In August of 2010, almost five years ago, I was hospitalized for many issues. I was not hospitalized because I wanted to be! I was blue-sheeted. That means the hospital took guardianship of me. It was not awesome. I had texted my dear, sweet sister from another mister, Sarah, and told her that I was done. Over the next couple of hours, I would define her behavior and language with me as being "tough love." Or something. She was not happy with me. But she loved me. And I knew that. I don't remember 95% of the details from that time. I was heavily medicated and extremely sedated. I was not in the right frame of mind, clearly. I had allowed years and years and years of sadness and hurt and abuse to build up. I had decided that making bad choices was completely acceptable because making good choices didn't get me anywhere. I was absolutely, completely broken. Picture a windshield that is completely shattered. That was me. I missed my boys' first day of school that year. I was inpatient, with a daily schedule that included waking up, making my bed that was bolted to the ground, eating the breakfast that the doctors had ordered for me (along with a Boost drink), being given my medication through a window, attending five one-hour counseling sessions, being checked over by a physician, being checked by a psychiatrist, painting during recreational therapy, eating lunch, dinner, and a nighttime snack (all ordered by my physician), being weighed at 4 am, having a flashlight in my face every 15 minutes from 9 pm to 7 am, seeing visitors who would come see me between 7 pm and 8 pm, watching sports with my next door neighbor, Timmy, and coloring. When I was admitted, I weighed 103 pounds. I was told that I had to weigh 120 pounds within a week and that I had to keep it on or I would be re-admitted. I was put on medication that worked for my depression and anxiety. I painted crafts for my kids. I talked to them everyday. My brother came to take me home when I was discharged. I remember being terrified when I walked outside. I was no longer in my "safe" place. I would make a few more big mistakes over the next year, but I figured it out. I did it. I survived. I am here and I am good! I have remained at 120 pounds for almost five years! I have never had another thought of suicide. I have learned what my triggers are, what my resources are, and how to live life in the best, most safe way possible. None of this would have been possible without Sarah. That night, on August 18, she saved my life. Literally. Yes, she sent the police. Yes, she sent a patient advocate. Yes, she called my parents. But, she made sure I lived. And, I did. The night after I arrived, she came to see me. She brought me two shirts. I wore them the rest of the time. She saw in me what I could not see in myself. Today, I received a package. It included a notebook and a card. The card explained that she had kept a log of our text messages back and forth the night of the 18th. It said that it was now my time to do with it what I wanted. I read every one of them. I was so close to dying that night that it's scary. But I didn't. She never, ever left me. Ever. This notebook is a reminder that life can be so very hard, in fact at times it can seem like death is the only option. But - it is not. It isn't. I have never doubted that Heavenly Father put people in our path to help us through times that were going to seem bigger than we could handle. He knew I would need Sarah. I love her eternally. She is my angel. The front of the card reads, "At any given moment, you have the power to say, 'This is NOT how the story is going to end.'" My story didn't end.
