The last time I almost died by suicide, I wasn’t actually trying to kill myself. Sometimes, I just like to flirt with death. One evening, I bought a fifth of rum and got shitfaced. And I was tying knots around my neck, with the other end connected to the right-side arm of my treadmill. I wasnt trying to die, just flirting. Just hanging in a frontward fall, feeling it out, and positioning back upright when it got to be too much. Comforting, actually. Well, I kept drinking and accidently passed-out with the knot around my neck. Someone knocked on my door to tell me dinner was done, and when I didn’t answer they found me and called 911. I woke up to a police officer shaking me and they whisked me away by ambulance to the hospital, and then the psych ward.

I wasn’t trying to die, but I had gotten close by accident. And the whole ordeal had taught me how to overcome the impulse to survive and abort the attempt. So nowadays, my suicidal daydreams involve alcohol.

A lot of time has passed since then though, and although I suffer, and even though I know how, and even though I seem to be someone who will suffer lifelong mental illness, I can’t bring myself to die that way anymore. And it’s because I love the people who love me too much. They all still have somewhat happy lives, and I darenot destroy that when this is likely our only life. I’d rather bear it all.

But I still hurt inside a lot, and I still remember, and sometimes I wonder how long I can keep with the decision not to kill myself for the sake of my loved ones.