Suicide: how my failed attempts became my biggest success | Shraddha Shankar | TEDxUIUC

Shraddha Shankar is an undergraduate student who has suffered from mental illness for the majority of her life and has survived 13 suicide attempts over the course of her adolescence. In a powerful talk at TEDxUIUC, she shares her story publicly for the first time about the struggles she faced growing up with a severe mental disorder and her secret to finally finding recovery.

Shraddha is an undergraduate at Illinois studying statistics and is an executive education chair in the National Alliance on Mental Illness of Illinois. After enduring her own hardships, she hopes to empower and educate those who suffer from mental illness to help them meet their goals, regardless of the struggles they face. She is part of creating a nationally utilized suicide prevention program required for all incoming freshmen.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

All right.

So, in a way, I think this day
was almost meant to happen.

Because it's super coincidental,

but actually, two years ago
on this exact day -

so April 23rd, 2014 -

I was released from
an inpatient unit in Chicago

after attempting to kill myself
for the thirteenth time.

After overdosing on
about 50 extra-strength painkillers

and 8 shots of hard liquor,

I was rushed to the ER,

and my parents were told

that I might not even survive
by the end of the 24 hours.

Yet five days later, I was released,
and I was virtually untouched.

It was nothing short of a miracle.

And today, I stand before you -

April 23rd of the year 2016,
precisely two years later -

to tell you the story of how I realized
that it was never the answer

and I would never do it again.

So, unfortunately, I had been dealing
with these issues for a while -

like I said before,
this was my thirteenth time -

and that's because
shortly after I turned 15,

things sort of went awry.

I was the golden girl:

perfect student, straight As,
super obedient.

And then, all of a sudden,
I wasn't anymore.

I was ditching classes for no reason;

I was waking up every day
wondering why I even existed.

Something was clearly wrong.

And after my first suicide attempt,

my parents decided
that we should check it out,

and we did.

After extensive psychological evaluations
and neurological testing,

we discovered something:

I had bipolar disorder, also known
as manic depressive disorder.

I didn't understand what this meant,

but apparently, there was an abnormality
in the circuitry in my brain,

and my neurotransmitters
were very poorly regulated

compared to that of a normal person.

I basically lost the genetic lottery.

Now, there was some good news.

The good news was
this gave me some relief:

I wasn't a bad person.

Because for so long,

the strife I was causing my parents
and all those around me -

I thought it was my fault, I really did,

and it was nice to know that it wasn't.

It was nice to know that it wasn't
a reflection of who I was as a person;

it was a reflection of my illness -

I wasn't in control of it.

But that very same thing
was also really bad news.

Because, you see, I had
lots of plans for the future -

I was a really promising student.

So to be told that I had no control over
my mental stability and how I would think

was really terrifying.

And I think that was the moment

I knew that I basically
had to give up on everything

because things wouldn't really
go my way from now on.

And I was right.

By the end of my sophomore year,

if I went to school at all,

it was - at max -
three out of five days a week.

And by my junior year of high school,

I made it through about a month or two
before I had to drop out completely

to go to a partial hospitalization
program during the day

and self-teach myself the coursework
of five AP subjects at night.

Because, apparently,
life doesn't come to a standstill

just because you suffer
from a crippling mental illness.

So, after that,
I realized that this sucked.

It sucked a lot.

And it didn't really suck
because of the illness itself;

it sucked because of the nature of it.

Because, you see, this was a problem
with no visible solution.

If I break my leg,
I can see what has happened.

I slap a cast on it
for six to eight weeks,

and I'm good to go.

But mental illnesses
don't really work the same way.

Unfortunately, you can't see anything;
you have no idea what's going on.

All you have is an obscure set of symptoms

that could be caused
by any number of things.

And you're somehow forced to understand
how to treat someone who says,

"I think I'm seeing things,"

and "I want to die every day."

And that's a little harder to treat
than "My stomach hurts."

And so that was the way
life went from now on.

And, see, this lack of visibility
almost forces us to free ball it.

This usually means
cycling through medications,

going to one after another -

as long as it takes to find the right one.

If you're lucky, it just takes
a couple of weeks.

For most, it takes a couple of months.

And in my case, about a year
to a year and a half.

And eventually,

the partial hospitalization program
kind of became routine.

I did that in the morning,
school at night, went to sleep.

Rinse, wash, repeat.

It was my routine from now on.

And I hated this routine.

You know, I distinctly remember
how much I would complain

about having to wake up at ungodly hours
in the morning to go to school.

But I would've given anything
for that now - anything.

I would give anything
to talk to my friends

in the locker banks at school.

I would've even given anything
to eat gross cafeteria lunches

because that's how much this sucked.

That was all just a distant memory now.

And I didn't want to be here anymore.

This had been my life
for so long already -

more than a year -

and it couldn't be like this forever.

