A throwback post for #BellLetsTalk Day

Please note that although injustices and tragedies fill me with sadness and anger, the events described below happened a long time ago.  I am a loving (albeit imperfect) person seeking to find ways to make sense of this world, and embrace the best parts of it, the better parts of us humans.  It’s challenging at times, but I won’t quit – and I hope you won’t either:)

Epic Suicide Fail

I’ve had some pretty shitty things happen to me.  Sometimes I can slough it off and just be up in Trouble’s face, laughing and telling it to go fuck itself.  Other times, I suck at pretending I’m ok.

I must say that depression has gotten the better of me from time to time.  One time, in particular, it could’ve gotten ME.  As in, sayonara, goodbye, enough of this shit. Obliterate me right off the face of this shit-hole planet, I’m done.

It’s sort of a funny tale, if you choose to see it the way I do.  Hindsight, and all that.

I’m not gonna elaborate in this post about what the breaking point was.  Just that, I started to convince myself ending it was really the only sensible option.  The booze and pills made the idea go down more smoothly.

It was decided that a knife, more pills and booze, and a long cloak were required.  I was going to the duck pond, to drown myself, like Aunt Rhody‘s old grey goose.  I would take the significant amount of assorted pills with the booze en route to the pond, slip in the icy water draped in my cloak so as not to be spotted from the road, and simply, drown.  Before I drowned, in case I chickened out, I’d slash my wrists with the knife, to be sure of it all.

The water was fucking freezing.  It was still winter, but the ice was mostly gone from the pond, so I could actually get in.  I dropped my glasses in to the water, cuz what the hell would I need with them?  They were cool, vintage rhinestone-adorned, cat-eyed.  I liked them, but I didn’t require them anymore.

The knife I had brought was a dull steak knife, and no matter how I sawed at my wrists, wasn’t seeming to pierce the skin.  Also I was cutting in the ‘wrong’ direction.  I’d only seen it done in movies, and apparently should have done more research first.  I was so numb from the cold water I couldn’t even tell anymore.  I dropped the knife, deciding to concentrate on not holding my breath.

It was fucking hard!  To will the mind to stop doing what it naturally wants to do, to hold the breath, to not take in water.  Even in my fucked up state, my inherent desire for life wasn’t cooperating with The Plan.

I finally came back up for air, this time saying a last desperate prayer to the universe or whom/whatever:  If it’s not my time, then fucking DO something about it.

I woke up in the hallway of my building, collapsed in a shivering wet heap.  A neighbour heard me, got my room mate to come help him get me inside.

I climbed in the bathtub, clothes, cloak and all, and got warm.

I talked to people on the suicide hotline.  I was pissed at my room mate for calling them, but she insisted I speak with them.  I had no idea how many pills I’d taken. There was still that possibility that an overdose would do the job, although I wasn’t worried one way or the other.  I mean, I didn’t even know how the fuck I’d gotten home.  It was as if a giant hand had plucked me from the duck pond and dumped me in the hall.  Harumph.  Deal with it.

All that happened was I fucking slept better than I had in years.

And here I am.  Still angry, but alive, goddammit.  And not putting up with any more fucking bullshit.

ps. PLEASE get help if you are feeling suicidal.  Call a hotline!  Talk to someone! There is help for you out there:) And please support mental health initiatives in your community – if you’re on social media, use the “BellLetsTalk” hashtag to help raise awareness and funds today!

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