The Day I Didn’t Die
Trigger Warning: Suicide, brief description of suicide methods.
On 19th September 2009 I wanted to die. I planned it all out and I made the steps to end my life.
But I didn’t die.
I realized I wasn’t going to die about an hour after I’d taken every pill I could find. Why hadn’t I gone yet? My memory is still so clear about it all- and that’s what bugs me most. I’d taken around 50 painkillers, 30 other pills, and washed it down with half a bottle of vodka, how was my mind still working? Somehow I made it up the stairs and alerted my parents, I collapsed after managing to get the words out.
The day after I didn’t die I woke up in a hospital bed. I didn’t cry, I didn’t regret anything. I felt strangely at peace. I was numb. I felt nothing. Parents and friends asked why and I couldn’t give them a reason. I still don’t know why I wanted to end my life. I’d been depressed for a long time, I was on antidepressants. But I’d begun a new chapter, I was going back to college. I was halfway between thinking I was going to die every day and feeling hopeful for the future. I wasn’t the image of a suicidal woman that’s portrayed in the media. I had a good group of friends, I had a supportive family. But everything inside of me screamed to be let out, to be set free. I’m not even sure what it wanted to be set free from. I was manic and I just knew I couldn’t go on.
If you were expecting me to have been treated on some sort of specialist psychiatric ward after attempting suicide, you’d be wrong. I was put on a liver damage ward, with an old women needing dialysis. They judged and felt sorry for me and wondered why I’d ever want to do that. They told me life would get better, nothing is ever so bad I should do that (they couldn’t ever bring themselves to say it) and I gritted my teeth and agreed. I was treated like every other patient when inside I felt crazy, insane, mental. Why couldn’t they see that? There was no specialist care and no help given. I saw a mental health worker twice; always accompanied by a parent yet still expected to be fully open. I was sent home only with a referral and a promise of community support.
Nobody plans for if it doesn’t work — why would you have a contingency when you don’t see a future? Nobody tells you of the anger you’ll receive from people who don’t want to understand. Nobody tells you of the choked back tears of family members and fears of leaving you alone. The hidden knives, the pills locked up. You don’t plan those things, there’s only one plan.
The community support visited my house maybe three times in the month after I didn’t die. They brought their lunch and addressed my mother more than me. On one visit I was upstairs reading when they came, they sat downstairs and ate sandwiches before coming up for a five minute hello and goodbye.
It took 3 months for me to be referred to a psychiatrist. He was religious and told me that if I ever felt suicidal again I should pray. In his country, if I wanted to die my family would just let me. My antidepressants were upped to a zombie-like status, I lost the ability to cry. I lost pretty much every friend I had, my family couldn’t bare seeing me like this. I didn’t see another professional or let my family see me upset again.
Over the new few weeks people liked to tell me my body fought it and was determined to survive, like some positive mantra for me to cling on to. I just knew I needed a way out of my life. Lock me up, put me out of my misery. The phrase “cry for help” was bandied around. Maybe it was true, but I didn’t realize that only I could help myself.
I knew the only way out was to create it for myself. I carried on with life, hoping that if I kept up the fake smiles that I could even convince myself. Two months after I didn’t die I started blogging about something so far removed from my life that it could transport me away — fashion. I let myself be distracted and absorbed myself in this world. I rediscovered writing and never stopped.
Somehow, at some point I turned a corner. I entered what others will call recovery. I actually wanted to live. I went to bed looking forward to the next day as opposed to hoping I didn’t wake up. I cultivated friendships with smart, funny people who taught me so much and let me be a part of their lives. I strengthened my relationship with my family, I actually consider family members friends and not just people I’m forced to be related to. I stopped wishing to be invisible and grew to like what I saw in the mirror, I even like what I see when I’m naked now.
I wish I could say that I magically grew to love myself, but I think it was more a combination of believing the “bullshit” promises I told myself and actually making them a reality.
If you or someone you know needs help, please visit the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. You can also reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741–741. Head here for a list of crisis centers around the world.
The Crisis Text Line is looking for volunteers! If you’re interesting in becoming a Crisis Counselor, you can learn more information here.
