So I took an entire box of Slow Fe iron pills. And nothing has happened in over 36 hours. Don’t know why.
Well I’m new to this site as found it looking into water intoxication.
Last week I took about 40 setraline (anti depression) and then realised that you can’t kill to yourself with them.
This week I have drank approx 70 pints of water of 3 days hoping that would kill me but nope – ended up in A&e and, after a long que – blood tests, urine test I was out on an Iv drip and still fucking lived.
I’d had diarrhoea the days I was doing it and tried to hold in my wee when I could and most of water was drank over 7 hour in each of the 3 day but I wasn’t sick until just before I went odd (numb side and semi conscious) and so family called ambulance.
So guys what the fuck am I doing wrong. I’d rather do this so that no one knows it’s suicide but due to an illness I can’t predict I can’t currently drive and my hubby watches me closely due to this ill health but I’ve had enough now and don’t want this anymore plus I’m a drain on family and society and they do better on days I’m not here
On Friday I was going to try and kill myself. After a long search I thought that if I want to overdose on pills, the most available and lethal medication would be aspirin. Overdose is my style. I can’t cut myself even though I want it badly – I still can’t. I have a knife, I bought it for cutting my neck, but I just can’t do it, I can’t stab it in my flesh, but I may get to the point when I will be able to cut myself.
So, last week I carefully gathered all the things I would need to do the deed.
I bought a 40 pack of Aspirin, each 500 mg, 75 Xanax pills, each 0.25 mg, anti-vomit pills, and a bottle of vodka (I drink alcohol very rarely).
I booked a hotel room for Friday and Saturday night, told my mom I was going to stay at my friends’ house at the weekend. She believed me. I love her, and I felt and feel so fucking sorry for her. I imagine the moment when she will know about my death and I just want to hug her and tell her that it’s better for me, just let me go, and be strong for me.
So I was there, my letters to my loved ones, the knife, the pills, the alcohol. I took a shower, took a deep breath, sat down and started to take the pills.
I managed to swallow 6 of the anti-vomit pills, 35 Aspirins, 75 Xanax pills.
Anti-vomit was nothing, 6 of them was just like candy.
The hard part was swallowing Aspirin. Those pills are huge if you want to swallow 4 or 5 of them together.
Xanies was like candy again. I think it took me 4 swallows to wash them down.
I tried to drink some vodka, but I felt like if I took another sip, I would vomit.
I vomited of course, but only some clear foamy stuff tasted like Aspirin.
Then, as I lay down on the hotel bed, I felt so calm, I thought I was going to die finally, I felt so fucking peaceful.
But after 36 hours of sleeping I woke up.
I was disoriented, partially deaf, and felt dizzy. I went home, and slept through the afternoon. I noticed some bruises on my chin and my left thigh. I also had a little nose bleed.
Apparently I woke up without knowing about it and I did something – I have no idea what. I know that I opened a door, because I closed it when I went to bed, and switched on the lights, and from my bruises – I stumbled over something.
Deafness went away already, but I don’t know what happened to my kidneys or my liver or my stomach.
So this method didn’t work out for me.
Next time I will choose something that works.
Thank you for reading.
I’m sorry this is so long. It’s my first post. But, it’s a juicy story filled with a lot of pain. I promise.
I’m not sure where to even begin. 10/11 years ago, or the recent events? What I do know is…it doesn’t matter if I kill myself of not. The beautiful star filled sky will still appear each night. The warm glowing sun will continue to rise every morning. The seasons will still slowly change and flow into each other in a never ending rhythm. Beyond me, everyone else’s life will still continue on. So, why not? My father always says, “Suicide is the most selfish act one person can commit.” But honestly, what is so selfish about not wanting to be in pain anymore? Mentally, emotionally, physically. How many times do I have to tell people, including my own parents, how much I hate my life before they believe me? Obviously not enough. But I know there has always been something special about me. I’ve known what it’s been for about 10/11 years. I’m the kind of girl that you’ll find dead, laying on a bed at some cheap hotel, clinging to empty pill bottles. I know it’s bound to happen at some point in my life. The only question, is when? I’ve been attempting suicide for 10/11 years off and on. There’s nothing that anyone can do to help me anymore. Not therapy, mental hospitals, medication, prayers, nothing. I’m just this fragile little girl who comes off so strong, acts like nothing is wrong (can you believe people actually believe that shit?!) but, I guess this girl is just really great at lying. That, or people who see the pain in my eyes, don’t care. And I hate that I fall too fast, crash too hard, forgive too easily, and I care too much. Every part of me is broken. I can’t be fixed. I’m a lost cause.
