Suicidal Missionary: The Continuing Story

Please be Advised: What follows is the most personal and vulnerable blog I’ve written. I will be sharing about mental illness, specifically depression and anxiety; suicide risk, and mental health treatment. My intention is not to alarm or frighten anyone, nor to evoke drama or pity; I intend instead to glorify God, who I credit with my survival and continuous healing; to encourage anyone who may be going through similar struggles, and to further the understanding of and lessen the stigma of mental illness. 

I’m going to tell you an upsetting story. But persevere, keep reading through (I know it’s a bit long, forgive me if I wax loquacious) to the happy ending. Let me explain why I suddenly left my job of teaching God’s most beautiful children in the middle of the semester, why I fled the home I love in Haiti, ceased communication with almost everyone I care for, why I went off the radar. Listen to how I fell off the deep end. And then listen to me brag about God. (If you don't believe in God keep reading anyway.) 

In May I left my job teaching English at school in Haiti, cut out midway through the quarter, dropped classes and students to flee back to New Hampshire where I holed up in my childhood bedroom.

I left because I was afraid to stay. In three years of living and working in this volatile third world country harassed by hurricanes, gangs, and violent protests, for the first time I was afraid for my life. Every day, several times a day, my life was threatened.

Threatened as I stepped to the edge of the roof and looked down. Threatened as I approached the main street and watched for fast-moving trucks and buses. As I unscrewed the cap of a bleach jug and as I counted pills in my store.

I wanted to die. I was ready to die by my own hand.

I could no longer tolerate the loneliness, the failure, the self-loathing. All the short-comings of curriculum, of English-learning, lack of understanding of lessons or Bible application, rude words, the long line of hungry, desperate neighbors, the constancy of my foot in my mouth, deciding to sleep rather than keep company, eating food that could have gone to another, lack of French or complex Creole, that ridiculously long list of mistakes and wrongs done to others—these piled upon me. Every failure was my failure. Everything was my fault. The certainty of this was weight I couldn’t shake off.

In class I smiled and hugged the kids. I tried to sing and pray with fervor to match the other teachers who praised God through their stories of suffering: sickness, poverty, overcrowding. In between classes and duties I snuck up to the roof and cried.

When I did break down and sob, I tried to do so in secret. If discovered, sometimes others berated me for crying. Always I criticized myself. There was no reason for me to cry. My life was a breeze compared to our kids, who came from shacks without water or electricity, who slept on the floor or piled together with siblings, who had no mosquito nets to prevent bites, who had to trek down the mountain for school. My parents had never beat or neglected me. I wasn’t passed around among hostile relatives. Plenty of people sent me messages and letters assuring me I was loved and special. This crying was pathetic. A waste of time.

So onto the weight of miserable failure piled more guilt, like lead gilding an iron yoke. The yoke was breaking me. The best thing for everybody would be my absence. I was only making things worse. Since I couldn’t prevent my birth, erase my existence, I could end my life now. I’d be free. They’d all be free of me.

There were many ways to commit suicide. I’d heard that the most common method in Haiti is drinking bleach. Easy enough to acquire; I even had bleach in my room for cleaning the floors. The school and our house had flat roofs easy to mount and jump from. All that concrete could be lethal. Probably I could find a gun. We knew a mother who had jumped in front of a speeding bus. A man had been discovered on the beach after drowning himself. I had clothesline rope. In the past I’d slit my wrists lightly for relief. Cut a little deeper…

Such were my thoughts of escape.

And when I wasn’t calculating with disappointment the inadequate height of the roof or reading online warnings of ingesting an excess of Nyquil, I was terrified. Terrified I would follow through and do it: kill myself, and the resultant impact. There was much to consider.

Who would find my body? How would that affect them? How traumatizing! And if I jumped off the school roof or threw myself in front of a speeding truck there on National Road, the kids were sure to see. They had enough post-traumatic stress. What of my house family? They’d have to live here with my death tainting the premises. And what if the cleanup were messy—a literal stain upon their play space in the courtyard or those beautiful white tiles in the guest bedroom?

What of the driver of the truck I chose? The passengers? The witnesses on the road? They would have to live with another death, or the guilt of cause. And again, the kids! I couldn’t put them through such horror.

And my parents. I knew they loved me, and I loved them. I didn’t them to deal with their child’s suicide. And what if foul play were suspected? This was a U.N. recognized risky area; what if the authorities suspected my housemates or locals of harming me? What if those I loved were arrested for my murder?

