I wrote an essay here last summer about my first (and albeit more serious) suicide attempt. At the time, I was feeling pretty hopeful. I had just graduated from a residential program, I was well-medicated (though I had no idea how important this was), I was stable, my weekly therapy sessions felt like victory laps. In other words, I had made it — made it out, made it through, made it past the wreck of insanity that had been the last year of my life.
I didn’t talk much about diagnosis’ or meds in my previous essay; this essay is pretty much all about both of […]