. I honestly don’t remember anything about her. But I sat down and she got to straightening my hair. We started talking and she was really sweet! She told me that I was funny and we were having a great time. Eventually, we got around to the question. She told me that it didn't seem like I belonged there and she asked me what I did to get in there. I told her my story and she laughed her ass off and told me that she had seen my video on the news. Then, the guard chimed in and was all like, "I thought that was you!" After the laughter subsided, I asked her what she did to get in there. She clamped the 400 degree straightener to a section of my hair and began to glide it down slowly and she said, “Oh, I was arrested for murder.” Naturally, I responded with, “Oh. Okay. Did you have a video on the news too?” She didn’t. Finally, I was released from jail around the beginning of November 2017. I was ready to MOVE ON. First things first, I needed to reach out to the few friends that I had left and apologize and explain myself. I did. And the amount of responses that I received back were exactly one. That’s right, I had literally ONE friend left after everything that I had done. Who could blame them? My one friend did let me know that there had been an article going around Facebook about me. Reluctantly, I went online and found it. Now, if you ever want to feel really bad about yourself, do what I did, and google yourself. I read the nasty, scathing article that was written about me deeming me the ‘East Nashville Package Thief.” What? I have a criminal pseudo name now? I literally took ONE BOX. And then I RETURNED IT. Unused and undamaged, might I add. Who was this person who wrote this article? Why is he trying to make my life even more worthless? I didn’t need any help in that department. After doing a search for this article on Facebook, I noticed that it was shared by several individuals that I had originally thought to be friends. I guess they weren’t anymore. That article is still the first thing that comes up when you search for my name on Google. Well, that, and my mugshot. Awesome. Okay, another sidebar guys: I recently saw on my timeline from some Nashville friends that the dude who ran the website and wrote that nasty article about me calling me the worst of the worst and scum of the earth and who literally made money off of other people's worst mistakes WAS ARRESTED FOR THEFT. Literally all of Nashville shared his mugshot around facebook to show him what it felt like. Hello, Karma? Yes, thank you for coming today. We've been waiting. This happened in February of this year and justice has never been sweeter. Back to the story. I spoke to my caseworker, after I was released from jail and she let me know that I couldn’t go back to the group home because they were full. My one friend that I had left in Nashville let me come and stay with her for the time being. She was trying to help me get back on my feet. However, she was going through a divorce among some other things and it didn't work out. I actually can't remember what happened. I know that I spent Christmas there, but I have no other memories. I THINK something happened and I packed up and either went back to the hospital or I had another suicide attempt. I'm not sure. But I do know that I ended up back at Mental Health Co-op. My friend and I did talk about this time, and I think she knows what may have happened, but we both decided it was best to leave it be. I am proud to say that she still remains a friend. I believe I was at MHC for several weeks while they tried to find a new place for me. They also adjusted my medication while I was there. I told them that the suicidal thoughts hadn’t gone away, so they wanted to try something new and it took a few weeks for new medication to take effect. Finally, my caseworker found a new group home for me, but it was in Morristown, TN. She asked if I had a problem moving to a new town. “What the hell,” I thought, “I don’t have any friends left here, anyways. The next day, I hopped on a bus and headed to my new town. My memories from this time are definitely blurred to nonexistent. I vaguely remember the group home, and I remember about 3 people that I met there. I had to consult my Facebook pictures to know for sure how long I was there. It looks like I moved there in January of 2018 and was there until the beginning February of 2018. I also know that I had another suicide attempt during this time. I don’t remember doing it, but I randomly ran across a suicide note that I had posted publicly on Facebook during that time, and I vaguely remember being in a mental hospital in Knoxville, TN. I believe I was only there for about a week. After that, I moved into an apartment with two of the girls that I had met at the group home. They had found an apartment, and we had all bonded rather quickly, so they offered me a chance to move in with them. I still had no intentions of living at this time. I was still on cruise control until I could manage to make my next suicide attempt. I was with them for all of February of 2018. My ONE memory from that time, is waking up on Valentine’s Day, in my mattress on the living room floor, and they had covered me in balloons and stuffed unicorns. SO SWEET! I’m glad that I still have that memory because one of those friends, sadly, passed away from an overdose about 6 months ago. It's still hard to believe. But, Beth, I love you and I hope you are happy and at peace.

