BY THEO KARANTSALIS
The first time I decided to end my life was at age 12, in 1974, on a crisp spring day in the San Francisco Bay Area.
That morning, something set me off and I took it to the extreme. Weeks prior, I had been unable to sleep which exacerbated feelings of depression, hopelessness, and restlessness. Something inside my brain signaled that the only way out was death. And there was no backing out.
This mission required that I acted stealthily, as I meant business, so could not give off any signals. As my mother primped her hair in the bedroom, I watched television while eating breakfast, which usually consisted of Cocoa Pebbles for me and Fruity Pebbles for my cute kid sister.
Each morning, we would watch Cartoon Town before school and I usually had to fiddle with the rabbit ears to get Channel 44, a popular station for children. But this day was different, as once my shows ended, I grabbed a bottle of narcotics from the cupboard and skipped off to school. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Careful not to step on cracks, I took giant steps on the big squares and wriggled through the poles in the adjacent alleys without touching. If I messed up and stepped on a crack, it would force me to retrace my steps, and I didn't have time for that - I was off to die!
The feeling of my ensuing death was one of liberation, as I was going to a place where nothing could ever hurt me again.
In my arms, a massive stack of books. They weren't for any specific class. Heck, they weren't even mine. I just collected them from the lost and found lobby, at school, and would carry them home and back.
As I approached the last block, I glanced to the left, then the right, and kicked in a fence plank of a neighbor who had rubbed me the wrong way. Why not? It was my last day on earth, I could do whatever I wanted.
My favorite class was writing, and I couldn't miss that. When class ended, I bolted to the fourth floor. Will C. Wood Middle School, in Alameda, only had three floors, but there was a staircase that led to the roof - a secret known only to me and the janitor. On the way, I stopped at the water fountain and shoved as many pills as I could down my throat. I was pretty sure that one tablet was plenty strong, so a handful would surely do the job.
After about an hour, I felt dizzy, my mouth went dry and my ears rang. Outside, the sound of kids playing waned as they returned to class. It was almost time to go to heaven, so I laid flat on the cold tile floor and got ready. Normally, I might have freaked out about it being dirty, but made an exception because I was going to a place where I no longer had to worry about germs, either.
I closed my eyes thinking that I might drift off to a final sleep but after a while opened them and everything was black. Then a glowing green cave came toward me from up above. As I debated whether to step in our not, I started feeling very sick. My breathing became labored and I felt I was on the verge of passing out, and that is when I had regrets about what I had done. So, I decided to go home and cried for my mother on the way.
No one was there when I made it home. Feeling confused, I went to bed without dinner and slept until the next morning. My ears rang for about a week and to this day I have partial hearing loss in my left ear that I have always blamed on loud concerts. I never told anyone and gave no outward signs that I intended to harm myself.
Suicide risk among those with bipolar disorder is one of the highest of all mental illnesses. The earlier it strikes, the higher the risk.
Photo: Theo Karantsalis at age 12, in 1974, shortly before attempting suicide for the first time.
Suggested reading: Suicidality in Pediatric Bipolar Disorder
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