The Night I Tried to Kill Myself

The night I tried to kill myself, I thought I was doing what was in everyone’s best interest. I wholeheartedly believed it was what the people in my life wanted. I felt that I was nothing but a burden, a nuisance and a catalyst for pain for anyone who had the misfortune of coming into contact with me.

The night I tried to kill myself, I sat on the coach feeling completely at peace for what felt like the first time ever. Optimism and hope swelled inside me as I thought about how I would never feel this desperation, this desolation, this isolation, this alienation ever again. I was truly content with my decision.

But the night I tried to kill myself was also the first time it occurred to me that someone might actually care about my death. Five minutes after sitting on that coach, I imagined my mother finding me in the morning, and it suddenly clicked that she would, no doubt, be devastated by the discovery. Knowing the depths of pain she had already endured in her life, I simply couldn’t do that to her.

So the night I tried to kill myself was also the night I tried to save myself. I knocked on her door and woke her up. I told her I had done something bad. I got her to take me to the hospital, where I had to drink activated charcoal and remain for a couple of nights while they monitored my vitals and evaluated my symptoms. It didn’t even really occur to me how fatal what I had done was until I had to wear a monitor through the night because there was still a risk of my heart stopping.

I wish I could tell you that was the turning point of my life. I want so badly to say I didn’t think of suicide again, that I had stopped self-harming, that I had emerged from my cocoon of sorrows and emerged beautiful and anew. I genuinely want to talk about how I’m sitting here now thankful that I survived — that I changed my mind and saved myself — because I feel a satisfaction in living that I never dreamt I’d feel.

But that would be a lie, and I’m not going to lie to you because, if you’re anything like me, I want you to know that you aren’t alone in this feeling. It has been a decade since the night I tried to kill myself, and I have considered trying again much more frequently than I’ve been happy I lived. I’ve even felt regret for the decision I made that night, but not the decision I should regret.

And it’s frustrating. I read all these stories from suicide survivors who are so glad they didn’t die, some even as early as a year after their attempt, and I keep wondering why can’t that be me? I’ve worked so hard on my mental health, and I’m still suicidal. I feel so scared that I’ll never live a life I’m happy with, that things will never work out. Most of the time, it feels like the harder I try to recover from this illness, the worse my life (that is, the external events outside my control) becomes.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been having fairly frequent suicidal thoughts. I want to reach out to people but I keep feeling like it’s just not serious enough. I’m so accustomed to suicidal ideation that it feels like a personality trait. Currently, there’s no desperation to these thoughts — no sense of immediacy — and so I’ve just been brushing it off instead of reaching out for support. But the thought keeps returning: If things don’t improve in X amount of time, I’m going to do it.

The truth is: if you’re having any suicidal thoughts at all, it’s serious. I urge you to reach out, no matter how much it feels like you can’t. Please don’t fall into the same mind trap I have. You are worth it. You are valued and important, regardless of how much your demons tell you otherwise. If you are hurting the way I am hurting, you are in my heart and I want you to hold on.

I have a doctor’s appointment next week. I am going to inquire about being put back on the antidepressants that I was on about a year or so ago. I stopped taking them for foolish reasons: they were a bit expensive and I had forgot what I was like off of them so I mistakenly assumed I’d be OK without them. But I was much better on them. I also plan on asking to be referred to a psychiatrist.

The night I tried to kill myself, a nurse told me that I seemed like someone who was meant to do great things. I’ve thought of that often since, wondering whether she genuinely meant it, if she was right or if it was just a platitude meant to cheer up a depressed kid. What I do know for sure is that the only way I’ll ever find out is if I continue to live.

So let’s make a promise, you and I, that we will fight and we will survive. We are stronger than we give ourselves credit for, and we are stronger than suicide. We’ve got this.