how it all happened

I’m 19 years old. Just finished my freshman year of college, double major in Political Science and Communications with a French minor. Straight A’s. My dad works at the church, my mom is a special education teacher, I have a brother who’s 15. I’ve had a boyfriend who loves me and who I love with all my heart for 7 months. I guess that all seems pretty perfect.

I began feeling symptoms of depression in 7th grade. Of course, I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling. When it all fell apart for me, though, began 3 days before my 14th birthday, 8th grade, when my grandfather shot himself. It’s been five years and I hardly remember all that’s happened between then and now. What I can tell you is that between my freshman and sophomore years at high school I got sent to the hospital for outpatient therapy after my then best friend told my parents that I was cutting, burning, hearing voices, hallucinating, and severely depressed. I tried to kill myself freshman year, slitting my wrists. Obviously, that attempt failed. Sophomore year, the day after my birthday, I tried again. Wrists, again. A friend of mine, Caleb, stopped me in the hallway to tell me that he could tell something was up, not to think death was my option, and that he would be keeping me in his prayers. He hung himself the following week. Junior year I tried twice, jumping out my window which failed because my roof slopes in front of my window and it was too low–I walked back inside my house with just a couple scratches, and choking myself with a scarf, which failed because I couldn’t quite keep it tight enough for long enough. Senior year I stopped trying, and felt better. Another friend of mine killed himself about 3 weeks ago, laying down on the train tracks.

My boyfriend and I have been fighting a lot recently. I’m completely in love with him, we used to talk about getting married. We’ve been friends for a while. He loves me. But he doesn’t need me. Lately he’s been saying that he’s not strong enough to handle me. He’s too weak. He’s worn too thin. He loves me but he can’t do this anymore. I cry, I scream, I fall apart. We just got done with another of these fights. As always, we came dangerously, dangerously close to being done but we’re still together. Somehow. For some reason.

But, to the point. Last Thursday, I woke up angry. Impulsive. Suicidal. And I attempted again after my boyfriend told me he was going to see his best friend (who doesn’t like me, who I don’t like) and help him sort out his problems etc. etc. after he promised he’d see me. He tends to get angry and offensive right off the bat if I don’t approach things calmly but obviously on this particular day I had no intention of being nice. So we had a lovely argument. And I told him what I was going to do. He didn’t seem to take me all that seriously, so naturally I was pushed even further to do it.

I took 25 10mg prozac pills. I’m aware that this isn’t a lethal dose. But I had planned on getting some cough syrup or pain pills later and mixing them in order to have a seratonin overdose. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you look at it, that didn’t happen like I’d planned. I met up with some friends. My boyfriend saw me later that night. I started to feel sick.

The next day was a friend’s birthday. We had been planning all week to get drunk, him, my boyfriend, all of our friends. It was going to be a great time. Even though I was still feeling slightly sick and gaining speed (the pills take a while to fully kick in), and I was aware that prozac enhances the effects of alcohol, I got drunk. Really, really drunk. So drunk in fact, that I remember taking shots and then throwing up on my bathroom floor, unable to remember how I got home, what I did…anything. It’s quite possible that I had an acute seratonin overdose anyway, because of how antidepressants and alcohol affect the same part of the human brain.

I was just able to eat my first full meal since Thursday, on Monday night. I went Saturday and Sunday throwing up, feeling dizzy and lightheaded, going hot and cold, my hands and feet would go numb…I felt like I was dying. Or, as my boyfriend says because I took half the lethal dose of pills, I felt half dead. I couldn’t eat or drink anything easily. Half the time I was shaking too badly to hold the glass and drink, or to keep a cracker in my hand. I felt horrible. I would wake up from fitful sleeping every few minutes, believing I was dying. I probably should have gone to the hospital but I didn’t want to tell my parents or anyone else what a stupid thing I did, so I didn’t go.

Even so, I realized how afraid I was to actually die. But even now, as I write this, I want to die all the same.

I’m afraid that things will never get better. I’m afraid that I will never get better. I’m afraid that my boyfriend will leave me and I’ll never be okay again.

I keep on living, and I don’t know why.