Trigger Warning: This piece contains descriptions of a suicide attempt.
The morning unfolded like any other: the unmistakable aroma of coffee mingling with the stench of cigarettes, distant footsteps, and hushed conversations filling the air as the sun began its ascent. It was one of those early mornings where I thought to myself, “Wait, it isn’t even 6 AM yet. Why is it so bright?”
Of course, I didn’t actually witness the sunrise; my curtains were tightly drawn, the lights remained off, and I was cocooned under a pile of blankets. My head, protected by a flimsy pillow from a discount store, was a minor detail in an otherwise ordinary day. It seemed just like any beautiful summer morning. Yet, in my mind, it was destined to be my last—at least I thought so. On that day, the final day of my junior year in high school, I felt like I had reached my limit.
Thoughts raced through my mind; I was struggling to breathe, overwhelmed by a desire to escape the pain I was feeling. At just 17, I genuinely wanted to end my life. I crafted a note, laid out my plan, and considered how I would take my last breath. “Pills,” I reasoned. “I’ll take a lot of pills.” It appeared to be the simplest, most logical choice.
You might be wondering, “Why would a young person contemplate such a thing?” Honestly, I still don’t have a clear answer for that even after all these years. What I do remember—thanks to my scattered memories and a handful of melancholic poems—is that I was in turmoil. I was suffering deeply, both physically and emotionally.
I was grappling with untreated depression, and that warm June day marked the tipping point. I couldn’t endure it any longer; my decision felt definitive. Yet, after I had taken my 20th acetaminophen tablet, before I could swallow the 30th, something shifted. I suddenly realized that I didn’t truly want to die. (I genuinely didn’t want to die.) I just didn’t know how to live.
It turns out many individuals who survive suicide attempts share this feeling; they don’t necessarily wish to die, but rather seek an end to their suffering. They yearn for relief. I understand this may not make sense if you haven’t battled mental illness or faced suicidal thoughts. But the reality is, suicide often lacks logic. Depression is indiscriminate, irrational, and chaotic.
Finding a way to silence the noise in my head? That made sense. Taking back control of my life? That was a rational thought. Even now, during particularly dark moments, that longing for relief still resonates with me.
Despite my newly discovered will to live, I continued down the path I had chosen, ingesting more pills. However, 36 hours later, I woke up. Alive. Initially, I was enraged. “What a failure I am,” I thought. “I can’t even die right.”
But after some time in therapy and receiving professional help, I discovered a different path. Hope emerged from the darkness, and that hope was invaluable. This sense of help and the understanding that I truly didn’t want to die is why 60-70% of suicide survivors never attempt it again.
While those statistics sound encouraging, it’s critical to take every concern seriously. If someone you know shows signs of distress—talking about suicide, demonstrating hopelessness, or exhibiting drastic personality changes—reach out to them immediately.
On June 19, 2001, I came incredibly close to death. And I’m profoundly grateful that I didn’t.
If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts, there are resources available. You can explore more about building your family and navigating through challenges on sites like Resolve, or check out our blog on intracervical insemination to find valuable insights.
In summary, my experience serves as a reminder that many people who contemplate suicide are not truly seeking death; they are desperately looking for relief from their pain. It’s crucial to recognize the signs and offer support to those in need.