When I was 13 I found out I had F.A.P. It’s genetic and my mom has it, just not as bad as me. I had my colon taken out in May when I was 13 (about to be 14). There were thousands of precancerous polyps in my colon. I had another surgery when I was 14 at the end of July (My birthday is on 7/24). Then I had an internal infection and had to have another surgery to fix it in October when I was 14. I hated my mom for giving this to me, for giving birth to me. These aren’t small scars. The scars go from my last rib, to my pelvic region. And I was in constant pain, in and out of the emergency room about every 2-3 months. No one could figure out why I was in so much pain. Then when I was 16, on Thanksgiving, I was rushed to the hospital because I couldn’t keep anything down. No foods, no liquids. I lost 20 pounds in the span of a week. The opened me, again, from top to bottom. They found tumors. The doctor removed the largest two, large grapefruit sized. He had to leave the others, they were smaller, but they were on vital organs and arteries. He didn’t want me to bleed out on the operating table. And there is no cure for the tumors. I still have them today. But they can only stabalize them. But…the medication is $1,200 a month for 30 pills. By now, I’ve attempted suicide about…6 times, drug overdose. But somehow I never took enough. For God’s sake, I took about 200-300 aspirin and tylenol. And I’ve been cutting by now, and anorexia, bulimia…any kind of self hard I could do, I would. Then in July when I was 16 (July 4th, 2008) I was in a fireworks accident. I was assisting with a professional show. I remember everything. I ended up being in a coma for a week, in a burn unit for 2 weeks. I lost my thumb, half my middle finger, and the tip of my ring finger on my right hand, and I have 3rd degree burns all over my right arm. I had to go through PTSD therapy, and 1 year of physical therapy. When I was 18, in May I tried to do a toe to thumb transplant…which failed because of my tumors, my body rejected itself. So now I’m missing my big toe! In September when I was 18 I found out I have an inoperable brain tumor on my pineal gland in my brain as well as pseudotumor cerebri which is increased intracranial pressure. I can go blind at any point because of this. Uhmmm lets see, what’s next. When I was 19 (in August) I finally had facial cosmetic surgery to fix the scaring on my face. And I moved into an apartment with 3 other people. Lost my waitressing job that October because the customers were complaining that I was ‘different’ because of my hand. I went into a deep depression and abused my pain medication, sleeping medication, and valium with alcohol. I was raped in my own apartment while I was sleeping. And I didn’t go to the police because he was my supposed to be boyfriend, but I did leave him. Then my life started going uphill. I got a better job, met a new guy, stopped drinking, started taking my meds like I was supposed to, got engaged. The engagement didn’t last long. He was controlling. Didn’t like my one tattoo I had, didn’t let me have a drink occasionally, etc. I moved home with my parents. And I tried to go back to the dating scene, but I was raped, yet again…by a supposed to be boyfriend. I took my sleeping medication and went to bed and he took advantage of that. I went to the cops this time, but the cops said it was a ‘he said/she said’ case. No conviction. I attempted suicide 3 more times by now. In August when I was 20 I met someone online and we both fell head over heels in love with eachother. After a year, I moved to Chicago to be with him. And, I get a call from the Cook County Jail one night that he didn’t come home. He said he got in trouble for a fight because he was defending himself. 3 months later, he’s still in jail. Another 3 months pass, still there. I found of he was in jail for 1st degree murder. And he was in a gang. And he shot an innocent person who didn’t deserve to die. I was still living in Chicago with his family and my cutting got bad. In one night I cut my leg over 100 times. In July when I was 22 (before my birthday) I quit my job, backed my things, and left Chicago in the matter of 2 hours. I started going to therapy, go diagnosed with severe depression, bipolar disorder, and severe anxiety. I started getting better because of the medication. I got a job at a hospital as a medical assistant this past September. And I just got fired June 15th because I became very ill and had to leave work for a week while I was in the hospital. Yesterday I found out that I may possibly have to have my gallbladder removed, and that I may have a new tumor that’s in a horrible place. I feel like God is saying ‘Fuck you Lisa!’…like, what did I do so wrong to be given this much shit. I’m planning my suicide. I’m going to overdose. With a mixture of Percocet, Fentanyl, Xanax, and Seroquel mixed with alcohol. I’m just trying to find the right time.