And, worst of all, what if I survived? What if I were merely injured, or paralyzed? Wound up brain-dead hooked to machines for months or years to come? Stuck in the limbo between life and death and forever haunted by the shame and failure of what I’d done (or tried to do.) I’d see the betrayal on all their faces when they looked at me. Their pity and disgust.

When my mind was too worn with agony to conjure these horrific possibilities, there was still a hint of reason. I remembered my student-loan debt. If I died Mom and Dad would be saddled with it. The shallow practicality and undeniable truth of this held even when I couldn’t summon energy to empathize with those who would be impacted by my death.

Many days, nights, moments, I knew I’d be doing everyone a favor by dying and had to remind myself of the student-loan debt, the bills piling up for Mom and Dad. It was usually just enough to combat the truth: I’d caused enough problems. I wasn’t worth my keep. They’d all be better off without me.

Such was my thinking the first weeks of May.

Actually such my thinking was on and off over the past few years. But this spring was the worst. The battle had been raging too long and I was losing. It was just a matter of [little] time before I did it, before I tried to kill myself for real.

So I left Haiti, where mental illness has one translation, “fou” (crazy.)

Letting everyone down, breaking my “contract” of teaching through the year, I gave brief notice and fled to my parents’ house in NH.

Once Stateside I got in to see my primary care physician. She upped the meds. Yes, I was already taking daily anti-depressant medication. And I had tried counseling. For over a year I’d been semi-regularly conversing with a counselor over the phone. I hadn’t found her particularly helpful or insightful to the third-world missionary life. But I spoke with her, told her the truth, followed her more practical advice. I’d followed lots of advice. I tried. I exercised, hard and regularly. Sometimes I even played soccer with the kids. I slept, rested, took time for myself with the door closed. I colored and listened to music. I prayed hard in the blue dawn cool. I read my Bible. I meditated in the sunset light. I watched the stars and the palm trees and the surf. I messaged with distant friends. I confided in certain housemates. I sang praise, went to church, attended devotion. I ate as well as I could and drank plenty of water. I took my daily vitamins, brushed my teeth, kept clean, dressed neatly for school and church. I loved hard on the kids, holding back no affection nor energy from them. I studied and prepared for lessons. I took work seriously. I didn’t leave much time to idle or fret. Every morning I took that anti-depressant. Every day I journaled. Every day I prayed. I tried. I tried. I tried hard. It wasn’t enough.

My PCP has soft eyes and a gentle voice. She speaks kindly. When we met in May she said increasing the small dosage of my current anti-depressant medication was Step One. We could fight this. She gave me the number of a nearby Christian counselor. Someone to meet with in-person.

Mom and I went to the counselor’s office. I feared being too emotional to drive home safely, driving while sobbing is most unwise, so Mom drove and waited in the lobby while I went to meet the counselor, Mary. I could hardly look at her, ashamed and hopeless as I was. I knew I wasn’t going to get better. I knew my life was essentially over. But for the sake of the kids to whom I’d committed and long ago lost my heart, I had to try. So I met with Mary the counselor. She assured me there was hope for me, and I’d achieved a major accomplishment in seeking help. We agreed to meet once a week for at least 15 sessions.

So it’s been for the past five months. Each week I meet with Mary, sitting in my place in the corner of the blue couch. We talk. She listens and responds. I listen and sometimes respond. Sometimes I sob. Sometimes I nearly hyperventilate. Sometimes I withdraw so deeply we need a crowbar to prise out words. For so long I held in truth and feelings I often now freeze when encouraged to share. Sometimes we do exercises meant to induce anxiety, and then cope with it. Sometimes we make lists. Always we talk about automatic thoughts. Those thoughts that appear and can knock us flat with terror or despair. We talk about how to let them appear, amble about like a white bear foraging the forests of my mind, and disappear again. Over and over again I must repeat the three outcomes: worst, best, and most realistic. Often those three are not terribly dissimilar. Mary has given me logs to catalogue the thoughts, the emotions, the anxieties, and face them. She’s shared psychological research and tools.

Before I depart from our never-less-than-an-hour sessions she prays over me.

Mary has been wonderful. Not the least for her medicinal advice; she has coordinated with my PCP over medication adjustments. I have been on the fourth regimen for about two months now. It’s effective. My PCP has renewed the prescriptions for a year and cleared me for return to Haiti, pending the approval of the otolaryngologist and my healed sinuses. Mary deems me able to serve, as well, but as our time is beneficial we plan to meet until I depart.

