The first time I admit that I was suicidal, was not the same as my first attempt.Â Early attempts were unceremonious in nature and involved a handful of pills with a prayer to remove the pain. I awoke a day (sometimes two) later and noted that it had not been enough and decided that I would need more the next time around.
When I spoke the words for the first time, it was not a cry for help but merely a statement to the agony and despair running through my body. The cops were responsive and sent me to the medical unit. The treatment of crayons and coloring pages seemed to sooth the beast.
I used those words again, a short while later, when I told my best friend that I needed help. She called the cops and though they seemed hesitant of my cry, they took me in. New pills seemed to do the trick this time around.
A therapist heard my next whimper and sent me for more help.
Losing faith in help and hope, I stopped crying.
The next time the cops found me, they told me how lucky I was. Blue lips and barely coherent. The touch of death still lingered on my body. Apparently, my roommate had found my letter.
My next attempt caused quite a stir. I wrote loving letters, drank my martini and ate what I thought would be my final piece of cheesecake. In the end, I managed to out run the cops for three days.
Coloring pages no longer soothed and pills were a running joke. Writing and art. Thatâ€™s where I felt life. So I poured myself into those two things and grasped onto them forâ€¦wellâ€¦ life.
Over the last year, attempts became unceremonious and hospitalizations avoided using the right choice of words. I still felt no hope for help.
Though I continued to feel death creeping through my mind, over time my art began to bloom. It came alive in moments of desperation and showed me a way through. Hope began to grow for the first time in a year and a half.
The last time I admitted that I was suicidal. The cops were not called and the therapist assured me he would see me in two weeks again. Three different specialists did not hear my cry for help.
Hope withered and passed.