The Strongest Lights Outlast The Night- chapter 1

Preface

This is a semi-autobiographical story. Names, places, and events have been changed to protect the identities of the people involved.

This is my journey through trauma—both sexual and medical. I speak about family trauma through the lens of my own perception and how my life has unfolded. These are my memories, and no one can ever take them away from me.

I want to share my experiences in the hope that they may help others struggling with similar issues. If nothing else, I hope to offer something to relate to—to create a sense of understanding—something I’ve found difficult to come by in my own life.

I still deal with daily physical and emotional symptoms. But through my healing, I’m excited to say that I’m beginning to feel more comfortable in my own body. For the first time since childhood, I am hopeful for my future.

I’ve come to understand that perception is everything. Nothing in my external world has changed to bring me this sense of comfort—it’s my inner healing that has shifted how I see life. That alone has changed everything.

I believe we all chose this journey before we came here. The more we resist it or try to control our futures, the farther we move from our purpose. Going through difficult times is painful—sometimes unbearably so—and it can take years before we begin to understand why we had to endure them. But maybe that’s the point. If we already had all the answers, we wouldn’t need to be here. Our souls would be complete—no longer seeking, learning, or growing.

Life can be a beautiful disaster. And still, I will keep pushing forward until I find my piece of “happy.” Until then, I will do my best to remain internally peaceful, regardless of my circumstances.

I will no longer be a victim to my life.

Chapter One

At fifteen years old, I felt depressed all the time. I relied on my friends to help me cope. That summer is when it all began. I had started sneaking my dad’s beer into my room. Drinking alcohol gave me a sense of relief. It softened the sadness that have become a constant.

I got home from school that Thursday afternoon and found my dad waiting for me in the living room. Six empty beer bottles sat on the table in front of the couch. I knew instantly that he had found them in my room. He was furious. He started yelling at me, grounding me and taking away my after-school privilege of talking to my friends. At the time, that felt like a death sentence. My friends were my whole world.

As he yelled at me, a strange numbness took over that I had never experienced before. It was almost like a tsunami swept over my brain and wiped away my thoughts.

Something else took over. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. His voice became background noise. I remember one thing clearly though. He told me I was only going to be allowed to go to school, come home, and sit in my room.

That’s when I felt the storm fully hit.

Sitting there at fifteen years old in my family’s living room I began planning to end this horrible nightmare. I decided to raid the medicine cabinet and take as many pills as I could of Tylenol and Advil. I would make myself a last meal in the kitchen and bring everything to my bedroom. I planned on eating, and then swallowing every pill.

I was sitting in this blue La-Z-Boy chair that sat in our living room. I sat in that spot a hundred times before, during family movie nights with pizza that seemed larger than life. I miss those nights. My life felt perfect back then. I was so happy before I started feeling the shadow creep in. I just wanted to get back to who I used to be. I didn’t know if that was possible. I

waited for my dad to stop yelling and quietly put my plan into motion.

I made myself a turkey sandwich, then gathered every pill from the cabinet, and brought them to my bedroom. I felt absolutely nothing. I had no emotion. I must have seemed completely “normal”, especially after the fight I just had with my dad. Once in my bedroom, I closed the door and sat on my little twin bed. I barely remember eating the sandwich because I was focused on taking the pills.

When I was done eating, I poured all the pills into a big bowl and mixed them together. I began swallowing handfuls. Halfway through, I stopped briefly to write my suicide note. I remember thinking only for a few seconds about what I would say. Looking back now, I wonder how I could’ve given such little thought. I wrote about my boyfriend and friends. I wrote as neatly as I could. I said how much I loved him and how I wanted my things given to my friends. Then I finished taking the pills.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I woke up to my mom slapping me in the face, shaking me and yelling at me to wake up. I groggily opened my eyes and saw the empty pill containers and pills in the bowl. I wasn’t able to finish swallowing all of them. Realizing my attempt didn’t work filled me with so much anger. I had left the evidence out in the open. I wasn’t thinking clearly but I was furious that I was still alive.

I was exhausted, but the reality of it didn’t work was at the forefront of my thoughts. My mom dragged me down the hall, into the bathroom and shoved her fingers down my throat, trying to make me vomit. Nothing came up. I vaguely remember her calling my dad and saying, “Guess what your daughter just did?”

It felt like seconds before my dad was home. He had left for work shortly after our confrontation. I looked up from the hallway and saw him coming toward me, still in his police uniform. It was around 7:30 PM in November, and the hallway was dim. He was yelling, pointing his finger in my face. I broke down for the first time since my mom found me. She was screaming too, but I felt so disconnected as if I were watching a movie.

I was crying uncontrollably now and full of anger, fear, and shame. My parents pulled me down the stairs to get into the family’s purple van. As we passed the living room, I caught a glimpse of my 10-year-old brother, who had heard everything and looked terrified. My mom drove, my dad followed behind us in his cruiser. I kept passing out, trying to sleep, but my mom slapped my leg or arm every few minutes to keep me awake, while driving with one hand.

I wished she hadn’t found me. I wished I had just fallen asleep forever, like I had planned.

