Racquel's Story
I was born in the 1960s to alcoholic parents, the youngest of three children. Two of us are now alcoholics and addicts,
my next oldest sister also has a problem with suicide. On my mother's side of the family, there is a long history of suicidal
preoccupations and failed attempts.
One of my earliest memories is of incest; it started when I was 4 and stopped when I was in Grade 1. When I was in
Grade 2, my mother had what the doctors called a "nervous breakdown." They treated her with drugs, and she turned
into a zombie. My older sister became my caregiver. My father, an alcoholic, only created chaos during his short visits.
I was so scared that I obsessed every day at school: would my mother be alive or dead when I got home? Even though
my sister had developed perfect mothering skills by the time she was 9, I could not understand what had happened to
my mother. I loved her, and I missed her terribly. "Mental illness" was not one of the vocabulary words I learned in school.
We went to a private Roman Catholic school. The nuns knew what was going on in our home. They gave us shoes,
coats, and uniforms, and let us attend school for free.
At 11, I was a whopping 120 pounds, It was very hard for me to make friends, and I was severely teased. I did have one
girlfriend, and even got invited for a sleep over for her 12th birthday party. Her father and brother molested me that
night. That was the first time I tried to kill myself - the start of my lifelong obsession with suicide, and also the onset of my
addictions to drugs and alcohol.
Whenever I felt out of control, my fears became overwhelming. I felt trapped, and I rapidly spun into feelings of
helplessness and hopelessness. These feelings triggered my suicide cycles - fantasizing, obsessing, planning, and
actual attempts.
Fantasizing about suicide gave me a euphoria like that from a shot of morphine. It lifted my mood; I forgot my problems. I
could do whatever I wanted, say what I pleased, because I knew I wouldn't be around to face the consequences. When
my mood began to slip, I started to obsess about suicide. I felt impelled to prepare for my death. It had to be clean, neat,
and pain-free. I'd wash all the bed linens and make up my bed in military or hospital style, all tight and precisely folded.
Or I'd tidy and scrub the whole house, so that when they found me dead, it would be a perfectly clean place.
Planning never took much time: I kept a plan in my head at all times, in case of emergency. I started that at 16, on a
date. The boy offered me drugs, and I accepted. I woke up the next morning out in the woods, my groin hurting badly.
Even now, I am afraid of being alone or lost in woods.
After that, I started to carry a bottle of aspirin or Tylenol to take immediately, if I needed it. As a nurse, I could find out
the lethal dose of a drug, and I made sure to have an overdose available at all times - in my purse or pocket, in my car,
and at home. Having these drugs around gave me a sense of safety that I found intoxicating. Whenever I felt out of
control at work, I could reach into my pocket and touch the two vials of heart medication that I thought would kill me
instantly. I felt better at once. The sense of control I felt from being able to kill myself gave me the strength I needed to
keep going.
The actual attempts were powerfully mood-altering. After I tried to kill myself, I would feel a sense of peace, contentment,
and serenity filling my thoughts. I felt great power, as though I were laughing in the face of God, the world, and all those
unbelievers who said "she only does this for attention."
Having to wake up and face nurses, doctors, and my family - that was never part of my fantasy. It was hell on earth. Most
people seem to think that if you try to kill yourself, your family members will cry over you and beg your forgiveness and
try to keep you happy for the rest of your life. After I'd made several attempts, my family would simply call the hospital
and ask which room I was in this time. They'd tell the nurse they might visit later, if they had time. I was left to the wolves.
The only thing my caregivers understood about my suicidal behavior was that I had to be crazy to try to take my own life.
They had no sympathy. In most cases, in fact, they were pissed off because I'd given them more work. They were
already overworked and underpaid, running around frantically trying to save the lives of people who wanted to live. And
there I was, wanting to die. They resented it. I took a lot of abuse from health-care professionals, and I felt I deserved it. I
was an ICU nurse; I should know better. The shame I felt started the suicide cycle all over again.
One time, I woke up to find I wasn't dead but very much alive and in the same ICU that I'd woken up in for the previous
six suicide attempts. And my anger exploded. God help the ICU nurses who were around at that moment! I was
physically violent toward myself and others. I screamed like a madwoman for hours or days. They had to put me in every
type of restraining device known to man, some with key, some without. I said and did things that I only vaguely remember.
Failure and shame came crashing down on me like a ton of bricks. When the nurse came with my family members I
swore solemnly never to try suicide again. Whenever I said those words, I lied. My family was furious with me and wished
I would die and get it over with - and that was exactly what I wanted. There they were, my mother, my husband, my
children, staring at me with such pain and anger that, for a moment, I saw clearly how self-centered I really was. I felt
deeply ashamed.
After each bout in the hospital, people were afraid of me. My family didn't trust me - why should they? I was watched and
babysat at all times. My friends, co-workers, and family ridiculed me: "Why would a smart girl like you do a stupid thing
like that?" or "You know better than that now, don't you." Back to shame and worthlessness, and the suicide cycle
started up again.