me the night of my second to last suicide attempt 

i was drunk and there was a lot of liquor in that pouch

❤

Alright people, we’re almost done. Stay with me. We’ve made it to the end of February 2018. This is when I had my (roundabout) 10th and very last suicide attempt, THANK GOODNESS. I have no memory of doing it, and it’s a little hard to explain, but I will try. Basically, all I remember is waking up in the hospital and there was a nurse standing over me asking me if I knew where I was. I didn’t, and she told me that I had just finished my last round of treatment. Huh? What treatment? I was so confused. Then she told me that the doctor would be in soon to explain it to me. After a few minutes, the doctor came in and introduced himself. He told me that I was at Centennial Hospital in Nashville, TN. He asked me what the last thing I remembered was, and I told him Valentine’s Day. He then asked me if I knew how I got there. I told him no, and he started to explain. He told me that I had had a suicide attempt mid-February of 2018. I had taken all of my prescription mental health medications. Someone found me somewhere? I'm still unclear on the where and the who, but I was rushed to the hospital, as I wasn’t breathing. He told me that I had died, and that they were able to bring me back in the emergency room. He then let me know that I had been on life support for about a week and then had been in a coma for another week. He asked if any of this rang a bell. I told him no and he continued. He said that after I woke up from my coma and began to breathe on my own again, my kidneys had begun to fail. So, they had to do dialysis on me, as well. Once I had been cleared to be discharged, they told me that I needed to be released to a psychiatric hospital and they asked if there was one that I preferred. Apparently, I told them that I wanted to go back to Nashville, so they transferred me. The doctor told me that I had let him know that none of the medications that I had been on, I had tried several, had worked for me and I was still suicidal all the time. He told me that he had suggested we try ECT Treatment and that I had given my consent. He then asked me if I knew what ECT was. Once again, I told him no, and he explained to me that ECT is Electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). It’s a procedure done under general anesthesia, in which small electric currents are passed through the brain, intentionally triggering a brief seizure. ECT seems to cause changes in brain chemistry that can quickly reverse symptoms of certain mental health conditions. ECT often works when other treatments are unsuccessful and when the full course of treatment is completed. “Oh,” I said. “So, like, electric shock therapy?” “Yes and no,” he said. He told me that ECT is what electric shock therapy has become today. It’s still using electric shocks on your brain, but it’s much safer than it used to be. Okay, cool. Whatever works, I guess. Finally, he asked me whether or not I knew what the date was. I thought about it for a minute. I knew it had at least been a few weeks based on everything that he told me, so I said, “March something?” He then let me know that it was the end of May.

