Trying to kill yourself & failing due to chance doesn’t leave the best taste in your mouth, to put it lightly. Your mind is one big shitstorm and you have no safe haven.
I was not happy.
I was not grateful.
I did not regret what I did.
I did not really give a shit.
I was …sort of pissed. Resentful may be a better word, and not at my boyfriend for walking in, just at the whole situation. I still did not feel any type of fear or just like whatthefuckdidijustdo emotion, and while I had no regrets other than:
1. Not leaving any information on why I killed myself. No one really knew how depressed I was, or that I even was depressed. I have a lot of people I love that deserve to know how much I loved them and how sorry I was for causing them pain.
2. Not waiting until my boyfriend was asleep to do it.
While I didn’t ACTUALLY feel any sort of desire to help myself and try to get it together, the rational side of me knew that unless I sought out some resource outside of my immediate surroundings.
I had promised myself I was not going to involve my family because I did not want to stress them out if they did not have to be – but I knew that my lack of fucks to give about almost dying was not good and so here enters my dad.
I have the best dad in the world. His sister, my aunt, killed herself when I was 12 and it destroyed me. This was one of her attempts that had worked. My poor aunt Maggi was not found until she started to smell. It took two weeks of her hanging there.
I tried to email her after I found out (we frequently talked via email) to see if maybe she would respond. Surprise, she didn’t.
My dad flew out and was extremely supportive, I felt good when he was visiting. Two days after he left, I was once again staring down at a handful of pills. This time, my boyfriend WAS asleep. I could finally be free…
I didn’t do it. Obviously, I am here writing this . It is a whole fucked up journey to getting to be able to write something as inconsequential as this one post takes a lot of time to try to get out. It took almost 2 months of antidepressants to be able to get anything out at all.
I think that my resentment was because once you resolve yourself to die, feeling “forced” to live seems like a pretty dick move by the universe. You have no will, motivation, or aspirations. I felt compelled to live solely by the fact that people were aware of the first attempt, and I hated it.
But, I used the feeling of being pressured to live to my advantage & I figured that if I told a few of my extremely close friends, and some members of my family, I would feel more accountable if I had any future desires to kill myself. It sucked, but I did it. I only had to wait two more weeks to tell my psychiatrist & get on a treatment regimen.
PHEW. This was exhausting to write. I hope it helps some people, and once again, these are MY feelings and no one should feel as though their feelings after a failed suicide attempt should be the same as mine.
I’d love to hear some of the stories that other people who have tried t kill themselves and survive have, if anyone feels comfortable.
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