(she, her, hers)
My journey to get here has been tough. I stopped counting after my ninth suicide attempt.
Through the years, the traditional suicide "supports" hurt me way more than they ever helped me. I've been force hospitalized seven times with forced treatments and medication by doctors who did not know me and would not listen to me.
Even my well-intended family and friends resorted to shame and blame when their support efforts didn't help. (Are you trying to ruin my night? You're exhausting me. Weren't you asking for it? Go kill yourself.).
I felt more than misunderstood and utterly alone. I felt I had to hide away from the world for my own protection.
I never intended to be alive past the age of 33. I was suicidal for 9 years. And at the age of 36, I'm surprised to hear myself actually say,
Now, knowing exactly what supports I had wished were available for me, I'm eager to support others as they navigate the isolating and painful journey of suicidality. I'm here to join you in your darkest and most difficult experiences with curiosity and empathy.
I'm a PhD Candidate (all but dissertation) in Inclusion where I studied human rights law as a practical strategy to improve mental health services for adults. I am an artist (see images below), a cat mom to 18-year-old Tomato, and I recently moved to the D.C. area from Massachusetts.
My goal is to provide individualized support and guidance through a human rights-based approach to suicide prevention, rooted in consent and choice.
I know all too well how hard living with suicidality can be, and no one should have to go through this alone. Together, let's navigate your darkest times and see if we might be able to create a life worth living. (And yes, I also believe in the right to die with dignity.)
Are you willing to give this life one last shot?
Paintings by April Jakubec
The hidden eyes represent feeling 'unseen' as well as my reluctance to re-engage with the world that has caused me so much pain and trauma.I was the kind of pretty that men notice. Never quite the prettiest girl in the room. A young girl who did not yet know her own power or privilege– that innocent, unassuming type of pretty that boys and men have long written songs about.
For me, it was a dangerous kind of pretty, a curse. It was the kind of pretty that made men want to possess me. A target– pretty enough to get noticed but just out of the spotlight; easily able to be pulled away into a dark corner unseen.
I was 11 when the first man took notice of me. He was 45.