I shouldn’t be typing this right now. I should be dead; or, at the very least, in a coma rapidly approaching death. For the past three months or so, I had been planning to kill myself last night. I hoarded drugs and pushed people away. I become so isolated that I guess I rather naively thought I could just slip away unnoticed. I really wish my brain wasn’t buzzing right now–that is, I really wish I could think–because I really want to offer an explanation to you–and myself.
Last weekend the pain became too great and so I decided to carry out my plans a week early. Let me say this: planning suicide is easy, carrying it out is something different altogether. In short, I got scared. I started thinking about my own mortality–and what that really means–perhaps for the first time.
I like to intellectualize my feelings because it’s easier that way. Well, when you’re on the verge of ending your life, there is no intellectualizing. Everything you may or may not have believed in goes out the door, because after all this, there is only uncertainty.
I needed liquid courage, so I got a six-pack. I drank that and still felt scared. Sixteen beers later (and a few Ativans), I passed out. Last night, I took all the proper anti-emetics, had the pills lined out .. but I got scared again. I threw my phone battery out earlier in the week so I wouldn’t be able to call for help, so I chatted with a suicide prevention counselor online. She talked me down.
I don’t feel suicidal anymore. I feel depressed, though. Maybe even more depressed and hopeless than ever, because now I’m left with the almost impossible task of sorting out the pieces of my life. Should I go back to school full time? Should I quit my job? Should I get on disability? Should I quit Lexapro and try a new anti-depressant? Should I leave my girlfriend to spare her from witnessing my self-destruction? Should I continue to go on?
There’s more to say, but that’s all I can muster for now.