Seventh Time Unlucky

Over the course of my short 26 years of life, I have attempted suicide on no less than 8 occasions.

From the age of 11, I was bullied at school, tormented and tortured by grown men who’d wait for me after school and not to mention the troubles I was working through at home and struggling to admit the fact that I am gay, even to myself.

All of this plus a few other reasons landed me in therapy.

From the age of 11 onwards I saw one psychotherapist after another and I’ve been on so many medications that it’s hard to be certain of the exact number.  Depression and other mental health troubles often made me feel like my life was just not worth living and that I wasn’t worth anything and so, as stated above I arrived at the only conclusion that made sense to me at the time.  Suicide.

Rather than going through each time in detail, which would be a long and arduous process, I am going to talk about the attempt that sticks most in my memory, the seventh attempt.

I had arrived at my decision a few days before and I planned it out carefully so that I wouldn’t be interrupted (which had happened several times).  I had decided that I could no longer cope with the constant stress that seemed to be everywhere in my life along with the biggest black pit of despair that was my depression.

I took a bottle of pills from my mother’s medicine cupboard and crept downstairs at around 3:00 am.  I knew that by this time everyone would be sleeping and that I could be in peace to do what I needed to do and so I swallowed the pills and sat down at the kitchen table to write a note for my family, informing them that it was just too hard to go on living in a world, which I felt, neither wanted nor cared for me.  I thought, if I’m honest that I wouldn’t be missed too much, if at all.

This is where my plan began to unravel.  I had planned to write the note and then head up to bed and just fall asleep but that didn’t happen.

My mother had gotten up to g to the toilet and seeing the kitchen light on, she came downstairs to find me unconscious at the kitchen table, lying slumped over in a pool of my own vomit.

I have a very strange memory of a moment following her discovery, which I’ll remember for the rest f my life.  It was like a dream.

Semi-conscious I had opened my eyes to see my mother, who at this point was cradling me in her lap.  She was sobbing and screaming and shouting for my dad and I could feel her tears falling on my face.  Then everything went black.

The next memory I have, is of waking up in an ambulance and fighting off a paramedic who was trying to make me throw up again.  I refused to co-operate and he ended up getting bit a few times.

At the hospital, I was held to a bed while doctors and nurses tried to force my mouth open to insert a tube to pump my stomach.  Again I refused and bit at anyone silly enough to get their fingers in my mouth.  There seemed to be panic and urgency all around me as they tried to save me, even though I protested.

The next thing to happen was the worst part of the whole ordeal.  With me refusing to let them put the tube in my mouth, they decided to take a different approach.  An order was given by a doctor and I was forced into the bed with such force that it left bruises for weeks.  I was held firmly in place around the body so that I couldn’t kick or hit anyone, then a doctor grabbed my head and held it in his hands so that I could not move at all and then a tube was forced up my nose and down the back of my throat scraping my flesh all along its way.

I felt so embarrassed and to make matters worse, the doctors and nurses were yelling at me, judging me and calling me stupid.

“There!  Are you happy now?!” one of them had yelled at me.  “Was it worth it?!”

I cried so hard with shame and embarrassment until, the door opened and in walked a young trainee doctor or nurse ( I don’t remember which ) and he held my hand while my stomach was pumped.  It was a great comfort to me at the time, I felt awful and it hurt like hell and he just kept whispering to me that it was all going to be all right and that it would be over soon.

Later, as I was lying in a room all by myself, he came in and sat on the chair beside the bed.  He told me that a few years ago he too had felt the grip of a deep and dark depression that he could’t shake and so he too had attempted suicide.

I’ll never forget the kindness and understanding he showed me when everyone else was judging me and calling me stupid and an idiot.  He also convinced me to g back to therapy and get more help.

I did attempt suicide once more years later when both my parents died of lung cancer six months apart, and the pressure to look after my brother and sister got too much to bare, but I remembered all the things he’d told me about how life was worth living no matter what, and how there’s always light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.  I changed my mind and got help.  Once more I entered therapy and got my antidepressants changed.  That was almost five years ago and now and I’m as happy as can be, I even met the love of my life and I don’t think I would even be here now if it weren’t for that one person who listened to me and made me feel human and made me feel like it was okay that I din’t wake up all sunny and bright everyday.

I hope someone can get some comfort from this in knowing that they’re not alone.

To learn more about my struggles with depression and mental illness, check out my blog at http://skillfullyliving.wordpress.com/

Roo  😉