The first time I stepped into my counselor’s office was not “the first day of the rest of my life”, it was not where I wanted to be, and it was not the beginning of my depression recovery.  It was not a pleasant experience, it was not fun answering all of her questions, and it was not likely that I would want to go back.

I had been in the hospital for a week, as a result of my suicide attempt, and I had been forced to come to this clinic the day after I had been released.  I thought it was stupid and unfair, especially since I felt so rotten and tired.  I was furious with the world, everyone in it and myself.

I knew I could talk my husband into not forcing me to go back.  All I would have to do is tell him that I would never do something so “stupid” again and I was better now.  He would believe me, or at least attempt to believe me.  I could have done it, but I did not.  I was not being noble or responsible or even doing the right thing.  The only reason I did not, is because the person he put I charge of taking me to my appointments was my mother, and my depression did not leave me with enough energy to argue with her.

The next appointment that I had and did not want to go to was with the nurse at the clinic.  It was his job to make sure I was medically fit enough to take whatever medications the psychiatrist would want me to take, administer a drug test and find out what medications I was on.  There was something about me that day that caused the nurse to worry about me.  He became concerned enough about my well being to insist that I see the psychiatrist right then, instead of waiting a few days for my appointment.

When I walked into the psychiatrist’s office, I was unprepared for what came next.  He looked at me and told me very plainly that I had three choices.  I could take the medication he was going to prescribe me and come to my future appointments, or I could wait there for the sheriff’s car he was going to ask to come and take me to the state psychiatric hospital, or I could go to the local hospital and leave from there in the sheriff’s car to the state psychiatric hospital.  I went with choice number one.

When it was time for me to go back and see my counselor, I had a little bit of a better attitude, but not by much.  I went into her office with the idea that I would tell her the truth about everything.  It was not because I really cared about getting better, I was still mostly at that point of not caring about my life.  However, if I told her the truth about everything, at least one person would know why I died when I tried to commit suicide again.

During this session I told her about a promise I had made to my husband.  I had promised him I would never try and commit suicide when it was just me and my daughter at home.  That was an easy promise to make, because I would not do that with either one of them at home.  My counselor is one smart cookie.  She figured out very quickly that if I promised something I would follow through.  She took that opportunity to hand me a piece of paper.

That piece of paper was a contract.  If I signed the contract I would be promising for one week to not attempt suicide, even when I was alone.  I did not have to sign it, I almost did not sign it.  In the end, I did sign it.  Each week I went back, I signed another contract.

The moment I signed that first piece of paper, was the moment I began to make conscious choices to live, only one week at time, but they were still choices to live.  When I began making those choices, my depression recovery process began.