In 2003, when I was 18 years old, I attempted suicide for the second time. I was home alone, with bandaged wrists from my first attempt the previous night. When I woke that day the numbness that had set in the night before remained, I felt no emotions and my mind was blissfully silent.
I ate breakfast, showered, dressed and had every intention of going about my day as if nothing had happened. But as time moved forward, as it tends to do, the silence began to recede. Sorrow came calling first, I cried because I had come so close to dying and then I cried because I was still alive. Guilt was the next arrival - if I had succeeded my mother would have had to discovered the body of her eldest child; my sister would have been heartbroken; my parents might have blamed themselves as they buried me. I was ashamed of how selfish and uncaring I was. Regret filled me.
Sorrow, guilt, and shame - I felt these things every day, and as they washed over me it was as though a switch was flicked in my brain. I suddenly remembered who I was, what I was. I was a terrible daughter, I had disappointed my parents time and time again with my inadequacies, and I was once again letting them down with the mess I had made of college. I knew I had no hope of passing my course, I was too stupid, too incompetent. My sister didn't need me, I was a black mark in her otherwise perfect existence. I was not a daughter and sister that would be missed, I was an embarrassment. I brought them nothing but misery, and they would be better of without me. They would be happier without me, removing myself from their lives was the best gift I could give them.
I was broken inside, that was clear to me now. Fundamentally flawed, without talent, without intellect and with nothing to offer the world. My outside was as hideous as my inside, I looked in the mirror and saw the ugly truth in front of me. I looked and looked, my revulsion growing with each passing second. What an eyesore I was, what a waste of flesh and bone. I was a failure; defective; repugnant. A lifetime of mistakes played in my head, the fiasco of the night before just another scene to tack on at the end. I remembered how lonely I was, always feeling like an outsider looking in. An unwanted intruder in other peoples lives.
Then the pain returned. It felt like my chest had been ripped open from the inside, and all the light in my world was sucked into the darkness. The hole pulled and pulled, swallowing all of me, leaving nothing behind but despair and misery. This pain had been a part of my life since I was a child, but in recent months it was my constant companion. It never stopped, not even in sleep could I escape it, dreams had been replaced with nightmares. As the day went on I sank lower into the abyss, unable to escape the thoughts that tormented me or the agony of being me.
I had tried counseling, I had taken the pills, I had tried. I couldn't bear the thought of living one more day with such ceaseless suffering. So the decision was made, killing myself was the only option.
As soon as I made the decision a sense of calm washed over me and I knew I was making the right choice. Everyone, including me, would be so much better off after I was gone. I felt almost giddy with relief; dying didn't scare me, living did. I poured myself a beer, gathered up my months supply of medications and any paracetamol I could find, and sat in front of the television. I wanted to watch something good, maybe even a comedy so I could leave with a smile on my face. I took the first handful of pills and started flicking between the channels. Much to my dismay there was nothing on but news and soaps, so I chose the latter and swallowed some more tablets. I topped up my beer and another handful went down. Then another, and another. As I waited for the inevitable I grew restless. Dying was taking longer than I thought it would and I couldn't bear anymore dreadful soap operas. It suddenly struck me that talking to someone would be the best way to kill some time. I checked the computer and nobody was online. My head was starting to feel heavy now, and balancing became something of an issue. I tumbled to the floor and laughed, was this what insanity looked like? Laughing as you slowly died?
I felt drunk, the xanax probably, and my restlessness turned into a sort of mania. This was it, I was finally going to destroy the body that shackled me to my pain. I wouldn't have to hurt anymore, it wouldn't matter that nobody loved me or wanted me. It would be silent in my head forever. Wait, I hadn't written a letter and my hands weren't working enough to write one now. I had to talk to someone, someone who couldn't foil my plan but could perhaps get a message to my parents. Yes, I needed the phone.
Dialing the number for The Samaritans was challenging, as my vision swam in and out of focus. From this point on my memories are almost completely gone. I remember I spoke to a woman, and told her cheerfully how I had taken all the pills and I would be dead soon. She tried to engage me in conversation but my ears were full of cotton wool and I couldn't remember why I was on the phone. She very gently asked me to do her a favour and please hang up and dial 999. I was on the floor at this point, my body limp and my head heavy. I didn't want to upset her, she had been so patient when I explained how much I hated soaps. I ended the call and with great difficulty rang 999.
"Ambulance, Police or Fire?" (Or something to that effect)
"Eh, I took some pills and the woman said to ring"
She asked for my address, I started to drift off and she shouted down the phone. Why do I have to open the front door? Stop shouting. I rolled down the stairs and managed to pull the door open. Oh good, now she can stop shouting...then everything went black.
I woke up the following day in hospital, my worried and understandably angry parents on either side of me. This time I couldn't lie my way out of the hospital. Instead I had guaranteed my place in a different kind of hospital.
I want to tell you I felt fortunate to be alive that morning. I wish I could tell you I never attempted suicide again. I wish I could tell you that my life got a little bit better everyday after that, and that now I am a paragon of mental health. But obviously I am still here, so my while there would be more pain in my life, my story hasn't ended.
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