Kim Zapata

You see, every time we watch The Lion King — every freakin’ time Mufasa dies — her small fists ball up, her nose and brows furrow, and tears well up in her eyes. But instead of worrying about herself, she asks “Mommy, what happen? Dis sad?” She pauses and waits for my response, but when I let silence linger a moment too long, she asks again, “Dis sad, Mommy? Dis sad?”

Suicide is a complex issue, one which can be caused by numerous factors: i.e., mental health issues, physical health issues, familial issues, and financial issues. They can all put you “at risk.” The matter is a public health crisis. More than 800,000 people die by suicide each year. How do I know so much about suicide? Because I have considered suicide. Because I have contemplated suicide, and because I have attempted suicide.

I have 14 body piercings, a rib tattoo, a thigh tattoo, an inner wrist tattoo, two “tramp stamps” (and, yes, both were acquired when I was 18), and a full sleeve. In fact, I have more tattoos than I can count, since most of my pieces meld right into the next. But you know what? My piercings don’t make me masochistic, a degenerate, or some sort of delinquent. My tattoos don’t make unemployable. And my body modifications definitely do not make me a “bad mom.”

No other act is more symbolic of adulthood and one’s “coming of age,” but there are numerous reasons why I don’t drive.

I'm calmer, more level-headed, and more responsive (not reactive). I'm able to make it through the day without every comment, incident or event causing me to spiral out of control. Oh, and I'm not crying, at least not every minute of everyday, because antidepressants allow me think clearer, feel better, and be better. Antidepressants make me a better mom.

One thing I cannot forget was how much I wanted to “get sick.” How I longed to get some sort of ailment or bedridden condition. I cannot forget how I prayed to become ill.