What You Never Knew About Me: A Journey Through Mental Health Battles

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⚠️ Trigger Warning: Suicide, Depression, Grief

This post contains personal experiences with suicidal ideation, suicide attempts, trauma, and mental illness. Please prioritize your emotional safety.

If you or someone you know is in crisis, please contact the📞 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — text or call anytime, 24/7🌐 988lifeline.org

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What You Never Knew About Me

This one was hard to write. I have had to start and stop a few times because the tears have been so great that I can't see the screen.

Not because I don’t remember — I remember everything about those days. But because I’ve spent most of my life pretending it didn’t happen. Shoving it in a box and trying to bury it.

Hiding pain behind a smile during challenging times.

And this blog, grieving through a coworker's successful attempt at suicide.... well, it meant I needed to rip the Band-Aid off, expose the scabs, let myself bleed a little, and then turn all that pain into something that I can only hope helps at least one other soul...

I have tried to take my life.

Not once.

Not twice.

Three separate times.

And I’m still here.

I was in my teens, my grandpa died — and with him, I lost my best friend, the one person who truly felt like home. We were two peas in a pod. He was one of three men I have had in my life who would not lie to me. He was one of my biggest cheerleaders and my rock!

I remember our last phone call so clearly. I told him I loved him in this soft, gentle voice. And he didn’t say it back. He always did. But this time? He didn’t. And I never got the chance again. He died on the freeway that night.

Even now, decades later, I wish I’d called him back and made him say the words. I would give anything to have that last “I love you” tucked safely into my memory. But I don't. I am no longer haunted by the thought that he did not know I loved him, I know he did, but not having him say it back... to this day, I wish those would have been the last words he spoke to me!

Instead, I got silence. And grief so loud I couldn't hear anything else. And a darkness I wasn’t prepared to survive.

My Journey Through Mental Health Battles

Teenage me didn’t have the tools to process death. I didn’t know what to do with the rage, or the sadness, or the absolute fury I felt at God for taking him. So I flipped off the sky — literally. I told God exactly where He could shove it. And I walked away from my faith (the walk back we'll save for another day).

Because if there was a God, and He took my grandpa while leaving rapists and murderers walking free? I didn’t want anything to do with Him.

But I didn’t say any of that out loud. I smiled. I kept showing up. I was “fine.” Meanwhile, I was drowning.

Behind the makeup and good-girl mask, I was unraveling. I was falling deeper and deeper into depression than anyone around me could have imagined.

And then one day, I was done. I couldn't handle it anymore... the darkness won. I did not care if I went to heaven or hell, I did not care what I left behind, or if others were hurt. MY PAIN, it was so great, so deep, so raw, and so real... I couldn't keep pretending anymore. I needed out, and I need out NOW.

🩸 Attempt 1: The blade wasn’t sharp enough to go as deep as I needed it to. The blood scared me. I panicked and stopped.

🛁 Attempt 2: This one was more planned. I researched. I chose the right temperature for the bath, the right blade, and the right angles. I wrote the letter. I brought my BooBoo bear — a stuffed animal my grandpa had given me, I even had Keanu Reeves beside me in the form of my favorite picture and a beer bottle of his from a concert I'd gone to (news flash teen Regina was head over heels for that man - okay adult Regina still has a crush on him - I admit it!)— and as I sat in the water, ready to end it. I heard the garage door rise. Shit! My parents came home too early. I shoved everything under the bathroom sink and pretended everything was okay.

😞 Attempt 3: The bath was running, things were ready, attempt 2 all over again, but earlier this time. And then an unexpected knock at the door, a friend showed up unexpectedly. That visit saved me. Again.

After the third time, I didn’t try again. Not because the pain stopped. But because something — call it fate, God, divine timing, I don’t know — kept interrupting me. To this day, I swear it was my Grandpa signaling he didn't want me to leave this earth, not that way, and not yet.

I never told anyone. I didn’t get help. I just swallowed it down and kept going.

But here's what I wish I could go back and tell my younger self — and what I want you to hear loud and clear:

🧠 Depression doesn’t always look like sadness. Sometimes it looks like being an overachiever. Sometimes it looks like always being the “strong one.” Sometimes it looks like showing up, smiling, making everyone laugh — and then sobbing into a pillow at night.

I didn’t ask for help because I thought being depressed meant being “crazy.” Because the world tells us that we’re supposed to just get over it. That if you’re strong enough, you’ll bounce back. That if you’re spiritual enough, you’ll pray it away. If you’re grateful enough, you won’t feel that bad.

Spoiler: All of that is total and complete bullshit!

I didn’t need to “try harder.” I needed someone to see through my mask. I needed help, but I didn’t know how to ask for it.

Eventually, I found it, in a place I never imagined... in my daughter's biological dad. And to this day, he has no clue that he is the one who helped me heal. Because even in that journey, I never told him the depths of my darkness. But if he sees this... THANK YOU, thank you for making me laugh, thank you for the genuine care and interest you took in making me happy again. Every time I look at our daughter, I remember that gift because she would not exist without it. Nor would my son, or any of the beautiful days I have had since.

And if that’s you — if you’re quietly falling apart while the world thinks you’re fine — let this be your sign:

💬 You don’t have to fake it anymore.

💬 You’re allowed to not be okay.

💬 And there is no shame in needing help.

In the next post, I’ll talk about what healing has looked like for me over the past three decades. The darkness. The meds. The therapy. The PTSD. The mental health leave. The fight to stay.

But for today, I’ll leave you with this:

I’m not here because I had it all together. I’m here because something kept showing up just in time to remind me: Not yet.

And now? I have healed enough to be in a place to speak my truth, to use my voice to bring awareness to the darkness that too many of us live in silence. I can finally discuss this topic without reentering darkness, and I'm choosing to do so to help others get the help they need without shame, fear, or a stigma.

📣 If You’re Struggling:

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline📞 Call or Text 988 – 24/7, free and confidential🌐 https://988lifeline.org

📣 If You’ve NEVER Experienced This Struggle:

Please, do those of us who have a favor, please try to keep your judgment to yourself. Think back to when you have been judged for something, how did that feel... now put on your best empathy side and imagine for a second what being judged does when you are in the throws of suicidal thoughts..... remember that picture next time you want to say "But they have such a great life" or "that is a mortal sin'" or "why would they" because trust me when I say this, judgement doesn't help. Instead, be ready to open your heart, your mind, and your ears and be fully present with that person... be the place they can come to for help and sit beside them in their pain while you dial 988 for them and hold their hand through the call.

All my love,

Regina