I’ve never skipped a session with Mary. We have a standing appointment on Friday mornings. When my head was splitting from a five-day migraine I went. When I was still trembling from a panicky weekend I went. When I am furious with the world, furious with myself, certain nothing will ever pull me from the pit, the lump in my throat a boulder around which words cannot squeeze—still I go. Still I make that session. And even when I’m headed out, certain this was a waste of time, that I failed again, haven’t made any progress, Mary congratulates me.

“Good job. You came today and that was hard.”

From the beginning she has been confident I could get better, heal enough to go back to Haiti, return to work.

“Depression is like wearing dark lenses,” she says, tapping her glasses with a finger. “When you wear them the whole world is dark. You can’t see hope.”

I nod. I agree. In the pit of despair nothing is visible. All is darkness. It always was dark. It always will be dark. There is nothing good to remember and nothing to look forward to. No redemption. No hope.

“But we’re going to get to the place where you can take off the glasses,” Mary continues.

Since May we’ve been working on pulling off those glasses, or at least clearing the lenses. And getting a handle on the anxiety that apparently has been choking me for years.

These days suicide almost never crosses my mind.

I am so saddened when I hear of a case, of someone who gave in and ended her own life. (I would not call these “successful” suicide cases. There is no such thing.) I understand the complete despair; I understand the shame, the self-loathing so overwhelming you wish you could just peel off your skin, desperate to be anywhere except your own head.

I am so sad, so sorry, that she never got over it, this victim. Yes, victim. No one chooses depression. We don’t get to decide among depression, diabetes, or even cancer. I ache for the victim who never reached the place where it gets better and hope is visible again. Light. Laughter. Love from sympathetic or even empathetic friends. Support from folks who have been in the Pit themselves.

I am sad for the victim first.

Then I grieve for those left behind. For those who loved the victim, and those the victim loved.

All over again I know how important it is to share with the hurting. To pursue those with the shadowed eyes who always answer, “I’m fine.” Who won’t let you see them cry.

All over again, mourning with the victim’s family, considering the victim who couldn’t climb out of the Pit, I know how blessed I am to be alive.

Mental illness doesn’t wear a cast. It doesn’t need crutches or an IV. There are no infusions, bandages, or pacemakers. You cannot see it and maybe you cannot understand it. We are visual creatures, after all.

But mental illness is hideously real and afflicts far more people than you think, and probably many whom you know personally. In the United States alone approximately 16 million people suffer from Major Depression a year (Anxiety and Depression Association of America, 2017). 35% of these people will receive no treatment (National Institute of Mental Health). 47,173 U.S. Americans committed suicide in 2017 (NIMH).

Around the world the World Health Organization estimates that more than one million people commit suicide each year (ADAA); these numbers are particularly difficult to confirm in developing countries like Haiti. Depression is a serious sickness that may be circumstantial, resulting from specific events, or may be chronic and genetic, flaring up and receding without determinable cause. Sometimes we are just sad for no reason. Desperately, achingly sad. We can’t tell you why. So please be patient with us.

Like any illness, depression, anxiety, bi-polar or obsessive-compulsive disorders, or post-traumatic stress, all mental illnesses require attention, treatment, and utmost compassion.

Plenty of people in my life who I love and who love me do not understand depression. They struggle to accept mental illness as a true health concern. When first informed about depression or anxiety they rejected medical evidence and assured me I was simply sad. I needed to pray more, they said. Spend more time with God. Get a little more sleep, eat something, sing some happy songs. It will pass. You’ll be fine, they said. Perhaps they did not intend to be dismissive, I am sure that none intended further harm. However, with those dark glasses, under the shame that accompanies depression and the severe self-loathing, words such as these, light-hearted advice to pray more or to “just cheer up,” can be terribly detrimental. They can be lethal: the last push towards suicide.

Sometimes just listening is best. Being in the room with someone. Willingness to endure with someone can be lifesaving. Some people in my life who I love and who love me understand depression. They sit, they listen, they check-in. Some suffer, too. When I speak of the dread of leaving bed, of ruining the mood in a room, of being that Debbie Downer, they sigh, too. “Yep, been there.” We reassure one another that the darkness is real, that the doctors have confirmed chemical imbalance necessitating medical treatment, and we try to boost one another up. We take turns in the Pit and take turns lowering a hand, dropping a ladder, or shining a lantern in the darkness. We encourage one another to keep fighting.

We need your help, Friends.

Whether you have depression or not, whether you think it’s a weakness or a true illness, we need your help. Yes, I am far too weak to deal with this on my own. God assures me that is okay. In fact, God assures me that the weak will shame the strong (1 Corinthians 1:27 NIV). God also commands us to love one another (John 15:12 NIV), with love that is patient and kind (1 Corinthians 13:4), and to rejoice with those who rejoice and to mourn with those who mourn (Romans 12:15 NIV). We should not suffer alone but together (1 Corinthians 12:26 NIV).