My sister acts like she is so much higher above me. Says that she will pray for me. Seriously…fuck you, you stuck up *****. The only prayer I need, is to ask God to kill me. And my father? He dismisses every emotional feeling I have like depression, hate, anger. My own mother blamed me for getting raped. I can’t trust anyone in my family. I have only 1 true friend that I actually talk to.
Is everyone in my life so blind? Can they not see the pain I’m in? Or do they even care?
I explained in my last post how many of my problems are congenital: that i’m extremely stupid, unattractive, physically undeveloped, and have no personality.Â The pain from this reality is escalating and i’m becoming increasingly angry at the world for it’s lack of empathy. For example, I’ve been to the cinema twice in the past two weeks and on both occasions people sitting opposite have laughed at me and called me a spastic/retard because of the way I stare at the screen and snicker repeatedly at funny moments because I’m too afraid to talk. I’m sick of sales assistants and security guards who glare at me or point me out to their co-workers on their CCTV screens or point blank to my face. I’ve been attacked psychologically all my life for just being me. I’m afraid for the next person who does something like this to me again because I know I’ll kill them if they hit a soft spot. I’m not afraid of the consequences and it’s society that is driving me towards suicide.
It’sÂ crystal clear that I am going to commit suicide within the next couple of months.
On a brighter note (haha), I’m also planning to live the best day(s)/week of my life just before I kill myself.Â I’m going to sell the car and do any clinical trials (what’s the WORST that could happen?) and I am going to stay in the most luxurious hotel I can afford and rent a Porsche 977 Â turbo to drive on the autobahn for a day.Â I’ll eat the best restaurants and I’ve never tried cocaine before, so I’ll probably get some ^^ Then I might watch a sunrise. I’ll schedule a message to all of the friends I’ve had and lost over the years, I’ll post a note to my family, and then I’ll do what I have to do. Can you think of anything else that would make the perfect day?
If you’re here, it is fairly likely that the specter of suicide is in your life.
Maybe you have attempted it before, or many times like me. Perhaps the fifth anniversary of your most serious soiree into intentional drug overdose is on 6 March, like mine is.
And maybe, in the last five years, you have come to understand that at some level suicide will remain in the back of your mind. The bitter temptation of self-murder, when it translates into serious action that isn’t simply an attempt to gain perfectly understandable emotional support, is a cankerous thing. Each attempt makes the next more and more likely. And after the seventh attempt of suicide, or the ninth attempt of self-mutilation, or the eleventh serious consideration of blissful death, it becomes harder to believe that your life will end peacefully.
But I can feel it. Through raw and unadulterated love, I can feel it. Even though, analytically speaking, 6 March 2007 wasn’t likely to be the end, I have to feel as though it was. And analytically speaking, loving yourself enough to understand that the reasons for suicide are fleeting and that your soul demands introspective tenderness is a force that defies statistics.
Past patterns are meaningless if the conditions that support them are destroyed, and the first is hating yourself. This ended when I made a discovery that I will share with you: suicide is not merely “giving up.” It is letting the reactionary, counterrevolutionary, and anti-difference institutions of human society make you believe that you are not beautiful and worth cherishing.
Are you queer, reader, like I am? I ask you to investigate whether or not you’ve internalized the homophobia of your surroundings. Do people tell you that you’re worthless, dirty, or perverted? That isn’t you. That is their own counterrevolutionary peevishness, reader. They want to make you to be the one with the problem because they subconsciously realize that there is something wrong with what they’re saying. That is why they need to dehumanize you by calling you these things. If history is any lesson, they’ll eventually be dragged from their discomfort, and reserve their hatred for matters that don’t directly affect you. Dare to dream. Please.
Are you non-white, reader, like I am? I ask you to ponder on whether or not your sorrow is caused by the xenophobia of your time. Perhaps people have told you that you are not part of their state because you came here illegally. Maybe your politics have made you more enemies than allies, and you believe that the whole world is this way.
