On January 17, 2007, I bought 40 over-the-counter
sleeping pills from a local pharmacy. I drove to a spot in close
proximity to the house of the girl I loved.
I was under a lot of “stress”; after working blue collar jobs for a
couple of years out of high school, I decided to take some community
college classes. My mom had engrained the idea that without college, I
could not be successful. I had extreme anxiety during the week of
classes I attended. It was the imaginary pressure I was putting on
myself; and by imaginary, I mean pressure that existed only because my
mind created it, and no one else was aware.
With my car parked in such a sentimental location, I thought I would
commit suicide. The pressure in my head was at a boiling point and I
wanted to put an end to it. Lucky for me, that day, I decided to call
my mom instead. I told her I would be dropping my classes and getting a
full refund for the money I put in. I was crying. I honestly can’t
remember her actual reaction, but in my head, I knew she was
disappointed. At least without the anxiety of sitting through another
college class, the boiling pressure eased momentarily. I trashed the
pills and went to work as usual. That night, I slept like a baby.
On January 19, 2007, I bought 40 more over-the-counter sleeping
pills, parked in the same spot as I had only two days prior. I
swallowed the pills and washed them down with a 20oz bottle of Coke.
Dropping the classes had done nothing but delay the inevitable. Now,
with God-knows-what chemicals flowing through my veins, I forced myself
to confront the real issue at hand – I will never be successful enough
to live on my own, and I have failed at loving the only girl who ever
really loved me. I am broken human being and there is no fix. My
family and friends are better off without me.
I started writing my goodbyes and sorries on a piece of paper, before
the drugs really kicked in. I was about halfway through when my hands
started shaking to the extent that I couldn’t physically write any more.
From here, the details I can remember are blurred. I considered
calling 911 or calling my best friend. Next thing I know, I’m sitting
in the passenger seat, naked, and having pissed myself. My best friend
opened the driver side door and sat next to me. He looked at me and
asked, “What is that smell?” I laughed and cried simultaneously, trying
to think of how to explain this to him. He was not actually there. All
of this was part of a massive overdose trip.
I was in and out of consciousness for hours. I’m able to open a door
and puke. I remember looking out the windshield at the sky. It was
like nothing I’d ever seen. The sun beaming through the clouds was so
beautiful, and I knew I had made a terrible mistake. Hours keep passing
and it gets dark quickly. It’s one of the coldest nights of the year,
and the windows have fogged over. At this point, I have no idea what
state I’m in or how I got there.
It’s now 3:00am, roughly ten hours after I’d taken the pills. I’m
jolted awake. I’m naked and shivering cold. I manage to find my keys.
All I can think of, is “I need to get home and sleep in my bed.” I put
the car into drive, take an immediate right turn, and crash into the
entrance of a gated community. I put the car in reverse, realizing I’m
not where I thought I was, and get back on course. I somehow make it
back to my neighborhood without hitting anything else or getting pulled
over. I park at the end of the street and run to my house, still naked,
and throw my soiled clothes into the garbage.
The next day, I call out of work. I don’t tell a soul what happened.
I don’t go to a hospital. I decide to live the rest of my life like
nothing ever happened.
In the Spring of 2009, I’m forced to tell an old high school friend
this story. She casually mentioned how she was looking for the “best”
way to commit suicide. Knowing her, she wasn’t bringing up suicide for
the sake of odd conversation. I chose to ignore it at first, trying to
protect myself. But on the third time she brought it up, I put a stop
to it. I said, “You can’t commit suicide, because as soon as you commit
it, you regret it.” I told her everything. She cried, said she could
tell there was something wrong. I had saved her life because I tried to
take my own.
Today is August 25, 2013, and I’m still alive. I’m living with and
taking care of my 87-year-old grandfather. Earlier this year, the rest
of my family was ready to put him in assisted living, against his
wishes. My grandfather is a great man and he deserves more than that.
Without my history, I don’t think I’d be up to the task. But ever
since my suicide attempt, I’ve become desensitized to what the average
person might consider uncomfortable. I only want to make my grandfather
happy during his last days, and I’m the only one willing/able to give
him that happiness and freedom. I hope to atone for the ultimate
mistake I’ve made.
I’m not sure I’ll ever tell my family and friends what happened, but it seems more and more like the thing to do.
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