Trigger warning, I’m going to be talking about suicide. More specifically about suicide’s little cousin, suicidal ideation. It may seem a little out of left field and I’ll admit, it is. Why on earth would I want to delve into something so sinister when I’m in the middle of an adventure of a lifetime? I think that may be precisely why. Not only do I have ample time to ruminate and self reflect and work on new projects, I’m also the healthiest mentally I’ve ever been and that seems like a ripe time to do some vulnerable exploration of my darker self. I’ve also recently been inspired by some other people being honest about this subject in addition to watching a documentary the other night about the Costa Concordia, a cruise ship that tragically crashed and sank in 2015… so I guess mortality is on my mind.

Have you ever sailed through the middle of a thunderstorm? We did last night. It was incredible. I turned all the lights out in my cabin and stared out my porthole at the lightening striking the water. I’m sure the lightening must have been striking the ship too, how could it not? We’re a tin can floating in the middle of the ocean. I couldn’t help but think about what it must have been like for wooden ships sailing these same waters hundreds of years ago. We’re currently rounding The Cape of Good Hope, the southernmost tip of Africa on our way from Durban to Cape Town. Moving from the Indian Ocean into the Southern Atlantic, some of the most dangerous waters in the world. Lots of sharks and ghosts. It makes one think about the fragility of life.

For the majority of 2016 I was so severely depressed I thought frequently about killing myself. I had to scroll back to the beginning of my instagram to figure out what year it was, I just had to search for photos of me looking very skinny. I lost a lot of weight during that time because I had no interest in eating. I still remember how many compliments I got. It’s a very confusing thing to hate yourself so much you think you don’t deserve to live and then suddenly get so much validation for fitting into the skinny girl mold society insists upon you. I planned my suicide as much as I could. I figured out how I would do it and what I would write on the note I would tape to the outside of the bathroom door to stop my roommate from coming in and finding me. “DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR” CALL 911″. The funny thing is even though I was definitely clinically depressed and what a psychiatrist would call “high risk”, I hesitated to claim the label of depressed for a long time afterward. I didn’t think I was ill enough to deserve it.

I got a surprising amount done during that time considering the mental state I was in. I went on a nationwide burlesque tour, I worked, I wrote vulnerable scripts about the heartbreak I’d experienced, I performed a one women play and received an award for best actress in a theater festival, I crowdfunded, produced and directed a trailer for a TV concept that has continued to evolve into bigger and better things for me even to this day. Looking back I was swimming as hard as I could against the current of my own mental illness. I didn’t really want to die, I just didn’t want to suffer anymore and I was trying everything I could think of to rescue myself. It did eventually work. I hired a life coach who saw how severe my situation was and calmly informed me that she wasn’t a licensed therapist and that is what I needed. She encouraged me to get back on antidepressants. She threw me a rope and helped me out of the deepest part of my sorrow until I could finally see the stairs. I am very grateful for her but I am also grateful to myself for continuing to rail against my own situation.

A few months after I started to feel better, I landed a small background role as a burlesque dancer in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. While I was in the chair getting my vintage hairstyle done, the hairdresser asked me if I had alopecia. I had never heard the word before, I didn’t even know what it meant. She said nothing but went and got her boss, the lead hairdresser man, to come and set my hair. The day went on without a hitch. It wasn’t until I was at a burlesque gig a few days later that one of my peers noticed the bald spot on my head. My hair had fallen out in a huge circle near the crown of my head. It was shocking but not debilitating. I did a little research and discovered that when the human mind is in a state of survival for so long and finally starts to feel safe, the body can react in some surprising ways. It’s almost as though the body takes a sigh of relief after being in fight or flight mode for so long. In some people this can manifest as psoriasis or an illness caused by a dip in the immune system, or even stress induced alopecia.

My hair grew back. My mental health has only improved since that time in my life. I’m still in therapy, I’m still on antidepressants. The neural pathways that were created when I hated myself are deeply worn and sometimes I still stumble into them, but with lots of love and brain training, I’m able to crawl out again quickly and with little suffering. What was the source of my depression you ask? Besides a chemical imbalance in my brain? I mentioned it in an earlier blog. Attachment to desire for romantic love. I’d fallen for someone who didn’t want me back and that wrecked me beyond what I could handle. The world was not laying itself out for me the way I had been promised it would. My ego could not handle the rejection and I crumbled. I have had shame around this perceived weakness in myself but I am happy to report that the shame is finally in my past. As is the attachment. In fact, at this point any person hoping for my affection has to prove themself to be more interesting and entertaining than me all by myself. Not a small feat. I find the vast majority of men to be pretty disappointing. I’m still waiting for the right women to come along and sweep me off my feet.

Until then I’m happy alone. This contract on the ship has been much more peaceful than the last one. I spend most of my time alone and the people I do spend time with are carefully curated. A couple of people have looked my way, piqued my curiosity as it were, but none enough to get me to do anything about it. If someone onboard wants to buy me coffee and can make me laugh I’d be open to hanging out, but not if it cuts into nap time. At the ripe age of 39 I am no longer tolerant of small talk or leading every conversation and asking every question. I’m still human. I long for affection, for intimacy, for connection. I dream about kissing, but I don’t cry about it anymore.

If you’re suffering from depression, the first thing I want to say is, yes it is real and yes it’s as bad as it feels. It’s serious and should be taken seriously. If you ever think even for a second about suicide, that’s really fuckin real. Tell someone, literally anyone. The fear you see in their eyes will tell you everything you need to know about how serious it is. In the end, suicide is not about you, it’s about all the people you traumatize when you leave. From your friends and family who didn’t know you were suffering to the train conductor who has to quit his job after running you over or the fireman who has to pull your dead body out of the bathtub. Don’t do it. There is a way out*. If you can’t see it right now, you may only need one little boost up to see the bottom of the stairs. Keep looking for it, keep scratching and climbing until you see it. When you find your way out you will be stronger and smarter and hotter and more powerful than you ever were before. I would know.

*Unless you’re dying from an extremely painful terminal disease in which case do you Boo.