I Wanted to Die. Now, I Help Others Choose Life.

CLINICAL REFLECTIONS

I am a clinician. I am also a 3-time suicide survivor. I have been judged by colleagues in the very field meant to support healing. I have lost positions because I was seen as “unreliable” or “unfit” after struggling with my own mental health.

In our profession, there is an unspoken but pervasive expectation that practitioners be flawless. The idea that anything less than perfection makes someone untrustworthy is not just unrealistic; it is dangerous.

I have carried that burden, and it taught me that being human and vulnerable is not a weakness. It is where every story of healing begins. This is mine.

The Saddest Happy Meal

I was not yet a therapist the first time I tried to end my life. I was working at a bank, and it was an ordinary Monday morning getting my kids (5 and 6 at the time) ready for school. Stopping off to order them a McDonald’s Happy Meal, my card got declined. Confused, I parked the car to check my account, only to find it was significantly in the red. Embarrassed, I took the meals from my children’s hands and returned them to the cashier.

I dropped the kids off and immediately felt a huge wave of sadness come over me. I was crying as I never had before. I felt like a failure and a bad mother. All the pain and trauma I had been holding in for years resurfaced and overwhelmed me. I just wanted to surrender. Instead of heading on my usual route to work, I went home.

I sent goodbye messages to my boss and my best friend and then attempted to take my life. But I did not die. After the world went dark, I woke up in a hospital bed. But at a time when you would expect compassion and empathy, I felt the sting of shame and judgment from those in caring professions. A male nurse asked why I would try to take my life when I was so beautiful, and later the ambulance driver taking me to the psychiatric unit looked at me and said, “Ha, you want to die? I have a shotgun in the trunk.” These moments added to the feelings I had that my life did not matter and that maybe I really was beyond help.

In the psychiatric unit, I felt alone, with no one coming to check on me for 5 hours. After eventually being admitted, I spent 3 days in the unit and was prescribed Zoloft and medications to manage posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) symptoms after a brief evaluation from a psychiatrist. Looking back, I can see that my trauma, which included sexual, verbal, and physical abuse, was not taken into account.

I had been abused by my uncle from age 8 to 15 and silenced when I tried to speak up. Then as a young adult, I was drugged and raped. I had been consumed in darkness and depression for years, having repeated panic attacks and thoughts of suicide. This was never explored in the hospital. During my stay, I was given medication and little else. I felt exhausted, unfocused, and lacking the tools to adequately manage my depression, PTSD, and anxiety. I acknowledge the usefulness of medications, but I also believe that they are most effective when combined with therapy, which I did not receive at the time.

Upon leaving the hospital, I tried to return to my job at the bank. I was let go, told I was an “unreliable employee” and that my absence had not been medically excused. This sent me into a tailspin. I felt unworthy and isolated.

My family did not understand and I lacked the resources to seek professional help. While I had been referred to a local mental health program after my hospitalization, I never followed through, due to financial struggles (I was met with a huge hospital bill and few resources for ongoing care), as well as overwhelming stigma. I found that few people were comfortable talking with me about my sadness.

In hindsight, the stigma and silence surrounding mental illness was immense at that time, and it felt like an overwhelming burden, something I would not wish upon my worst enemy. It was a profoundly lonely experience.

“Get Over Yourself”

While I survived my first attempt, I never really addressed my depression and trauma. Alone and with little support, thoughts of suicide continued to linger in my head. I tried to push it all to the side, juggling school, work, and kids alone. It was incredibly tough and I would often fantasize about the best ways to “end it all.” But a small flicker of hope still burned inside, keeping me going.

I had been through so much, but I had survived, and my experiences propelled me toward a career helping others. While I initially wanted to be a firefighter, that career was not in the cards for me after I was unable to pass the physical test. However, the sense of helping those in chaos gave me purpose. I realized that whatever I did, I needed to help others heal. I soon transitioned toward a career in mental health.

Things seemed to be going well, at least professionally. I had established myself as a therapist at an addiction treatment center, specializing in trauma. I used my own past to better understand others. However, I had never received formal treatment from a psychiatrist or mental health professional for my own struggles, including my experiences with sexual abuse and assault, domestic violence, and depression.And when a young client whose life experiences mirrored my own, my life turned my life upside—again.

Hearing her tell me her story felt like she was telling mine back to me. I was suddenly confronted by everything I had been trying to avoid. I know now I was experiencing countertransference.

When I asked my clinical director for support in handling the issue, requesting a transfer of the patient to another clinician, she denied my request and told me to do my job.

