Dalius had reached a dead end, but now he feels he is living a happy life.
My biggest failure is also the greatest success of my life. People say that failures are something to be ashamed of. But my failure was a failed attempt to suicide. And I still can’t get over how happy I am that things turned out the way they did.
Depression crept into my life unnoticed, as it is common case, where you least expect it. As I now understand, when I was 11-12 years old, in early adolescence, something in my psyche shifted in the wrong direction, and self-destruction imperceptibly began to destroy my life.
It was difficult to understand and recognize this—not only for me, but also for the people around me. I lived in a caring family: no violence, no deprivation, no psychological aggression, no alcoholism or other misfortunes. Maybe I lacked a little attention from my parents (there were four of us brothers), but it wasn’t anything significant. I went to a good school, I was always well dressed and well fed, I wasn’t bullied at school, and I had a large group of friends.
But depression is insidious, it poisons your life without you even noticing it. And although that period now seems like a haze in my memories, I realize now that I wasn’t really living at the time. I was just existing. My body was functioning at minimum capacity, eating away at me from the inside.
The worst thing, I would say, was the apathy. Apathy in the morning, when I couldn’t get out of bed, I would ignore my parents trying to wake me up several times, and then I would just hear the whole family closing the door one by one until the house was completely silent. Only then would I find the strength to get out of bed, and, protecting the integrity of my body bubble, undisturbed by anyone, I would slowly get ready for school. I was late, sometimes after 2-3 lessons, but what difference does it make when you see no point in anything?
My apathy towards my friends and classmates grew stronger with each passing week, leaving me alone, sitting at the back of the classroom with my thoughts, unable to escape from my dark cave into the lively school corridor during breaks.
I was in love once. With a classmate. We got along well from fifth grade, and as the hormonal waves in our bodies grew stronger, we felt an attraction to each other. The first real kisses, romantic love, long walks after school, butterflies fluttering in our stomachs. My depression receded, allowing me to enjoy this happiness for about two or three months. Then I simply destroyed everything with apathy and indifference, hurting the person without even explaining anything, and so I lost both my beloved and a good long-time friend.
The 17th year of my life was decisive. After suffering from depression for many years, I saw no point in continuing this existence and began to look for ways to end it all. It all started with minor self-harm. The pain seemed to liberate me, and for a moment I felt mortal, vulnerable, and somehow it brought me back to a healthier state of mind. But not for long, only for that evening.
One day, I started looking for the easiest way to commit suicide and finally made up my mind. I wasn’t afraid that day, but when the moment came, something stopped me from taking those few centimeters into the darkness.
The next day, I decided to go with the second option I had picked for suicide. I sat locked in my room for four hours, and when I was finally ready to end it all, I got this overwhelming urge to call one of my brothers, the one I was closest to. I called to apologize for the pain he would have to endure, because I could no longer bear my own and did not want to suffer any more.
Perhaps it was that little spark that makes every person live and move forward. Thanks to it, both of my attempts were unsuccessful. And then my brother saved my life, because from that moment on, he broke into the house, kicked down the locked door to my room, and didn’t let me out of his sight for a whole year. He was quiet, understanding, always available, never judging me for anything. And that gave me hope that maybe life was worth living after all, if people could give so much attention to someone like me - a hopeless, unsuccessful, depressed, negative person, without asking for anything in return.
My brother immediately took me to the Crisis Intervention Department. He didn’t involve my parents and didn’t tell them anything at first because I was ashamed and didn’t want them to know. Not knowing the admission procedure or what to do next, he drove through Vasaros Street Park, knocking on the doors of one building after another, looking for someone to help me. At that time, Vasaros 5th street had a very negative reputation, and going to those clinics immediately labeled you as “psychotic”. But I gave in to my brother’s actions and simply didn’t think about what would happen next.
After a long search, thanks to doctors I knew, I ended up at the Naujoji Vilnia Psychiatric Hospital for a week, where I received psychiatric help and some medication. The elderly doctor assured me in a very calm tone that, having seen my case, she was convinced that I would recover, and after prescribing a course of antidepressants, she sent me home. For two months, I visited her office for psychiatric analysis, then I was referred to a psychotherapist’s office and, combining therapy once a month (I didn’t want more because I became very closed) and antidepressants, I gradually began to climb out of the pit.
Those days, antidepressants were very nasty: they made it difficult to function, they were very sedative and suppressive. But I kept all my promises and took them for two years. When I felt significantly better and my suicidal thoughts were a thing of the past, I stopped taking antidepressants and immediately signed up for weekly therapy.
With breaks (sometimes long ones), I attended therapy for about 15 years. For the first five years, it didn’t help me at all because I was stubborn and denied everything, I had discovered about myself. It was very difficult to acknowledge my imperfections, traumas, mistakes, and my own self-destructive attitude. However, I continued to attend because deep down I felt that it was preventing me from returning to suicidal thoughts.
As a fully functioning member of society, I met my wife. In therapy, I healed many of my traumas, and although we had countless problems in our relationship because of these traumas, we managed to stay together, and as we healed our traumas together, our relationship only grew stronger. It was very difficult: relationships accompanied by the wounds left by depression have many challenges that are unpleasant for both parties. I am grateful to my therapist for helping me to understand how my wife feels, how difficult it is for her to deal with my destructive traits at times, and that I should feel empathy for her when I am going through a difficult period. And so, step by step, our relationship grew stronger, and with it, my stability, my belief in the future, my circle of friends, and my openness to others.
Five years ago, my son was born. That’s when I stopped going to therapy because I realized that the old, destructive “me” was in the past. I’m tired of destroying everything, I see a very bright future, I want more children, and I feel immense joy in parenthood and marriage. Sometimes the whole past seems like a dream from which I have finally awakened completely.
Talking to a loved one about suicide, urgent psychiatric help, a course of antidepressants, and years of therapy to help me deal with my trauma - all of these things together saved my life. Thanks to all of these things and the people who made them happen, I am now alive, a full member of society, raising a beautiful, righteous, sensitive member of society for the future, and on top of all that, I try to spread as much positivity and help as possible to people who are currently struggling.
Even if you are at rock bottom, where the only logical way out seems to be to give up and end it all, there is still a way out. Keep looking, because life after depression is wonderful. And it is definitely possible.
* The photos used in the text are associative.