When we arrived at the hospital a town over, it seemed like they had been expecting us. I think my dad had called on our way there. A nurse told me that I wasn’t allowed to get up or even use the bathroom. They brought in a commode and quickly returned with a black, tar-like liquid-activated charcoal. I drank it to try to vomit up whatever pills were left in my stomach.

While this was happening, they brought in another teen, around my age, who had alcohol poisoning. Between his own bouts of vomiting, he looked over and told me I was pretty. It was ridiculous, really. There I was, covered in this black charcoal and vomiting, and someone was flirting with me. I found this funny, my mom however did not. I thought it brought some humour to the situation.

I was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, where I stayed for the next three days. The doctors and nurses told my parents that they weren’t entirely sure if I was going to make it through that first night. But I did and I remember it like it was yesterday.

I kept throwing up charcoal throughout the entire night. Every time I woke up, my head throbbed. I was just…numb. It felt like a dream I hadn’t quite woken up from. I don’t even know if there are words that can describe what I felt that night. What had I just done? What was my life going to look like from this point on?

Over those next few days, the nurses wouldn’t let me leave my bed. Now as an adult looking back and after going through a nursing program, I

wonder what was going on in my lab values and my vitals for them to have me on strict bed rest. I do remember that my potassium levels were very low, and they gave me these huge white potassium pills that were almost impossible to swallow.

They told me that I had taken enough Tylenol to kill three people. My nurse Debbie even joked that I should never get a headache again after all the Tylenol I took. My mom didn’t find it funny, but I did. It was the first moment of levity in an otherwise terrifying experience.

My family visited every day, but I was so angry at my dad. I blamed him for all of it. For me being there, for how I felt, for everything. I couldn’t even look at him. I felt this overwhelming hatred. I thought he was controlling, and I had no idea how to function under his rule. It always felt like life in our house was about what he wanted or needed and not about me and my siblings. That, I believed, was the reason I wanted to die.

Those three days were intense. Family members came and went. A priest even came to speak with me, but all he did was make me feel worse. He made me feel guilty for trying to end my life. But I didn’t want to die because I didn’t value life, I just wanted that unbearable feeling inside me to stop. It never went away.

I remembered I used to lay in bed and listen to the clock as it ticked, second after second. The sound drove me mad. Every tick reminded me of how empty I felt. Tick, tick, tick...I still felt hollow inside. Was this what life was going to feel like forever? Would I ever feel normal again or was I truly going crazy?

My grades had started slipping. I dropped all my sports and things I used to love doing. If wanting to escape this pain meant I was going to hell, then so be it. At lease it might be quieter there.

I was cleared to be discharged when I was told by my mom that I wasn’t allowed to go home. I had to go to a facility for children with mental health and home issues.

Great.

My entire life had changed in a matter of minutes; in a decision I made when I was overwhelmed and wanted everything to just stop. My thoughts were always racing of negativity. I felt I had no control over them.

My dad being a police officer at the time, allowed me access to go home to have a shower and pack a bag for the facility. I wasn’t allowed to be unsupervised, not even for a second.

It felt unreal being back in my house knowing that just a few hours, I was being admitted into a facility. I felt like I was being treated like a criminal. I stood in the shower which seemed like forever, because I knew once I got out that’s when things were going to change. I felt terrified of what was to come. I noticed a strange chemical smell coming from my body that I couldn’t wash off. No matter how long I stood under the water, it lingered. I kept smelling for for almost two weeks after. I still don’t know if it was real. Or just my mind clinging to something tangible, something I could focus on instead of what was happening around me.

The facility I was going to was called Sustain, but before I could be admitted, I had to go through their sister hospital for processing. I waited in the emergency department with my parents for over eight hours. The wait was brutal, but if you’ve ever dealt with Canada’s “free” healthcare system, you know what I am talking about.

I sat on the opposite side of the waiting room from him. I still couldn’t look at him.

Eventually my name was called. I was taken into a small room with my mom. A social worker came in, but instead of showing empathy or support, she was cold and dismissive. Most of her conversation was directed at my mom, sympathizing with her about what I had done to her. She talked down to me the entire time.

Then asked me to explain what happened.

That was the first time of what would become an endless number of times I would be asked to repeat and relive the events of that day. It could have been just another ordinary day. But instead, it became the day that changed everything.

By the time I was processed and ready to be transferred, it was approaching midnight. My parents drove me to Sustain. One of the nurses on the night shift was especially kind, she was concerned I hadn’t eaten anything all day. She found me a plain cheese sandwich; I sat in the back seat of my parents’ purple van and ate it slowly. I don’t even think i had ever eaten a plain cheese sandwich before, but i can still remember how good it tasted. My mom didn’t usually allow white bread in the house, so it felt like a special treat, and I was starving.

It was pitch black out when we arrived at Sustain. The facility was in a city I didn’t know. As we entered, we passed through two sets of secured doors. When the second door locked behind me, something broke inside me. I was completely defeated. I said goodbye to my mom, and a staff member walked me to my room, pointing things out along the way.