It isn’t, reader. I thought the whole world was a counterrevolutionary cesspool on 6 March 2007. Five years later, my people have mobilized in revolutionary activity all over the Muslim world. I went to Tahrir Square. I can’t believe I almost missed that. You can’t even believe how your perspective of the world is dependent on certain institutional repressions always being their until a moment when they all suddenly collapse. Do new repressive institutions take hold? Until they collapse as well.
I was bullied as a child and teenager, reader. Bullying exists on the playground because, when encountered with something you do not understand, it is easier for a person to enforce the status-quo and feel personally comfortable. That is why everyone dresses the same in school hallways, thinks the same people are hot, and tries to like the same music. There are entire industries designed on exploiting how children and teenagers are taught, both directly and indirectly, by adults to enshrine the status-quo.
Maybe you’ve noticed. Perhaps it makes you different. Cherish that observation. The world needs more of it.
The fact is that the counterrevolution, with all of its conservative repression and peevishness, requires you to relent to the status-quo somehow. And for the bullied, it is either to abandon the difference that causes that bullying, whether racial, queer, or otherwise, or to withdraw that difference from the playground. From the hallways. From the schools. From the institutions where the status-quo is being enforced.
In other words, suicide is part of the counterrevolutionary enforcement of this status-quo. It allows people to feel more comfortable by getting rid of the difference in their lives. And despite their tears, they win the day.
I urge you to not let them win. The reason I am alive is because I never want to let them win. Difference is good. You feel sad for a reason– because you know that being bullied for being different is unfair. The world needs more difference and variety, because the status-quo clearly isn’t working. Love yourself enough to cherish that difference. One day, there will be other people who do as well.
A familiar bottle lies before you. Its dark contents, the stuff of dreams. Literally
From time to time, we all seek it. Escapism. The final place of solace for the despondent. Some run, some hide, others take flight. The means of travel may vary, but the destination remains the same – that place that provides temporary comfort and a moment’s relief from the world’s troubles. Like a hotel, it invites you in; its hospitality, second to none. For seasoned guests, it provides familiar comfort. For newcomers, it provides a pleasantly surprising welcome. Hospitable, it bids you to stay; innocuous, it invites you to return at any time. Common sense dictates that one should not stay too long, nor return too often. But what is common sense in this hotel paradise?
‘Have another drink’, coaxes the voice. And so another bottle courses through your veins. The taste is not unpleasant. The aftertaste of a sticky sweetness is left lingering. But the promise of what is to come is sweeter still. And so you break the seal on another bottle, as you discard the empty one atop a pile of its cousins â€“ dark 100ml bottles with complex gibberish on its labels. It is here that one differentiates between the travellers. The ones on frivolous vacation stop here, they are content with the free and easy tour. Gawdy tourists with loud voices and louder shirts. For those of us on a more serious trip, passage must be secured. Pills soon follow – your plane ticket in the form of a dozen unprescribed tablets. And it is then that you find yourself blurry-eyed, standing in front of the receptionist.
Immediately you already feel relief from the noisy, busy world outside. Just beyond the hotel, you can just about hear the rush of traffic. Vehicles screeching. Horns blaring. Sirens screaming. Oh the chaos! But fret not! Listen and already you can hear the subtle splash of the sea’s arms, gently tickling the shore. Already you can hear the chatter of the ballroom, champagne classes clinking. Already your solace beckons.
‘And how long will you be staying for?’, queries the pleasant voice, though already knowing the answer. Several times over the minimum toxicity concentration, there is no going back.
Welcome to paradise.
I’m not suicidal, but I used to be. I wish I knew five years ago what I know now, and I feel like I have to share it– So I’m sorry if this sounds preachy, because I really don’t mean for it to be.
When I was five my sister, Jen, killed herself with an intentional drug overdose. A decade later I was thinking about doing the same. I’d sit on the floor of my room every day after school and try to think of reasons not to end my life, with no luck. A couple of times I held a knife to my wrist, even though, if I really killed myself, I don’t think I would have been a cutter. The only reason I didn’t go through with it was because I saw what my sister’s death did to my mom–for nearly a decade she couldn’t say prayers at church without breaking down in sobs–and I didn’t want to put her through the same thing again.
