Oprah Saved My Life
I had planned to commit suicide, until I watched an episode of Oprah on suicide attempt survivors.
Editor's Note: This topic can be sensitive in nature and may be triggering for some readers.
Words by Laura Connell
My decision to commit suicide came while I stood in front of an open dresser drawer choosing socks before picking up my kids from their play date. My drinking had escalated after my youngest arrived, a response to my belief in myself as ill-equipped to mother more than one child. Other women could handle two kids, I had decided, but I couldn’t deal with things most adults considered normal. My basic defectiveness and inability to handle life’s challenges got locked inside a cupboard with all my other inadequacies.
I avoided the spotlight, kept safe in the shadows, refused to state opinions, and sought advice before taking a single step because of a lack of faith in my instincts. I apologized when I’d done nothing wrong and avoided conflict at all cost. The voice in my head tormented me with its repetitive refrain: “That’s not for you,” which halted me from pursuit of people and places that might make me happy. Rather than rise to life’s challenges, I hid and refused to ask for help, convinced of my need to fend for myself, an immature self-sufficiency learned in childhood.
Every morning I woke with a racing heartbeat and weight on my chest over the horror of facing another day, a dread covered up by keeping a perfect house, looking my best, and suppressing any shred of authenticity.
Convinced everyone had the guidebook to life except me, I hid my inability to cope and, in the evening, my good friend alcohol helped release the tension from a day of pretending to be someone else. Alcohol provided an escape from the ever-present sense of not belonging, of feeling inherently wrong, of a day filled with agreeing, apologizing, and doing whatever it took to justify my existence.
My husband worked long hours at his business and came home too distracted by his laptop and cellphone to help with the kids. My days became a mindless loop of walking to and from school, three trips a day with my youngest in half-day kindergarten, giving me little time or motivation to do anything meaningful in between. My internal tyrant would never have allowed me to sit with a book, indulge my thoughts, or write in a journal for release. Everything had to have a purpose outside myself, make money or serve others, or the inner monologue told me I had no right to do it. I refused myself pleasure of any kind, the constant need to prove my right to take up space on the planet meant pleasing others, never myself.
With my children at a play date across the street, I spent hours scrubbing bathroom tiles because I needed to feel useful while the kids were out. Rather than seek activities that brought me satisfaction, I stifled my old goal of a writing career, which had died when I accepted a full-time position as a secretary to help pay for my wedding. Even while pursuing a writing career after university, doing an internship at a magazine and interviewing at newspapers, I would never have considered writing for fulfillment, such blatant self-interest off limits to me.
That afternoon, scrubbing tiles that refused to come clean, I stopped mid-wipe and stood motionless while my mind scoffed over the futility of the task and how it mirrored my excuse for a life. The false self that had evolved to protect me stepped aside in that moment. The oppression of spending a free afternoon scrubbing uselessly, as if I had found the one thing that would make me most miserable and did that, came into view. I felt so undeserving of anything remotely pleasurable or self-soothing – besides alcohol, of course – the voice in my head that said, “that’s not for you,” played a constant loop in my head.
I had refused to stand up for myself, to ask for what I wanted, to express emotional needs, and the consequences of my self-abandonment were all around me. I lived in a house I hated to which I felt no connection because my daughter had to go to the right school. All my energy went to fitting in here, looking like the mother of a child who went to a school like that and lived in a neighborhood like this. The instances of self-desertion had stacked one on top of the other, to create a life ruled by excruciating loneliness and the terror of being exposed. I had built someone else’s life and had myself to blame, another brick on the pile of self-loathing.
If you had inquired about my well-being in the middle of this despair, I would have smiled and said, “Great, how about you?” because of my abject terror over facing my honest emotions. My false self could handle lack of love and fulfillment, but my true self might not be as strong. In front of the tiles that refused to come clean, useless sponge in hand, my true self whispered, “is this all there is?” and the false self, for once, refused to reply. I put down the sponge, admitted defeat against the stubborn tile grime, and turned toward my dresser to change into an outfit respectable enough for a walk across the street to pick up my kids.
In that moment, the false self relinquished her stranglehold and the truth raised her voice and said, “You’ve tried to protect me, but you can stop now. It’s over.” My head became heavy as thoughts moved like mud inside. A fleeting one about choosing socks got chased away by one overwhelming notion that seeped through all the space inside my head. This one colossal thought pushed out all the nattering of “what will people think” or “just get through the day” and its overpowering truth crawled into every corner of my brain. An all-encompassing desire to cease to exist consumed me, gave me no other way out, and the knowledge my children would be better off without me cemented my resolve.
I had decided to do away with myself, but not at that moment – I still had to pick up my kids from their play dates, hadn’t lost touch with reality but regained it, and needed a plan. My firm resolve gave me a sense of control that brought peace different from my former numbness. I felt empowered. I knew what to do, just had to figure out a plan and execute it. I pulled on my socks with renewed purpose. Pills would work best, nothing violent, no mess or drama.
The glowing red numbers on the digital clock read 4:00 pm.
"Oprah’s on."
Oprah had been off my radar for years since her show kept me company while Katie nursed in the afternoon. That’s how I knew the show started at 4 o’clock. I pushed the interruption out of my mind and went back to the comfort of plotting my suicide, the blessed rescue from unbearable suffering in a world that didn’t fit. But the voice persisted.
”Oprah’s on. You should watch it.”
The pulsating desire to watch a talk show after having made a firm resolution to kill myself baffled me, but the compulsion refused to wane. As if watching myself through frosted glass, I picked up the remote from beside the television, pressed the ON button and flicked to Channel 8. The show had just begun, and the audience applause died down as Oprah introduced the day’s topic.
A mother with post-partum depression had tried to jump off a 200-foot bridge and three police officers pulled her back from the edge as she fought them off. A teenage girl laid down on the railroad tracks and remained conscious as 30 freight cars cut through her body. She lost her legs but kept her life. A young man had taken a gun from a friend’s case and blown off most of his face. He, too, lived, but now suffered facial disfigurement and blindness. The episode featured suicide survivors, people who had failed in their attempts to take their own lives and had come on the show to encourage others not to take their own.
I watched through glossy eyes from where I had plumped down on the edge of the bed, transfixed. Each guest expressed gratitude for being alive and wanted people suffering with depression to know their lives were worthwhile and God had a purpose for them. I hadn’t felt depressed, but beyond repair, so defective I needed to be destroyed rather than fixed. I had no spirituality but had to admit more than luck had placed this anonymous love letter in my lap.
My decision to kill myself had been firm and resolute, but that serendipitous event changed my mind and convinced me to carry on living. I started a journey that included facing my drinking and have lived sober now for almost 10 years.
About the Author:
Laura Connell has published personal essays in The Globe and Mail, Toronto Star, Calgary Herald, Homemaker’s, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and The Kindred Voice (formerly Holl & Lane). She lives in Toronto and enjoys travel, the outdoors, and reading library books. You can take her quiz on finding your purpose here: https://laurakconnell.com/purpose-quiz/. She is writing a memoir about recovery from alcohol addiction.