I am not suffering as I was. I am better now. I am far improved from May, when ascending to the roof or getting in the car was a conflict of interests. These days I don’t want to dive in front of a speeding truck or jump off a bridge. I want to live. I want to enjoy God’s beautiful creation, which here in New Hampshire is bursting with autumn color. I want to love on God’s beautiful Haitian children with whom we’ve been charged.

However, I am not cured. I’m not ever going to be rid of this sickness. It’s chronic; it’s genetic. I know this depression and anxiety will linger always, like my bad skin and weak eyes. The war of worth continues in quieter skirmishes.

But I am here.

Five months ago, three months ago, two months ago, that didn’t seem possible.

That is God. Over and over again, through the conflict, beyond the darkness, the promise sounds: “You are worthy and I love you.”

Many times the only prayer I could whimper was, “It hurts, God.” Over and over again.

God always listened. And He didn’t quit on me. He put the right people in place so I wouldn’t quit either, so that I didn’t go through with suicide. He spoke life through loved ones. “You’re definitely not a lost cause,” one said to me.

God agreed. He set His children in my heart so I always had 166 beautiful reasons to keep fighting. Getting well enough to return to them, now 189 of them, has been my primary motivation for the past five months. The time is near, I think.

Every day I take medication. Each week I meet with Mary the counselor. There are those with whom I can share fully, and those who support me, including my parents. All these gifts are God-arranged.

When I cry that it’s not fair, it’s hard, I’m lonely and misunderstood and tired and sad and just want to go home to Heaven, I hear Jesus answer, “I know.” Jesus knows because He has been there, has lived it. Jesus knows better than any of us injustice, rejection, the weight of sin and despair. He was arrested in secret without warrant, tried, found not guilty but flogged and executed anyway. He was literally spit upon and mocked by those who had called Him friend. His family called Him crazy. His closest friends disowned Him. Jesus was left alone, naked and mutilated. He went willingly into the darkness we fear and goes back over and over again for our sake. Jesus drops into the Pit with us, sits beside us. We just may not see Him.

On this side of healing, I can see. I can see how God saved my life (many times). When I look back over the past five months I can hardly believe how far I have come. How far God has brought me. He continues to replace guilt, fear, and loneliness with worth, joy, and purpose. Without God there is no real hope, even with medication and therapy. For without God, without the prospect of a permanent, perfect Home, a place unimaginably better than this broken world, what is there to hope for? What is there to look forward to?

More than anything, even more than returning to those beautiful, wonderful, loving children I miss so much there is a fist clenching my heart, I want to make God proud. I want to get better, fight the darkness, work hard and live well so one day I die in peace without hastening my time. I want to get to Heaven and hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

If this sad life were all there is I would have done it. I’d be dead.

Knowing this life is just the trial run before true life begins keeps me moving forward.

Depression sucks. Depression causes severe impairment in all aspects of life. Depression kills. Life can suck. Life is hard, full of pain and suffering. Man’s days are short and full of trouble (Job 14:1).

But this is not as good as it gets.

God is on my side. Your side. Our side. He knows every hair on our heads. He wants to give us better life, life to the fullest (John 10:10). Full life such as I’ve already started enjoying.

Yeah, I’m bragging. I didn’t kill myself. I didn’t surrender. I kept fighting, like some warrior hero of old, Achilles or Ajax or Odysseus. I’m still fighting, just not by my own might. And I’m on the winning side. My God is so big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing that He cannot do. That includes pulling a suicidal missionary away from the ledge and giving her hope again.

Hope, Godly hope, is why I can stop writing here. This is not a tragedy nor is it ending. This is a story to be continued, and even if I’m not always happy to live it, I am not eager to end it.

Please, please, Friend, if you are suffering from depression, if you are thinking of giving up, if you are considering suicide or self-harm of any kind, please let someone know. I am here for you. Send me a message: rachel.allyssa93@gmail.com You are not alone. Please reach out. We are reaching back to you.

If you are in crisis, call the toll-free National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The service is available to anyone. All calls are confidential. http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org 

Major Depression according to the National Institute of Mental Health, USA

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/major-depression.shtml

Facts and Statistics from the Anxiety and Depression Association of America, USA

https://adaa.org/about-adaa/press-room/facts-statistics

Suicide Statistics from the NIMH, USA

https://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/statistics/suicide.shtml