I refused to accept that.

And I knew what I had to do.

See, I was here for one reason only:

the reason I kept cycling
from treatment center

to treatment center to treatment center

is because I couldn't seem
to stop trying to kill myself.

And there had to be a reason for this,
and I figured it out eventually.

See, I would be around for a while;
things would be okay.

And then all of a sudden,

I wouldn't be okay anymore,
and things went downhill.

And this is why:

every treatment center I ever went to,

every way that I was ever treated,

every motivator that they gave us -

things like,

"Think about how devastated
your parents would be;

they'll never be the same."

"Think about how many people
will be affected by your loss."

"How will your siblings feel?"

Now, these are all very good motivators

because who wants
to hurt their loved ones?

But then I realized -

we know this.

We know we love our loved ones,
and that's why they get a note -

they get a very heartfelt,
kindly written note before we go.

And I realized that,

you know, what if my parents
aren't there anymore?

They're at work;
they don't pick up my phone call.

My brother - he's at school;
he doesn't pick up his phone.

And I have no one to talk to.

And a bottle of Advil is very easily
accessible at the nearby Walgreens.

All these external
motivators are now gone,

and I am screwed

because I had nothing
that was keeping me here for me.

So I had to somehow, someway,
find a way to find the will to stay

even though I so badly wanted to leave.

And how the hell
was I supposed to do that?

I had no clue.

It seemed impossible to me,
and for a while it was.

I tried to find the reason
for a year, two years,

and eventually, I pretty much gave up.

And then one fateful day last spring,

the solution just landed in my lap.

So, I was taking my friend to the hospital
to get her wisdom teeth taken out,

and I had to wait in the lobby
to take her home after surgery.

I was flipping through
a magazine on mental health,

and I came across an article
and saw a really interesting statistic.

Apparently, out of all those
who attempt suicide,

19 out of 20 of them fail -

a 95% failure rate -

and certainly explained my luck.

But the suicide rate that I saw next,

the statistic that I discovered
right after that -

it changed my life forever.

Apparently, out of all those
who fail to commit suicide,

96% of those people are living
with severe repercussions.

And let me explain to you
what I'm talking about.

I'm talking about people who are now
paralyzed from the neck down

because of an attempt to hang
themselves that didn't go as planned,

people who now have disfigured faces
and permanent brain damage

because they shot themselves
in the wrong area,

people who now have
permanent liver and kidney dialysis -

they have to do that every day,
every week, even -

all because they didn't get
to the hospital

fast enough after overdosing

to get their stomach pumped.

0.95 times 0.96 is 0.91.

That means 91% of all
suicide attempt survivors

are now living the type of life
I just described.

91% of people are living
drastically different and horrifying lives

all because they saw no other way out.

And that's when I realized something:

you know, I might really
hate waking up now -

I barely go through the motions,

and I stay here because
I don't want to disappoint my parents

and they have sacrificed so much for me -

but would I really like life any more
if that was the alternative?

Just to think - had I gotten "lucky,"
as in falling into the majority,

even once out of those 13 times,

life as I know it today
would cease to exist.

See, the thing is, when most
people think about suicide,

they think that they have
nothing to lose.

You either die or you stay alive;

you die or you fail.

But now that you know
that you either die or you really fail -

now, that's a total game changer.

From then on, I never thought
about suicide the same way.

I never attempted again;
it never even crossed my mind.

Because, you see, the thing is,
I know I was reckless;

I know that I went
to extremes to end my life -

each attempt more extreme than the last.

So the fact that I was left
physically intact

so I could at least accomplish
my prayer goals -

that's something I could settle for.

Suicide was like a safety net;

it was my safety net.

Take - here's an example:

if you're a tightrope walker,

before showtime, you practice,
and there's a net below you.

You might fall once or twice
because you can.

But once it's show time
and that net's taken away,

you're not going to fall,

because there's nowhere to fall
and you're screwed if you do.

And that's kind of how life works as well.

Suicide was my safety net

because I left my happiness
and quality of life

in the hands of fate completely.

So I figured that if fate screwed me over,

I could be scot-free.

I could jump ship because I wasn't
responsible for what was happening to me.

Oh no, it wasn't my fault;
I could totally go.

Except I couldn't anymore.

I was stuck here.

So I had to change my perspective on life,
and I had to change it now.

It changed from "I hope things get better"
to "things will get better."

It went from "I hope I'll be happy"
to "I'll be happy forever."

See, I realized
that if I had to stay here,

I wasn't going to settle
for anything less than happiness.

And if I wanted it,
I had to go get it myself;

I needed to take control of my life.

And once again, after seven years,
Shraddha was in control again.

And so after that,
I realized that if I was stuck here,

I didn't simply want to exist;
I wanted to live.

