I read a blog the other day about suicide that really struck a deep chord with me, as I feel like I could have written it on countless different occasions and with so many varied outcomes depending on the day. For a few days I have kept the thoughts in the back of my
mind trying to ignore what I was thinking and not write about it, letting the fact that I “reblogged” the article and that I commented on the original blog be the only acknowledgement that I thought about it ever in my life. However, it has been gnawing at me every time I have a few minutes alone; like a flashing neon sign, blinking “S-U-I-C-I-D-E”… it just keeps popping into my mind like pink and green lights. I feel compelled to write something, to dedicate at least a little space, a mere 500 words to the subject.
Suicide, or at least the attempt at suicide, is an old friend to me, and has been for almost as long as I can remember. My first attempt was when I had stolen some codeine laced pills from my mother’s friend at 13 and had downed all of them at school and had collapsed in the hallway. When I was taken to the counselor’s office and slept it off all afternoon, I was able to talk my way out of the situation as being exhausted from going to modeling school at night and being out late as well as eating next to nothing; both true statements, but I simply omitted the part about taking the overdose of pills along with the rest.
The next legitimate attempt that I recall was when I was 18 and I was at home and took as many sleeping pills as I could swallow without throwing them up. I then drove to a friend’s house, although I do not remember the drive, but I showed up there. She spent the rest of the night forcing me to throw up and making me drink coffee, all the time threatening to call the police if I were to go to sleep. I remember that we were not really friends after that night, not that we were very good friends before that, and I cannot even remember why I would have gone to her house in the first place other than I had nowhere else to go that evening and I remember not wanting to die alone.
For years after that, there were so many attempts with both over the counter and prescription drugs that I could not even begin to identify each time; sometimes I was alone, in fact, most times I was alone.
I noticed that things took a dangerous turn for me when I started to have a difficult time sleeping if I was not fantasizing about committing suicide. I would think about overdosing, hanging myself, sitting in a car in the garage with the car running, parking on the railroad tracks, driving off of a cliff, walking into the ocean… there were more fantasies than I can remember.
As I would get deeper and deeper into my fantasy life about suicide, I would not live during my waking moments. I thought I had nothing to live for, and in a way, I was living a self-fulfilling prophecy. I lived with a man who had always been the love of my life, but I did not treat him that way. He would come home from work and I would barely acknowledge him, often barely even getting off of the couch or out of bed to greet him.
Several times he came home from work to find me unconscious from an overdose of pills, rope wrapped around my neck, sometimes with a plastic bag barely covering my face. Eventually, he tired of my behavior and left me. I had finally broken him, exactly what I had feared all along that I would do from the day I had met him… I knew I was never good enough for him and I had finally proven myself right. My first thoughts were, I wish he had let me die one of those times instead of revived me every time.
Well, it has been at least two years since my last attempt, and while I still struggle with the depression at times, I no longer soothe myself to sleep with fantasies of suicide. I now have fantasies of how perfect my life is going to be when I get to return to him, as he has opted to give me a second chance… I feel like the luckiest girl alive. I want to live. I choose to live. I choose life.