Things would have been easier if I had just one thing to hold onto–good grades, a few friends, a flair for art or theatre or sports. But it seemed like I was capable of absolutely nothing that was good or valuable. I did poorly in school because I didn’t see the point of getting into a good college if I would spend my time there alone in my dorm room. I tried to be social with people but couldn’t even see a glimmer of friendship.
I’m a recent college graduate now, and my life has completely changed. I got decent grades at a decent school; I have many close friends; I have a decent job at a newspaper and I have a beautiful wife whom I love very much.
I wish I could say I found some trick or secret, but I didn’t. I pushed myself, and I failed a lot. Things changed so slowly: The kid who seemed oddly interested in me during breaks in class gradually became my closest friend. He introduced me to other friends, and one night we all hung out with the woman I’d eventually marry. Friends gave me the confidence to write for the college newspaper, and I was surprised to discover I had a flair for journalism, which convinced me I was smart enough to do well in class. My journalism experience and decent grades got me a pretty good job at a newspaper after I graduated.
Here’s what I meant to say–I realized that suicide is what happens in the complete absence of hope. In high school I was absolutely convinced that nothing good would ever happen to me. What I’ve learned–and this is so important–is that that’s an illusion. It’s bullshit. When I was in high school I never, ever, ever could have believed that any of these things could have happened to me. But we have no way of knowing what the future has in store, and, with enough time, we can absolutely amaze ourselves.
It all started a year and a half ago when I came home from school to find out that my mother had died from an drug overdose earlier that morning. Being a daughter of an former alcoholic father and drug addict mother, I’ve had some hard times. From neglect to some form of abuse. From moving into a new house every couple of months with other family to watching my mother slowly die on the bathroom floor from an overdose – again. I’ve been through many things that some people would never experience. Or so I’ve been told. That was probably the worst day of my life, finding out she was gone – forever. Knowing I’d never see her again. That I’ll never be able to talk to her again, or so I thought. And I know what your thinking: “Why is she so sad if she neglected her?”. Well, just because my mother may not have been the most best parent in the world. That doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I love her much, much more than I love myself. Anyway, the first few weeks were the hardest. All I did was cry and cry and cry. I heard her voice every time someone called my name – and I still do. I went through the grief process like anyone else would. I had my days where I’d be really sad. Then days where I’d be really happy. Then, maybe 4-5 months later. I was sexually assaulted/raped by my cousin. It was a traumatic experience for me. It also didn’t help that I hadn’t been given “The Talk” yet, even though I was old enough to know at that point. I told my aunt what he’d done. She was very angry with him and was glad I’d told her. Because he told me not too. I, then, had to tell the whole story over again to other important people. Then again and again and again. My aunt had filed a report with the police about it. But, the police did nothing. Apparently, we were to young for it actually be called rape. I went through a rape-kit, which was really uncomfortable. What had happened that night really made my emotional issues noticeable. I struggled through the last month of school, trying to keep up, trying not to think of “Him”. I went through summer like normal, trying to cover up what really was going on inside: hate, anger, lust, pain, sadness, death. Then, one day in the middle of summer camp, I cracked. I had a mental breakdown and told my aunt i how I felt. My aunt believed me, but thought some of it was because I was an emotional young women. Another reason why I’d been so upset is because I’d found out something I’d been confused about for years – my sexuality. I found out, over time, that I was a homosexual or lesbian. I’d realized that my feelings for girls, and not just as friends, over the past 3 years, were for a reason I hadn’t realized until that moment. I do realize, that even now, it could be a phase. I am well aware of the fact. But just because it MIGHT be, doesn’t mean it IS. After school started the next fall, I went to see a consular every week. It helped for a while, then I started to become more depressed as the weeks went on. As the weeks turned into months, I started to think of suicidal thoughts. In November, around Thanksgiving, I went to my aunt’s house (not the one I live with). “HE” was there. I avoided as much contact as possible. Trying not to be in the same room as “HIM”. But, some how at one point, we did. “HE” kicked, punched, and slapped me. “HE” called me names I don’t want to