by Elizabet Beam

Created on: December 05, 2008

If my life were a tapestry it would be a vibrant contrast of dark and bright. Amongst the hues would be the bright honeyed yellow of my sweet childhood memories, the timid pomegranate of young love, and the glowing auburn of enduring friendships. But amidst these warm colors you would find one dark obsidian line, one low point that has deeply affected my life. That line represents the night I tried to take my own life.

My catastrophe was long forthcoming. I've often thought that if I'd had less strength I would have succeeded long ago; I distinctly remember praying for God to take me when I was about six years old. Yet, part of me wonders if I might never have experienced the pain if I were stronger. Who can say how depression starts? Who can pinpoint the exact moment a cancer roots in and takes hold? I can't explain the intricate waltzes of serotonin and norepinephrine, nor can I determine whether my problem was organic or external. But situation has a great hand. My home was broken before I was born, and I had my first abusive stepfather before I was able to remember him. I believe my mother only wanted love, but the best laid plans of my mother and men often went astray. And the demise of one tyrant brought only the reign of another criminal, drug addict, alcoholic and violent or verbally abusive man.

My early experiences were dark. Each painful encounter was a wicked seed sewn deep within me, and by the time of my mother's fifth marriage I began to be consumed by a forest of twisted trees. Thus, my depression pronounced itself when I was twelve years old. Depression is an iniquitous disease, carcinogenic like thick smoke. It seized me tight and I could enjoy nothing, do nothing but lie in bed, a vapid husk of the lively girl I had been. It was unforgiving, unrelenting, and merciless. I fought thoughts of suicide. I fought doing something that would hurt so many loved ones. I fought against my depression for four miserable years, and by time I was finally in enough pain to attempt the unfathomable my spirit was crushed and I was dead already. I did not search for heaven in my attempts. I searched for nothing, for the void and absence that would end the sharp ache that I truly believed would never lift.

And so I planned and waited until I had enough energy. I waited for the opportunity. When the chance came, I took enough aspirin to insure that after I'd slit my wrists there was no turning back. But, I believe God was not finished with me, not ready for me to

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