Seven Year Anniversary


My most recent suicide attempt was seven years ago today. I was 16 years old. My first suicide attempt was an overdose 4 years earlier. Since then, my parents kept all medication locked in a closet. However, a few months prior to my 2006 attempt, I started stockpiling my medication. It was the day before Christmas Eve, but the date never entered my mind. All I thought about was the unbearableness of the unending, painful, and exhausting rollercoaster ride of my emotions.

I don’t remember much after taking the first few pills, until waking up in a hospital 45 minutes away from home two days later. I vaguely recall a woman holding me down, saying, “You can’t fight it, sweetie.” The next thing I know, I’m in a hospital bed, with an IV, catheter, baby-sitter, and a very sore throat. It took more than a week for my throat to stop hurting from the “Garden Hose” the hospital used to pump my stomach. By far the worst thing about my attempt was seeing my parents for the first time. Seeing their tear-stained faces and finally realizing the depth of anguish my suicide would cause, is one of 2 things that stopped future suicide attempts.

Depression lied to me. I did not think my actions were selfish. I truly believed my family and friends, in fact, the entire world, would be better off without me. I thought I was doing them a favor. I thought all I did was cause stress and heartache; if I was dead, everyone else would be happier. Plus, I believed living would always be as painful as it seemed in that moment.

Seeing my parents in the hospital helped bring me back to reality. No matter how bad, evil, awful, horrible, mean, pathetic, or weak I thought I was, I hurt them the most by killing myself and that was the opposite of my intention.

Yet, even at this point I was not sorry. I wanted to die. People say once a person jumps, kicks over the chair, or swallows the pills, they regret their actions and realize all their problems are solvable. I was not that person. When I woke up, I was angry they stopped me. I was angry I was still alive. In fact, I disconnected my IV, hoping I was not too late.

It took a few weeks for the depression to clear, but while in the hospital, despite guilt, I still wanted to die. Over the years, the image of my parents crying at my bedside stopped me when I felt suicidal again.

…………

And then I took a shower and realized, this post is morbid. I learned some important life lessons as a result of that attempt and I still have a long way to go, but focusing on the present is more important. For example, the loving, accepting family surrounding me! I don’t know why they put up with me; I wouldn’t.

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