Suicide Survivor Shares Harrowing Journey to Finding Herself and Loving Life Again

South Africa (08 December 2020) – “Do not eat, poisonous,” it said on the packaging. I take my carefully hoarded 5 packets of that “keep it dry” sachets you get in pill containers, tear them open and empty them into my glass of Coke. I gulp it down. It tastes a lot better than the half bottle of nail polish remover that I drunk on my previous attempt.

This time I didn’t make a call to say goodbye but went to lie on my bed, to wait for it to work.

I was 16, and yes, I wanted to die. I didn’t like the sight of blood, couldn’t tie a decent knot, and there was nowhere really high in our small town. My female parent had always taken great pleasure in showing off her vast collection of assorted pills. Tablets that she would take one day when it all got too much for her. Pills that she would mix into my hot chocolate if I was ever too naughty. She called it her insurance plan.

So I had thought I would try the chemical route. Both attempts didn’t work. My bags were packed, and I was sent off to a notoriously scary rehabilitation centre, to recover and get over it. I was housed in what they called “The Nerve Centre” for troubled adolescents. But, I was sent out daily for fresh air and exercise into the sprawling property. Where mentally and criminally insane adults roamed freely. They reminded me of zombies, and I was terrified.

After a couple of tests, I was diagnosed as manic-depressive or bipolar. I thought it sounded much better than just a problem child.

A 6 Month stay was recommended. There was no way I was going to survive that long. I made it my goal to get out of there as soon as possible. The girl I shared a room with successfully ended her life whilst I was sleeping (drugged by heavy mood stabilisers). I awoke to her empty bed and a pool of blood on the floor from her slit wrists. It made me more determined. I had to convince a panel of specialists that I was healed. I honestly felt that my life depended on it.

So how did I end up like this?

Was it purely a chemical imbalance in my brain. Or had the years of abuse, that I had tried so hard to keep buried in the back of my mind finally made it to the surface?

I don’t remember anything about the time when I was 2 years of age. Apparently, the teenage sons of the woman who ran the creche I attended had molested me. I don’t think it was very serious as there was no physical damage that I knew of. But let’s just say, I have never been able to as they say “go down” on a lover. Sorry to be so graphic.

However, I do recall my parents (I can’t call her a mother), father, vividly. We had to go visit every Sunday after church for a big lunch. After the meal, it was time for the obligatory “nap”. Alone in the room with him, I recall feeling guilty, angry, scared, confused and then even worse when over time, I started to “enjoy” it a little. I was 7 when it started and around 10 when it stopped. I have an awful feeling that he moved onto my younger cousin then. I was and am convinced my parents knew what was going on the whole time. In fact, after hearing her numerous tales about her horrible childhood and how evil men were, I believe she and her sisters may also have been “played” with by this evil man. On several occasions, I did tell her, after my excuses of feeling ill or having too much homework didn’t prevent a visit. She dismissed me and told me not to tell such awful lies, that I was just looking for attention. And off we would go again to “grandpa”.

And so it continued, and my hatred for both of them festered and grew.

I don’t think she ever loved or wanted me. She told me stories, horrible stories. That I was a product of rape, that her husband, my loving dad had forced himself on her because he wanted a child. My father truly loved me but was taken from me by a terrible accident with a goods train when I was 9.
Maybe she was right; maybe I was just a stupid, useless kid that nobody would want or love. That I would never, no matter how hard I tried, amount to anything or be a success. Well, I was successful at something. After 6 weeks, I convinced a bunch of doctors that I was just a hormonal teenager. I promised never to do something like that again and was sent home.

Life started to improve. I left home and all its memories and started studying at a teacher training college in a big city. I was happy, making friends, discovering boys, going to parties, having fun. I was actually popular. But then I got too happy. I ended up in the emergency room after looking for a lift home ended up with me going rock climbing, with no experience and no safety gear. A fall lead to rope burn on my hands and a banged-up hip. It also lead to a call to my parent. I was placed in the psych ward on a 48-hour hold.

It was agreed that I was now manic and was a risk to myself.

My college education and freedom ended – off to another treatment centre. This place was much nicer. It became like a home to me, the staff and patients like family. They cared about me. I was to spend over a year there. Try explaining that gap in your CV. First, in the teen section with the anorexic girls and then down to the adult section when I turned 18.

My parent tried to convince them to give me shock therapy (yes they still do that) but luckily my doctors didn’t agree. There was also the time when I had to go into hospital to have my tonsils removed, and I found out from one of the nurses much later that she had asked them to perform on op on me to make me sterile at the same time. She didn’t want the risk of “mad grandchildren”. I literally had to wait until I fell pregnant years later to find out if she had succeeded.

After trying out several types of medication, I was eventually declared fit to leave.

In all that time, I never told anyone about the abuse. I was just too ashamed. I had gone along with it, hadn’t I? Maybe I would have gotten better a lot quicker if I had.

I was put into a safe home, and sheltered employment and I cut off all ties with my parent. That was 33 years ago. I stayed on the meds for about a year then just stopped. I didn’t like the side effects.

And I coped, in fact, I thrived.

I raised 2 amazing children on my own (their father left us for drugs when they were babies), I had a number of successful careers and loads of adventures. We never had a lot of money, but we always had enough. Yes, I have a major problem with relationships, I don’t trust easily and then tend to push people away if they got too close. So I often find myself lonely when all I want is company and support. I guess I am a little difficult to understand.

But I have had a good life. I have done things I would never have thought possible. Sometimes when I found myself giddy with joy, I would worry that I was getting high. There were many times when I would dip into deep dark lows.

But I survived emotional and sexual abuse. It wasn’t my fault; it is no one’s fault.

I have finally found the courage to share my story. I just hope it helps someone else to speak up and shout louder. To realise that they don’t and didn’t deserve it. That they will make it in the end, no matter how bad the start was.

Then it will be worth it.

I am no longer ashamed; I survived, I thrived,

So can you.