I Attempted Suicide. I’m Still Alive to Talk About It.

My Experience with the Aftermath of Attempted Suicide

I open my eyes. The room is brightly lit, bright enough to make me squint. I’m shivering. It has got less to do with Delhi winters than it has to do with the thought of what I’m going to do next. I’m sitting on my bed with a handful of sleeping pills. I have finally chosen a way out. Some might argue that it’s the coward’s way out but facing the consequences at that moment is more horrifying than the chilling silence I’m going to encounter. Silence is calling, and I want to leave behind the voices in my head so badly. I’ve convinced myself that this is the only way I’ll ever get peace. My phone beeps. My boyfriend is texting. He must be on his way to pick me up. I tell myself that I need to do it now. Or I might never be able to do it. Before he reaches, I want to finish the ‘deed’. I grab the bottle of water lying next to my bed, and open the cap in haste. My hands are shaking and my heart is racing fast. I think even if I don’t pop in the pills, my heart is bound to give up on me any moment now. I take a deep breath, and take them in. All I need to do now is to gulp it down with water.

Between eternal silence and a life full of sorrow, what stops me is a bottle of water. I think to myself that I have had enough of this and raise the bottle to my mouth to drink it all in slowly. It’s time.

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It has been a little more than 10 months since I had decided to end my life. Since then, a lot has happened. For starters, I’m still alive. I’m living, breathing, drinking lots of water but consciously staying from all kinds of medicines that promise to make my consciousness numb.

I now have a job that I look forward to going when I wake up in the morning. It feels good to be wanted. A few months earlier, I had lost this feeling completely. To be honest, it’s a relief.

I talk to my mother more often now. I’m still conscious enough to not share my moments of downfall with her. But I’ve faith that she will pick me up even when I’ve fallen into a bottomless pit.

I’ve made a few gems of friends who make it a point to ask me how I’ve been feeling, lately. I feel safe when I tell them about the dream I had where I was dying. They can make me see the humour in it. (Yes, life is not without its ironies).

My boyfriend calls me and asks how my day was. I feel excited to tell him about the new book I have bought online, and can’t wait to pull an all-nighter and finish it.

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I think my life is at its best right now. And yet, I still wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, remembering the very moment when I put around 15–20 sleeping pills in my mouth. In my dreams, I drank the water, and no matter how much I cry, I know that I’m not going to live. The voices in my head tell me, how pathetic I’m as a person for having the will to live.

I wake up, feeling petrified, and tired. Something which I now experience on a regular basis, and I’ve almost come to view it as normal. Only that, it isn’t.

My doctor has faith in me. She has more faith in the medicines, which are by default more tangible, than my emotions. I now pop in ‘happy pills’ in the morning and in the afternoon to keep myself going. (Again, I can’t help but notice the irony of it all).

I talk to people online and personally. I tell them that I’m not okay but I’m trying to be better. Sometimes they believe me. Most of the times though, they don’t. It hurts me. And it makes me want to give up on myself, even more.

I go back and forth. I go to sleep full of hope and excitement and wake up depressed and exhausted. I’ve come within an arm’s length of giving up, but I crawl back up one more time, and make a promise to myself. “I will NEVER give up”. It’s dubious but where will I be if I can’t even keep the promise which I made to myself?

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Over one million people commit suicide every year. The number is even more staggering when it comes to attempted suicides.

We don’t give this enough thought. If one million plus people can’t live with themselves then there is something very wrong which is happening. Why are we not talking about this?

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Remember Rohit Vemula? The student whose suicide caused a whirlwind of dirty political waves across the educational institutes in this country? He was depressed. He could’ve been much more than that Dalit student who sacrificed his life because he suffered at the hands of the upper caste, and in the end, chose to end his life as a means to end his sufferings altogether.

He could have. He definitely would have. But now he will never be. And so will never those countless of people who could have been something. Loving mothers, exceptional employees, brilliant painters, genius scientists. They could’ve been anything, except that now they will never be.

Depression kills. And it kills in millions. Do you still not want to talk about it?

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After my attempted suicide, a friend of mine, who I barely knew online, gave me the courage to accept my hopelessness as a disease. She gave me hope, and the courage to come out, and talk about it. More than that, she gave me the practical sense to seek medical help.

I shall always be indebted to her for the same. Thank you, Tannika! You’ve saved my life, in many ways, which you yourself, perhaps never thought of.

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Is it easy though? No. Suffering from depression is a taboo in itself. But the complexity increases, when you admit to suffering from it. As humans, we are susceptive to judgements. It is worse when you suffer from depression. When people know, they watch you over, and the more insensitive ones, think of no consequences when they make fun of your ‘cowardice’.

For the longest of time, I viewed my father as a coward. I was unwilling to forgive him for taking his own life, and in turn making his family miserable.

I have stopped making that crime.

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People who commit suicide are NOT cowards. They are a victim of an illness, and the stigma that comes as an attachment. And people who make jokes out of it, are committing something which is not less than a crime.

When was the last time you didn’t take a pill when your head was throbbing in pain? When was the last time you said no to Crocin, when your fever threatened to burn you down? And when did you just give up on people who have stopped believing in the fact that life with all its ups and downs is still, worth it?

Life IS worth it. It’s at times, tough, rough, and miserable. It’s easy to give up and look the other way around.

For me the other way was to take sleeping pills and just let go.

I’m now glad that I didn’t.

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Sometimes when I close my eyes, I see myself back in my childhood home. I’m lying on my bed. And I can hear my parents talking in the other room. My heart skips a beat when I think they might be fighting. I grab the corner of my bed sheet tightly and wish for this feeling to go away. Most of the times, I don’t realize how long I’ve stayed like that. But then my mother comes, and rubs her warm hand against my cold forehead and leans in to give me a kiss. I keep my eyes closed, lest she should know that I’m still awake. And when she leans in, I smell her hair. It’s still wet from the shower she had taken a while back, and smells of fresh flowers. I breathe it in, and I feel safe. I feel content. I know all my sins will be forgiven by this woman, and I feel a stream of joy engulfing me as my mother pulls up the blanket a little bit more to cover my body.

On that December night, when I had lost all hope, I chose to end my life. But before I could drink down the bottle of water, I closed my eyes, and realized that never again, I would be able to smell my mother’s hair or feel safe again in her arms.

I hated that realization, more than anyone or anything else in my life.

My life might be full of miseries and I’ve my reasons to feel so. But in the end, I chose life over the silence.

And I’m glad that I did.

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My father lost his battle, but every night when I speak to my mum over the phone, I realize how lonely he must have been feeling. And for the life of me, I can never go back to that emotion. In the guiltiest possible way, I almost feel relieved that I didn’t follow in his footsteps.

Instead I pray. I hope. And I fight.

I give up too.

But I get up, and dare to hope again.