At first, it looked like someone's home. We passed a cozy-looking living room before going upstairs to a hallway lined with rooms; four on each side. A staff cubby hole sat at the beginning of the hallway. It had a desk with phones and file locked file cabinets. My room was the first one on the right.

Inside my room, the furniture was almost non-existent. There was a white hospital bed bolted to the floor and a desk that was built into the wall. That was it. I wasn’t allowed to keep anything personal in the room. I had a small section in the shared closet, but i had to ask permission to access anything in it. Every time I entered my room, I was searched. They removed my shoelaces and any strings from my clothing. Because everything had to be checked, they gave me a pair of soft, button-down blue pyjamas. I kept them for a long time after I left. They were one of the softest things I had to wear in there and comfort was becoming everything to me in those moments.

The door had a small window, covered by a piece of fabric. That first night, staff lifted the fabric every fifteen minutes to check on me.

I did not sleep much.

The next morning, I got my first real look at the facility.

From the hallway window, I saw a big church nearby. Actual nuns were walking in and out of it. Next to the church was a school building, and surrounding a wide-open field were six cabins, arranged in a semi-circle.

When I walked into the dining area, I recognized a girl I had worked with briefly at the local grocery store. As soon as she saw me, she came right over and hugged me tightly, then burst into tears. I started crying too. It was such a relief to see a familiar face. She made being there feel a little less unbearable since we laughed a lot together.

There was a 10-year-old boy there who reminded me of my younger brother. I became very close with him. He brought me back to a simple time, before everything started to hurt so much. As I got older, my body felt heavier and sadder but spending time with him game me small pockets of peace. I would tease him like a big sister sometimes. He didn’t love that, so it usually only lasted a few seconds.

I never knew why he was there. Or why my friend was there. All I knew was that it wasn’t safe for any of us to be at home alone.

We weren’t allowed to be left unsupervised, ever. Even our conversations were monitored. Staff carried walkie-talkies and were constantly communicating with each other. They made sure no patient ever had a private moment. Within the six cabins, the last cabin was for longterm residents and those considered a flight risk.

One day, while eating in the dining area, I heard the walkie-talkies erupt with urgency. All available staff were told to report to Cabin 6. In healthcare facilities, we call this a Code White; a situation involving a behavioural emergency.

As the days turned into weeks, the staff began to trust me more. They started giving me small privileges like being allowed to sit in a room without supervision. That may sound minor, but to me, it was a big deal.

One day, I overheard a nurse talking on the phone in the upstairs staff cubby near my room. My door had to stay open during the day, so I could hear her clearly. I didn’t know who she was talking to, but I heard her say, “I don’t even know why she’s here. She doesn’t seem like she needs to be.”

I remember feeling a strange sense of pride. Despite what I had done to myself, I didn’t feel crazy. Maybe that’s why it shocked everyone that i had tried to end my life. On the outside, I looked and acted “normal.” But inside, I felt like I was rotting.

As part of treatment, I began meeting with the facility’s psychiatrist, Dr. Basil. He was older and had this habit of closing his eyes while talking and listening, which drove me nuts. In that first session, he didn’t ask many questions before diagnosing me with clinical depression and prescribing an antidepressant.

From then on, every morning I stood in a line in the narrow upstairs hallway and waited for my little cup containing two purple capsules. When it was my turn, a staff member handed me the cup and watched as I swallowed the pills. Then they checked my mouth with their gloved fingers to make sure I hadn’t hidden them.

Every morning before school, we waited in the common room until staff were ready to walk us over. One of the rules was that we weren’t allowed to listen to the radio or watch live TV, we could only watch shows and movies on VHS. They had an entire storage room filled with wall-to-wall VHS tapes for us to choose from.

But there was this one boy who, every morning, waited until the staff weren’t paying attention during shift change. He’d sneak over and turn on the radio, real low. One mourning, Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” came on. It was a brand-new song at the time, and I loved Eminem. I felt numb most of the time, but that moment stuck with me. I could feel something.

The lyrics resonated through the mess I was living: You better lose yourself in the music, the moment... I had lost myself. Completely. And now everyone could see it. I wasn’t who I used to be, and I didn’t feel like me anymore.

I was at Sustain for three and a half weeks. As my discharge date approached, I felt torn. I really didn’t want to go back to living with my dad. I couldn’t stand how he tried to control every part of my life-from what I ate to who was allowed to call the house. I wasn’t ready to leave, but I was eager to see my friends again.

At the facility, I was only allowed to talk on the phone for fifteen minutes, twice a day. I was over that rule. I was also getting anxious about how much school I’d missed. Even though we had a group class every weekday, I was falling behind fast. I was desperate to return to some type of normal.

The day I left, my mom picked me up with our little dog. I was so excited to see both of them. I couldn’t wait to be back in my own room. That space had always been my refuge in a house that I didn’t feel safe in. I was nervous about going back to school, but I wanted to face it. I had received letters from friends while I was at Sustain, so I knew people already knew what happened. I took a deep breath, stepped out through the two secured doors, and hoped I wouldn’t end up back there.