Chapter Five: The Darkest Day

Trigger Warning: This chapter contains descriptions of depression and suicidal thoughts. (Thoughts only: no actions.)

This chapter is one of the last I wrote, and the one I debating leaving out over and over again.

This chapter describes one of the worst days of my life, a day VERY few people were aware of—the events hidden deep inside of me for years.

To be completely honest, this would likely still be a secret had I not been writing this. Although I was afraid of this secret, I felt that I needed to share it, even if only one person hears it and learns from it, it's worth it. For others who have experienced depression, or suicidal thoughts, please know that you're not alone, and it will get better! I am always here if you'd like to message me, I'd love to talk!

When I decided to write this memoir, I simply wanted to share my story. In many ways I think of myself as being a regular person, that has narcolepsy as a part of my life, but writing this, I realized how big a part it was.

To my surprise, writing the next two chapters would be way more difficult for me than I could've realized. It was an extremely dark time in my life, and I fought some moments of extreme depression, especially while in college.

I hadn't realized how much of that emotion I'd blocked out. I was so ignorant to my emotions that I surprised myself when I discovered halfway through writing this that there were tears running down my face. Looking back, it doesn't surprise me, that many PWNs are misdiagnosed with depression.

In many ways this memoir has brought me closure. Regret that I wasn't as successful as I could've been in college has soured many otherwise happy memories. School success and work ethic has always been important to me—a value instilled by my family and my perceived failure has been a source of pain to me for longer than I'd realized. I'll never forget this incident when the culmination of stress and frustration that I couldn't control my sleep brought me to the lowest point of my life. Without further ado, there's nothing left but to jump in:

One of my professors, frustrated by my constant tardiness to her class, was outraged that I was asking her to accept an assignment that was due at the start of that morning's class. She'd warned us already that she would not accept the project after the class; there was a clear expectation that it would be due that morning.

Now, an hour after the end of class, I came to her begging for mercy.

The truth was that I had done the project, and was proud of it, but that morning I was so tired driving to work that I fell asleep in the parking lot and missed the class. In my mind, to tell her this was out of the question entirely. How could I reveal such a stupid, and lazy action?

Naturally, she assumed I simply hadn't done the work and had skipped her class to finish the project. She demanded to know why, once again, I'd missed her class, and since 'falling asleep in my car' sounded lame, I made up a lie that wasn't much better.

She was tired of hearing it and ruthlessly chewed me out, partially out of her own frustration, but also in an effort to try and make a 'lazy student' see 'the bigger picture.'

She demanded that I straighten up, quit wasting time and money, and threatened to fail me. I stood there in silence, trying hard not to make excuses. In many ways she was right—and I knew it.

Finally, she hit a tender spot when she asked me what my parents would think of my failure due to my lazy, sloppy work.

That was my breaking point.

My stomach fell to the floor and my eyes welled. I fled form the office, fighting tears and an overwhelming sensation to throw up.

In the privacy of my vehicle, parked in an orange grove that served as overflow parking, I had a breakdown. I sat there for hours, alternating between hysterical crying, weeping, and the blankness of utter defeat. (Ironically, I missed my afternoon class due to this.)

That day I experienced for the first time a common side effect of what I'd later discover was narcolepsy—depression. A million thoughts raced through my head but they all boiled down to one supreme idea: I was worthless.

In my state of mind I'd convinced myself I would never be successful. I was simply not smart enough to be a college student. I would never in a million years make a decent teacher. And the worst part was that I was failing and embarrassing my parents—the people I loved the most, and whose opinions meant the most.

I questioned the very point of my existence, and, strongly considered the idea that everyone else would be better off without me.

I wanted so badly to simply disappear forever. Even contemplating suicide, if only for a fleeting moment.

I shocked even myself.

I knew I was unhappy but I didn't realize to what extent. In a million years I never would've expected these emotions, these thoughts.

The overwhelming worthlessness and unhappiness I was drowning in now consumed and suffocated me. I wanted to punish myself, to hurt myself, for my failure.

The fear of my parents' disappointment, and the pain I would feel because of their disappointment, made me want out of the life I was in. Out of the cycle of pain, disappointment, failure, unhappiness, and fog. I simply wanted OUT.

I didn't feel I could call my parents—those whom I loved most, for support. Partially from embarrassment, I knew my emotions and thoughts were selfish, even ridiculous, but I was also convinced they'd "side" with the teacher. After all, I'd already convinced myself that everything she said was true, of course they'd see it as well, and I couldn't take their disappointment on top of hers. 

Although I did finally dismiss what were the beginnings of suicidal thoughts, I seriously considered simply running away forever. Moving to a new state, cutting ties with my family, and starting a new life seemed feasible, but, to be honest, it was my lack of money that kept me in that orange grove.

Eventually I picked up my phone and called Eric. He felt like a safe person because I knew he'd 'take my side', even though I wasn't even on my side.

At that moment, all I needed was reassurance and validation.

While I didn't share the extent of my emotions, I did share the conversation with the teacher, actually twisting it just a bit to ensure that I'd receive the validation I sought.

Sure enough, he reassured me and calmed me enough to finally get out of the car. He promised me I was an amazing person, would be a great teacher, was in no way a disappointment, and that the professor was evil, heartless, and being ridiculous.

I didn't really agree, but I didn't argue with him, either. Appreciating him for the reassurance and boost of confidence instead.

The thoughts of running away hadn't left—in fact I may have even asked him to join me if I remember correctly, but for the moment, I was calmer.

On this day, with childish thoughts of running away and never coming back coursing through my head, I discovered the best therapy I've ever had: literally running.

I started by jogging towards the class I was already late to, but I never made it. The jog became a sprint; perhaps I was running away from my problems. At that moment I didn't care who was watching or where I was going. I wasn't even aware of my surroundings or destination.

With my body falling into the gentle cadence of the run, my mind cleared and I found the first scrap of non-caffeinated energy I'd had in months.

Of course, my problems didn't end when the run did, but I'd finally gained the perspective I needed. Running would go on to take a hugely important role in my life—offering both an escape and an opportunity to step back and look at reality clearly.

Although I did struggle with depression and unhappiness again, I was lucky that the suicidal thoughts didn't return and I maintained a more accurate perspective of reality.

I again considered running away occasionally, but directed the energy and emotions into an actual run, allowing the steady rhythm and a different type of exhaustion to sooth my nerves.

I never told anyone about that day. In fact, a lot of people who are very close to me will likely learn about this via this chapter. If you are experiencing the same things, please know that you are not alone and you are important in this world—even if you don't see how. PLEASE seek help for yourself, even if it's through an anonymous hotline.

This isn't a sign of weakness but of strength, of bravery, the courage it takes to say, "I can't do this on my own. I am a failure, and I need help." You are more than welcome to email or message me, I understand, and I would love to speak to you.

If you've already done that, I implore you to find your own therapy. That doesn't have to look like a therapist, although that's a great idea. For me, I find therapy in my run, in my writing, in time spent with family, or outdoors. In the big things that remind me that I may be small but I'm valuable, I'm important, and I want to be alive and able to experience these small pleasures.