CAUTION: This deals with suicide and depression.
Sometimes hitting rock bottom is the only way to get better. And I found this out the hard way. On November 9, 2007, I tried to kill myself.
The music was playing, with a couple bottle of pills sitting in front of me. My vision kept focusing in, so the only thing that I saw was "Pain Killer" written on the bottle, and I thought of all the pain that I was in.
Was this the answer to all my problems? Would this cure my pain? I took a bottle in my hand, and felt the butterfly's erupt in my stomach. I shook out some of the pills from each bottle, ordering them into groups of three.
This was it. I knew my mother was going to miss me, and I knew that I would break her heart, but it had to be done. I downed the pills with my bottle of water. When I didn't immediately feel the effects, I took more, and more, and more; until all three bottles of pills were sitting inside my stomach.
And I was at peace. I thought I would be worried, I thought I would be scared, but I was surprisingly happy. I laid down with my computer, the same computer that I am at now, and wrote my goodbyes.
The peace felt great, listening to Raining in Baltimore, by the Counting Crows, and waiting for my death, this was the best I had felt in a while. And it was like that for a while. Until the pills kicked in.
I was dizzy, and my breath came in rapid beats, heart pounding, vision blurring. My teacher walked into my dorm to check on me, for I had told her I was sick. She didn't notice that anything was wrong and it nearly broke my heart. It was only a while after she left, that I realized I didn't want to die. I wanted things to just end, but who says that means I have to die?
So I fell out of bed, and stumbled down the hall to my friends room, who was studying in bed. I was going to ask her for help, but I chickened out. I hugged her, crying slightly, and she asked me what was wrong. I told her nothing, and tried to leave. Before I could get out of the room, I collapsed on her floor.
I didn't pass out, I was just to week to do anything. And honestly, I wanted whoever came to think that I was sick enough to pass out. Even now, when I thought that I was going to die, I wanted whomever came, to believe I was dieing, for I wanted to be saved.
Faculty came, and I was hysteric, I couldn't speak, I couldn't open my eyes, I wanted the ambulance, I didn't want to die. I wanted to live. But they wouldn't listen, they couldn't understand, they didn't know I was going to die.
They took me to my room, me begging for them to take me to the hospital, and got me my sweater and shoes. I remember throwing up on the floor, and feeling embarrassed. They took me down the stairs, all my weight on them, and past all the other students. I could feel their eyes on me, and tried to look as normal as possible.
They took me to the car. They wanted me to stay awake, but I couldn't, they wanted me to talk, but they didn't understand. Talking made me feel as if I was suffocating. My limited air supply was cut short by talking. When we got to the hospital, the truth started to come out.
I told Rebecca how I knew she hated me, how I knew she wanted me out of the school, and talked about personal things in meetings. I ignored all of my previous habits of not speaking my mind, and spoke of everything I thought, everything I felt, yet previously couldn't say. In the back of my mind, I knew I was getting more and more hysterical, but this was how I felt, and I was going to tell everyone.
I walked as fast as I could with their support to the hospital, when I got there being rushed into a bed. I screamed at the male nurse when they wanted me to undress in front of him. And cried when they had to stick something up my vagina. It felt like rape all over again.
I told the rude female nurse how mean she was, and the other female nurse how comforting and sweet she was.
I begged to be able to sleep, not caring anymore what happened to me, weather I lived or died, so long as I could sleep. They made me drink a chalk liquid, before finally letting me sleep.
I woke up to the sounds of a female screaming, similarly to how I did. I didn't want to sound like that, like a crazy bitch. But there was a piece of me that felt regretful, for I wouldn't be saying everything I thought anymore. That made me very thoughtful. So I sat, thinking, about what happened, and I don't even know what.
I had called my mother, and my therapist. I had asked for help, and they didn't hear. I told my therapist that I could be in the middle of talking to someone, laughing, and all of a sudden, start planning my suicide in my head. I said that I wanted to kill myself, yet somehow, they didn't hear.
I don't blame them, in fact, I am grateful at times. Since that fateful day, I have been getting better. I still have my ups and downs. In fact, I am in a down right now, which is why I am writing, to keep from cutting, or overdosing on anti-depressants. But I am alive, and planning for the future, cause I plan to be there.