November 19th, 2014 was my first suicide attempt. I’ve been suicidal ever since 1st grade. I’ve been suffering for 10 motherfucking years.
November 19th, was the day. Right before school, I ran up to my parents’ bathroom. I was about to brush my teeth, when it hit me. I looked to my left. There it was. The cabinet door was open. Full of pills. In the moment, I wasn’t thinking. They were right there. Uselessly sitting there. I slowly crept over to the cabinet. Looked at which bottle had more pills. Of course I wasn’t thinking of the details, what they were, what they could do to me. I took the jar of pills that I later found out were my mother’s anti-depressants. I took 6, thinking that would do the job. It didn’t. Didn’t do anything but make me feel clammy. My father drove my brother and I to school. I was fucking terrified. I really thought about how important my life was, and that it could be over in a matter of time. I went straight to my guidance councillor, told her what happened. She called my father, who drove me to the ER. They asked me all sorts of questions, some questions I didn’t know what the meaning was.
They brought me to one of the rooms, made me get into a gown, and put an IV in my arm. A few hours or minutes in, I really do not remember, they made me drink some charcoal so I could puke. Get all of the pills out of my stomach. It was horrible, the feeling of puking, having to be self-conscious because the doctor was watching as well as my father. The total amount of hours I was in there was 8, which was extremely uninteresting.
Few months later, I’m still thinking about doing it again. I always tell everyone I’m alright, that I’d never do it again. But, to be honest, I do not trust myself. I never know what will happen.
Thank you for reading this, I really do appreciate it.