I was a novice at the time, and I did not know how to respond. I did the best I could, continuing to work with my client, but it led me into a very dark place. One day, I let her know I was not in a position to lead groups. I hoped for compassion but instead received a directive to “get over myself.” Ultimately, I did not make it to work that day. I sent a close friend a goodbye text, subtle but enough to ring alarm bells for her. She sent the police to my home, and I woke up in the emergency department yet again. After a few days, they sent me home. I cannot recall if there were any discharge instructions or follow-ups. I still felt lost, broken, and so very alone.

Upon my release, I received an email letting me know I had been terminated from my position.It was shocking to me that the field I had chosen to help others heal was treating me in such a manner. Feeling the weight of resentment, I made the heartfelt decision to step back and focus on my well-being.

After reflecting on my journey and regaining my strength, I felt ready to return to the field. As part of completing my master’s program, I knew I needed to undertake an internship. While on the job, I opened up to the therapist I was shadowing about my prior experience with countertransference. To my surprise, she responded by questioning whether I had what it took to be a clinician, and I found myself without a job, again. This plunged my back into a deep depression and I eventually tried to take my life a third time.

Survivor, Advocate

After a long and bumpy road, that included admitting myself as a client to the same program where I had been working, I can say: I am still here.

Through unwavering perseverance and the support of loved ones, I found the courage to reach out for help. I found a wonderful therapist and I was formally diagnosed with clinical depression, generalized anxiety disorder, and PTSD. I engaged in trauma programs. It was intense and, at times, messy, but I was filled with determination and hope every step of the way. Therapy became an integral part of my self-care routine, and I took my medications until I felt ready to move on from them.

Now, I engage in counseling on and off for maintenance, belong to a supportive spiritual community, and have cultivated meaningful friendships and family connections. By embracing my journey and no longer keeping it a secret, I have come to realize that I am not alone, and that is a beautiful revelation.

Today I specialize in trauma, addiction, and anxiety disorders, as well as crisis prevention and intervention. While I still have triggers and moments of vulnerability, I am stronger now and more grounded, with an incredible support system to lean on. I am deeply grateful to stand on the other side, not just surviving but helping others do the same.

Clinicians are not immune to the challenges and emotional burdens faced by our clients. We, too, go through our own struggles and must seek support when needed. It still amazes me that some programs do not require students to go through their own therapy. As a clinical supervisor, I always encourage my direct reports to experience therapy themselves. It is crucial for not only healing one’s own unresolved issues but for truly understanding the patient.

And while I can now acknowledge that my former supervisor who had doubts about whether I could do the job may have noted I had some unresolved issues, the reality is that I needed her guidance, not her judgment. There will always be unresolved pieces of me because recovery is not a destination; it is a lifelong process. I am not perfect, and I do not expect others to be either.

Today, I see myself not only as a survivor but as an advocate for vulnerable and honest conversations about mental illness. My pain ended up being my greatest teacher. It taught me how to see people beyond their symptoms, beyond their silence, beyond the walls they build to survive.

I know what it is like to be dismissed and judged—even by my own colleagues when struggling and asking for help. That is why I show up differently for my clients. I do not try to fix them or rush them toward healing. I meet them where they are, even if where they are is messy, angry, guarded, or completely shut down. I now make it a point to create the very kind of space I never had, one where being human is not shameful, where honesty is strength, and where no one has to wear a mask to belong.

My experiences stripped away any illusion that therapists must have it all together. I have fallen apart and rebuilt myself over and over. And that is what helps me connect to others who are trying to do the same. When I sit with someone in pain, I am not sitting above them as a professional; I am sitting beside them as another human being who knows what it is like to fight for your own life. I have learned that healing is not about getting rid of the darkness; it is about learning to live in the light with it. And that truth, born from my own struggle, is what guides every single session I have today.

For my peers in helping professions, know this: you do not have to be perfect. The expectation that we be okay all the time leads to high rates of depression, burnout, and suicidality. It does not have to be this way. When we create safe spaces for one another, we strengthen not only ourselves but the entire system of care. Because the truth is, none of us chose this work by accident. We are drawn to healing because we know what pain feels like. And if we can learn to extend that same empathy to ourselves and our colleagues then maybe the next therapist, nurse, or doctor who is struggling will not feel they have to hide to survive.

That is what I want my story to stand for: permission to be human, even in a profession that often forgets we are. Only when we accept that truth can we begin to heal, together.

Ms Guzman is the clinical director at Recovery First Treatment Center, an American Addiction Centers facility.