speak of. “HE” insulted me in many ways that night. I cried later, cried myself to sleep. Knowing that “HE” knows who or what I am. That “HE” hates me for it. For telling her. For liking girls. “HE” knew. I knew it. I told my aunt a few days later. She talked to my other aunt (the one who’s house is where it happened) and she promised to talk to him about him behavior. Since then, I’ve said no more. “HE’S” never done it again. But when ever I see “HIM” (which I try to avoid as much as possible) I always think “HE’S” going to do something, anything, to hurt me. I live in a constant fear that’s “HE’S” going to do something. Hurt me, touch me, hit me, insult me. It makes me wanna die. Knowing that “HE” may never stop. I asked my aunt why he was doing this. She said “it’s because he’s in love with you. Most teenage boys his age fall in love and don’t know who to deal with it”. I, personally, think that’s just bull crap. I mean, it may be true, then it may not. But “in love”, you’ve got to be kidding me. That’s the reason why I don’t speak of my mental issues. My aunt doesn’t take me seriously. I think, personally, that she knows the truth and is in denial. Anyway, now you know of my past. Now here’s the present. Now I’m almost done with school. I’ve missed 20-24 days of school this year. Most were “Mental Health Days” from what my aunt calls them. I’m doing OK in school. I try my best. But it’s hard to get through each day. I’m depressed (possibly clinically depressed) and suicidal. I have tried to commit suicide many, many times. All fail. I cut every once in a while. To let the pain out. To get rid of the regret, anger, suffering, ect. I barely sleep. I sleep maybe 4-3 hours a night and then sleep after school. My aunt, sometimes, has to drag me out of bed and make me eat. Then wont let me sleep until it’s time for bed. I either eat to much, or to little. I’m always moping around like a dead zombie. Once again, denial runs deep. I listen to depressing music like Evanescence, AFI, Flyleaf, Lamb of God, ect. Although I was already into that kind of music. That’s all I listen to now. She doesn’t notice. I’m in an LGBT youth group. I want to tell them how I feel, cause they seem like they may understand, but that’s what I thought with my aunt. Didn’t happen. I don’t want to risk it. I now go to a consular every 3 weeks. My weeks have been changed because I’m getting “better”. Ya, right. I lie to my consular too. I know that doesn’t help me at all. But I’m mad at her and my aunt. Because way back in September they promised me that if I wasn’t any better within a month, they’d talk about putting me on a depression pill. A month goes by, nothing. I try to commit suicide and then tell my aunt that I tried, nothing. My consular, who is very nice, doesn’t take me seriously either (in my opinion). A few days ago, I carved “HELP ME MOM!!” into the back of my door with a knife. Then I carved, more like scraped, “KILL ME!!” on the screen of my computer. My friend, the only one who knows how I really feel AND understands, told me that I’ve lost it. I think I already knew that. I have 2 real friends. One is the girl I’d already told you about. She is depressed and suicidal like me. But she lives 2 hours away from me. We’d meet at summer camp. So, we only see each other once or twice a year. And the other is also my girlfriend. Who I think doesn’t love me. Although she says she does. But other than that, I just have some random people I talk to in school. But only 2 true friends. I just don’t want to live anymore. Death is the last thing I think about at night. And the first thing I think about when I awake. I’ve been cutting more lately. Listening to more depressing music. Attempting suicide more. I just don’t see the point of life when nobody (accept 1) takes you seriously. When you hate yourself. When you think your a shelfish, horrible person. When all the world does is hurt you. When all the people do is hurt, betray, not believe, or use you. What am I to live for? Once my aunt told me I should try to help myself. I tried and tried and tried. All fail. She said she’d try to help me help myself. What did she do? Nothing. I tried and tried and tried some more, even though I’d lost all hope. And I failed. Again. I tried to tell my aunt how I really felt back in January. I’d typed my feelings down on the internet and gave it to her for her to read. She read it. Then said “Hannah, some of these feelings you are feeling are just part of being a young women. All this ‘horrible world’ and ‘I wanna die’ stuff is all young women stuff”. That was the last time I ever spoke to her about my mental issues. I know she means well, but what she said there, was completely wrong. I tried to explain but then gave up, knowing that she’d never understand. I want to die. I’m close to committing suicide. I guess things just don’t turn out the way you hoped.
Note: I’m sorry if I spelled things wrong. The spell check isn’t working for me right now. And this is my first time posting, so sorry if I put it in the wrong categorie or that it’s to long…….
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