And the only way
to live a fulfilling life,

in my perspective,

was to find a passion.

And it didn't take too long to find it.

See, the thing is, I struggled
with mental illness for quite a bit.

And during that time, I discovered
that it was really stigmatized

and there were so many
misconceptions about it.

And it seemed that no one,

besides those who suffered
from mental illness,

seemed to understand what it was about.

And I understand it; I really do get it.

Because, see, the thing is,
people like tangible things,

and mental illnesses
aren't tangible by any means.

Mental illnesses are not visible,

and mental illnesses
can't be touched or seen

and therefore aren't understood.

Let's take the broken leg example.

So, someone breaks their leg.

You might've never
broken a limb in your life,

but all humans have at least felt a small
degree of physical pain in their life.

Say you stubbed your toe.

You know how that hurts,
and you know how much that hurts.

So you take that feeling in your mind,

amplify it a little bit,

and can understand what
it must feel like to break a bone,

and you can see it too.

It's easy to grasp.

Mental illness isn't the same.

Someone's mental stability could be
deteriorating at an exponential rate,

but you would never know

because the outside shell
seemingly remains the same.

And that's the problem.

So, yeah, I get it.

But it's sad because millions
of people feel this way too,

and it doesn't seem to feel
like anyone's doing anything to stop it.

So it was my mission
to change the face of this.

And so I started.

See, the thing is, I realized
that by not talking about my situation,

the same thing that I hated so much -

the stigma -

I was adding to it by being
so ashamed to share my story,

by being so ashamed

to let anyone at my high schools know
that I was struggling with this.

The only way to get over this
was to come out about it myself.

And so this is what I'm doing.

When I came out with the news
to my friends and families

that I was giving a TED Talk,

I got a lot of "congratulations"
and "you're so brave."

And I didn't really understand that,
because that's not how I saw it.

I'm not on this stage to be brave;

I am on this stage, giving this talk
because this talk needs to be given.

Because if this talk isn't given,

people will never realize

that the stigma behind mental health
indirectly forces sufferers into death

rather than seeking treatment.

And let me explain to you
what I mean by that.

The thing is, people can suffer
from really bad depression;

they can be on the verge
of attempting suicide.

But if they dare ask for help,

they're labeled as
attention-seeking and crazy.

And people know this; they do know this.

And therefore, they figure,

"Might be better to keep quiet
than to speak."

But for some reason,

when people come out about having cancer,

their Facebook post gets about 100 likes,

their peers might start
a Facebook support group page for them,

and this illness is taken so seriously

that there's a specific foundation

that specializes in taking
these kids to Disneyland.

And when they die - if they die -

they're seen as warriors,

people who were courageous,
who fought till the end.

And I'm not saying they're not.

But for some reason,

when someone commits suicide -

because they just can't tolerate
the psychotic episodes anymore,

and they can't handle
the constant change in medication

that seems to trigger a cycle of paranoia,
hot sweats, nausea on a daily basis,

and they just can't take it anymore -

they're seen as selfish and weak.

And it's truly astonishing and saddening

that two illnesses that can be
just as painful as each other,

just as fatal as each other,

and have the same
consequences as each other

are seen so differently.

That's why I'm here - because I'm angry.

I'm angry because had I felt
that I could've asked for help

when I needed it,

had I felt that it would
be okay to tell people

just so I could maybe
get the support I needed,

I could've saved myself

from maybe three, maybe four years
of the misery I went through.

But because I knew what would happen,

I suffered in silence.

And I refuse to let others do the same.

Now, I'm aware that I'm going to get
tons of different reactions from this.

There are going to be people out here

who are shocked that someone's
talking about such a taboo subject

because people don't talk about this.

There are going to be
people who are happy

that now they think that they can now
come out about their mental illness too.

Unfortunately, there's also
going to be people

who think I'm on this stage
as a ploy for attention.

I considered it all,

and then two seconds later,
I decided I wouldn't and I shouldn't.

Because the thing is,
I'm not here for acceptance;

I really don't care.

I'm here to send a message:

this subject needs to be talked about
because it's not brought up enough,

and that's the problem.

So whoever you are,
regardless of who you are,

I promise there is hope for you.

You have hope, and you can do this;

you don't have to suffer forever.

Regardless of how long it's been
since you've been happy, you're here now,

which means you can stay another day,
you can stay the day after that,

and you can stay as long as you need to
to become your own success story.

Great things are going to happen for you

because you'll make
great things happen for you.

Then you need to understand this:

by going through what you've gone through,

you've gained skills and abilities
that no one else has.

So use those to your advantage,

and go out there and show the world
what you're about.

If there is anything I want you guys
to take out of this talk,

it's this:

never think that where you are,

that things can't get any worse.

Because trust me,

things can get worse.

Things can get so much worse.

But things can also get so much better.

Thank you.

(Applause)