Twice. I tried it twice.
The New Oxford American Dictionary for suicide: the action of killing oneself intentionally.
I was living in Bristol at the time, unemployed and had recently moved into a flat which I shared with a couple. I had the room at the top of the stairs. Mostly, I cried a lot. I would stay up through the night and just listen to the house, its creaks and groans and my breathing. Depression, for me, was an ever-present presence that never let me rest since I was twelve so I didn’t think it was all that serious.
Injuring myself was a usual happening and it only worsened when I became involved in an abusive relationship. A month before I started seriously considering taking my life, I went to the medical centre just down the road. Since I had no family or friends about to nag me to go to the doctor, and as a very conscientious person, I took myself to see the doctor. The doctor was incompetent. It was my first time there, and looking back I probably should’ve started with complaining about the flu I was battling but instead I dived in and said I was depressed and would like help. I’d had anti-depressants before and requested to be prescribed more, hoping to ward off the swelling depression which was steadily consuming me.
He gave me pamphlets with information I already knew about.
A lot of the time, I either felt numb and listless or somewhat high and having my mind be this separate entity, abusing me verbally. It was loud, persistent and reeling, pushing me to harm myself in anyway to relieve the emotional turmoil I was feeling. Physically, the mental abuse manifested into what I can only describe as: sharp needles pressing against the inside of my skin, trying to break through.
It was quite a conscious decision that day. I walked briskly to the shops to buy a huge bottle of some sort of vodka. I switched on the TV in the lounge when I got back to the empty house. Dr. Phil was on. I downed the entire bottle with several different tablets I’d found. I’d had it all planned, if the pills didn’t work or half-worked I’d drown myself in the bathtub. I stripped off, shuddering violently and feeling woozy, stepping into the warm bathwater and drifted into a dimness, the water lapping above me.
I don’t remember much of what happened after. I do know I never went to the hospital for it because I was never discovered. It was normal of me to disappear off somewhere or be shut away in my room for days. When I came to, I was in the bathtub, the bathwater cold and filled with my vomit.
A week later, my Dad called to ask if I wanted to visit him in Doha, Qatar. I said yes.
If I could give any unqualified advice on this serious matter it would be: communicate. With someone you trust; doctor, therapist, family, friends. Anyone.
This is not something I’m proud of or wish to remember, but I felt I needed to share this in light of Robin William’s recent suicide and many more people before him. We need to address this openly with our youth, instead of letting the dark corners of Tumblr feed their destructive patterns. We need to be aware and informed.
She’s been living out of suitcases for as long as she can remember and could quite possibly go through airport security blindfolded. Airports are like a second home, after all they have toilets, showers, shops, cafes and security guards to make you feel super safe. What else do we need in life really? In the event of an alien invasion, she keeps her phone topped up and Lindt chocolate stocked. Anything is likely.
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