Here is how it all ended:
I was sitting on the couch in late June, going over in my mind the events of the last few months. I had been released
from a treatment center after a series of shock treatments for my depression and suicide problems. I had come home, to
a small town in Alabama. My husband and children expected much more of me than I felt I had to give them. I knew in my
heart that my marriage was over, and that devastated me. It was only a matter of time before I screwed up again. Along
with my suicide addiction, I had problems with alcoholism, drug addiction, and addictions to sex, love, food, and
gambling. I had to repeat any action that altered my mood, whatever the consequence.
I walked off and left my family for a sexual relationship in another state. Nobody knew me there, and I thought I could
start fresh. I didn't find out until too late how physically and mentally abusive he was. I started working in a hospital, as a
critical care nurse. My home life was hell, and I missed my husband and children terribly. I drank and took a lot of Xanax,
which I got from a local physician. I started to steal narcotics from work. I fantasized about suicide all the time. I even
tried to see my children one last time, but my husband called the police and got them to take me away.
At work, the authorities intervened because I was stealing drugs. The man I lived with couldn't work - he had to know
where I was at all times - so we were broke. The only thing I had left of any value was my wedding ring. It meant more to
me than my life, but I sold it to pay for a divorce, so that I could see my children again.
That day, sitting on the couch, all I could think of was my losses. I had lost my husband, my children, my job, my home,
my car; now my nursing license was in question. I was broke and stuck in an abusive relationship with a man I did not
love. I had left the husband and children I loved so dearly. I was devastated.
As I upended a liter of 100-proof vodka and swallowed the last drops, I thought what the hell have I done with my life? I
felt trapped, helpless and hopeless. My stash of narcotics had run out long since, but I found five 1-mg Xanax tablets. I
crushed them, being very careful to leave them in large pieces, and mixed them with tap water. I had a large-gauge
needle and syringe, and I filled it with the Xanax mixture and injected it into an artery in my arm. The pain was intense.
I opened my eyes in an ambulance. I could hear a woman screaming and realized it was me. An EMT was looking down
at me and saying, "Stay with us, girlfriend." I went under again. The next time I surfaced, there were doctors and nurses
standing over me. I knew at once that I was in the same hospital where I'd been stealing drugs. They wanted to know
what had happened, and why. I asked them to leave me alone, because I had absolutely nothing left to live for. No more
questions.
They worked passionately for 24 hours to save my right arm. In the end, they had to take it off below the elbow.
After a few days, I really woke up. My doctor explained that because of my built-up tolerance for narcotics, they could
not give me enough narcotics to ease the pain of my amputation. The doses needed to control the pain would kill me.
Instead, he did a nerve block. I couldn't feel anything. I began to realize not only that I was going to have to go on living,
but I would have to live with the loss of my arm - my own doing.
That night, the volcano erupted. I ripped out the catheter, tube, and IV line they had attached to me. I cursed and fought
everyone who came near me. The nerve block wore off, and I was in excruciating pain. The staff gave me drugs and tied
me down, and the doctor was called back to redo the nerve block. Everyone was pissed off, me included. They
concluded that I was suffering DTs and put me on a continuous infusion of IV narcotics. Of course I didn't argue with that!
For days, I went on ripping things up and cursing people. All the nurses hated being assigned to me. I hated them right
back.
One night, a nurse from another floor won the big prize - me. She was all in white, and she was quiet, understanding,
and kind. I let her bathe me, but when she tried to talk to me about God, I asked her to leave. That night, I felt
overwhelmed with sorrow and loneliness. I had not slept in days; I was angry, tired, and confused. I knew I could not
leave the hospital and care for myself, but I had no one left to ask - no friends, and my family was sick of me. I was
licked. My life was totally unmanageable. I surrendered.
The nurse in white heard my crying and came in. She took me in her arms, cradling me and talking to me about God for
a long time. She read me passages from the Bible about others who had overcome horrible circumstances with God's
help. I felt hope - something I hadn't know for such a long time. I prayed a simple prayer, asking Got to take control of
my life. I told God that I should have been dead already, and whatever He wanted me to do I would do without question. I
asked forgiveness for my sins and told God that I had no idea what to do or where to turn. Then I closed my eyes, and I
slept for a long time.
That was the turning point for me, the beginning of my recovery from all my addictions, including suicide. To get from
that point to where I am today has been very difficult, but I've had help. Today, my worst day is much, much better than
my best day in addiction. I go to Twelve Step meetings - Alcoholics Anonymous, Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, and
Suicide Anonymous - and do the things suggested. I read recovery literature. I have a great sponsor who I talk to daily. I
pray to God morning, night, and as needed. If I have problems I can't do anything about, I give them to God, and He
takes care of them.
I am trying hard to rebuild trust with my family. I tell my mother where I go and when I will return. I call my children every
day that I don't see them. I see the pain in my ex-husband's eyes. I am kind and understanding with him and always do
what I say I'm going to do. He knows that I love him, but his anger and distrust are bigger than he realizes.
I like myself today, and I am so grateful to be alive! Life is worth living, and my happiness is surely a gift. I do not regret
the past, because it brought me to where I am today. And where I am today is a good place. I believe that it is only by
God's grace that I have been given another chance to live happily, joyously, freely - one day at a time.
© 1stBooks; Bloomington, IN; Seduction of Suicide Understanding and Recovering From Addiction to Suicide;
Kevin Taylor, M.D.