a few days before my last attempt

ironically, i had posted this on facebook saying

"self care is easy when you care about yourself" i didn't

just some of the medication that i used for my last attempt

I had been in the hospital for three months with no memory of it. The doctor let me know that ECT treatment can cause short term amnesia, and can cause you to lose memories for at least a few months leading up to the treatment and short term amnesia for the rest of your life, in some cases. So, that explains why I have such a hard time remembering my time in jail and the time leading up to it. He then said that there was a chance that I would get my memories from that time back, but there was also a chance that they would be lost forever. It’s been almost three years since the end of my ECT treatment and I still have almost ZERO memories from that hospital stay. I did, however, find my journal from that time and read through that. There were bits and pieces and just a few people that I remember meeting, but it's mostly blank. I stayed there at the hospital for another month while they monitored me. During that time, they let me know that I had been assigned a new caseworker and that she had applied for disability for me and that I had been approved for it. That shocked me, because I knew that most people who applied for disability didn’t get approved until after 4 or 5 tries. Not me, I got it on my first try. Later, I found out that it’s because of the ECT. That’s considered a very extreme form of medical care and it basically bumped me up to the top of the list for disability. In June of 2018, I was released from the hospital with a nice little backpay check and a monthly deposit going into my account. I was definitely feeling like I was in a better place than I had been since I first started struggling with depression, but I still didn’t have anywhere to go. I ended up staying with a friend that I had met in the hospital until my check came in. Once it did, I ended up renting a cheap motel room for the Summer and bought myself a new car! Yay! I finally got back in touch with my family and my mom and grandma planned a visit for the end of the Summer. Momma and I had a blast! I took her around to all the touristy stuff in Nashville and we went honky tonkin’ and the works. They were only there for about two days, but they begged me to move back home with them. I was stubborn and refused. However, by the end of August, I had spent most of my money on a hotel room and knew that I couldn’t keep it up. So, on September 1st, 2018, I rescued a new dog, packed my bag, and headed back to good ol' Oklahoma, USA. After I moved back home, my issue was my medication. When I left the hospital, I was still prescribed 8 different meds to take every day. I hated it. Every single time I put that medication in my mouth and tried to swallow it, I would have PTSD flashbacks to when I had overdosed and my throat would close up and refuse to let me swallow them. Therefore, I stopped taking my meds in October of 2018. That’s when I started going through the motions again. I wasn’t feeling that desperation to end my life anymore, but I still had a hard time caring about things. I did that for a few months. Then, my new dog unexpectedly developed a skin infection and passed away in April and that definitely didn't help. Finally, in July of 2019, I told my mom that I had been having some suicidal ideations for the last few weeks and she immediately took me to the hospital. I wasn’t suicidal, but I needed a medication re-adjustment, for sure. That’s when the most amazing thing happened. I found a doctor who actually listened to me. He listened to how I was feeling and he listened to what I wanted. He prescribed me ONE medication to take every day. It would cover all of my symptoms. And, guys? Since I have been on this new medication, I am the happiest that I have been in the last 6 years. I am so grateful to be feeling like myself again. I have been able to accomplish so many things. I started therapy, I was able to get my social security card back, my birth certificate, my ID and, as of February 3rd 2020, my license is officially UNSUSPENDED! I also haven’t had a single suicidal thought or ideation since July of 2019. Go me!

💪💪💪

Of course, now here I am updating this a little over a year later. There has been a lot to happen from when I originally wrote this in February of 2020 up until now. Hello worldwide pandemic. We did the whole quarantine thing surprisingly well. We did end up with Covid, but it was a mild case and the whole family came out of it alright. We have all since been fully vaccinated, as well. I think the biggest changes have been personal growth. I was able to work through a lot of my self-loathing and have been able to forgive myself and move on from those thoughts of negativity. Things are going well for me. I have a job now, a new vehicle, and I FINALLY GOT SOME PRESCRIPTION GLASSES. My dad got me a new puppy for my birthday in 2019 and baby girl Georgie will be TWO in September. She's spoiled and a mess, but one of the happiest things in my life. Another change was that I was able to ween myself off of my medication, with the help of my doctor. I have been off of it for about 8 months now and when I tell you that I have never been happier, I mean it. It was like coming up for air after being underwater for a long period of time. Almost like that feeling you get when your ears have been stopped up for days and they finally pop. It's really hard to explain, and going off of depression meds is DEFINITELY not for everyone. But it was in my case.

MY BABY GIRL GEORGIE

I can also tell you that I've finally found my people. It took me awhile after I moved back to Oklahoma to get back into the swing of things. But I found my crew and they my best frands. They some real bad bitches. Sorry, that was a quote from a Saweetie song that I don't know any other words too. But I just wanted to emphasize that these girls....they love me. And I love them. And it's real friendship for better or worse. Everyone needs one of those.

If you don't have that, come and see me. We'll talk.

just a few of my crew

my best friend

my momma

This is where I will leave it for now, but I will probably be back to post again and to offer support and advice to people out there who have struggled like I have struggled. I've been meaning to update this blog post for the last two weeks and hadn't had a chance to get around to it. Then, like I said earlier, I found out last night that another friend of mine had committed suicide and I couldn't wait any longer to do this. All I can really say about it is that I am so sad and disheartened that I couldn’t help Sam. I will miss you and I love you, but I do hope that you found some sort of peace wherever you may be now.

Please, please, please. If you are struggling with depression and suicidal ideation, talk to me. I’ve been there and I know how it feels to not care. To feel worthless. To be done with living. But I also know how it feels to come out on the other side and how bright the world can be again. I can offer you love and support no matter what. It’s too late for Sammi and Beth, but maybe their deaths can help shed a light on another worldwide pandemic in itself that doesn’t get talked about nearly enough. Life is precious, and life is hard. There’s no easy way to go about it. You have to work at it and work at yourself, constantly, to make it through, but your life is worth it. Trust me.
Jessy