A year ago I awoke knowing that before the day was over, I would take my own life. It was the first time in a long time that “a moment of waking” decision got me right out of bed, immediately. I was determined. I was relieved. In a way, I was actually excited.

I showered, groomed and dressed, sipping coffee like it was any other day. I gathered all of my personal belongings, wallet, keys, etc., setting them, well placed, on the table next to my bed. I emailed some “goodbyes” to a select few and ordered an UBER. Once the driver arrived, I shut off my phone and placed it next to my wallet and keys. Then I walked out my front door fully aware and comfortable knowing that I would never return.

The drive was peaceful. We gabbed about everything, anything and nothing. I felt oddly connected with him as we ran errands enroute to my final destination. He dropped me at a shopping mall movie theatre. That UBER should have been my last. I ate a light meal. I watched “The Martian”. I walked out of the theatre and stared into the sky. I stood and watched people for what seemed like hours. I walked to an isolated section in the rear of the shopping mall to find an area where I would not be bothered and no one would be bothered by me, for a while.

I went about my personal business. As I started losing consciousness an incredible wave of comfort passed over me. A blanket of safety enveloped me as I weaped. This time the tears were not depression, fear, heartbreak or agony. These were tears of absolute relief.

I regained consciousness and remained in the hospital for a few days under a protective custody.

Everything changed immediately after leaving the hospital. Life was painted differently. Colours seemed damp, lacking brightness. I was filled with confusion upon waking, daily.

“Why am I still here?”

My new worst friend was anxiety.

  • Why did I fail?
  • Why am I still here?
  • How did I fail?
  • How will people see me?
  • Do people still like me?
  • Do people care?
  • Why do people care?
  • How do I turn back the clock?
  • Should I try again… harder?

Work was different. People talked and interacted with me like I was perpetually at a tipping point. I felt guilty.

Socialising was different. People talked and interacted with me like I was perpetually at a tipping point. I felt guilty.

“I felt guilty… I, felt guilty.”

I’m not alone with these feelings. All “attemptees” feel this. We’re all feeling completely disconnected from ourselves, our loved ones, our friends and from our daily routines. Most of us are physiologically and psychologically disconnected. We’ve actually been at the threshold of death’s door. We’ve peeked inside and you know what? It’s terrifying, however, it’s the one thing that in a single moment would have provided us the much needed relief we desired. That was for a fleeting moment, however. It’s over and we’ve come to terms with what happened and what we did to ourselves, or attempted to do.

I want to feel “back at home”. I’m fragile but don’t treat me like a porcelain doll. I hurt, I pain, I’m confused. Talk to me. Retell a tale of something we did. Make a plan to make a tale of something we can retell. Give me the work I should be doing. You’re not overloading me, I want to come back to this moment. To all moments. I want to join my friends and enjoy the socialising without the subtle infantile rocking.

“Don’t ask me how I tried.”

Don’t ask me how or why or where or what! Trust me, I know you’re curious. Trust me, I’m just as curious as to why I am still here. Try to make me rationalize that it was a mistake and a failed attempt and that we’re all striving as people to move upwards and onwards. YES, I do need support but I don’t need crutches or a crib.

Much is spoken of the telltale signs of those in need, those who are in ideation or those that are planning on taking their own lives. Little is spoken of how we want to fall back into our lives. All preceding said, talk to me. I ain’t a zombie, I didn’t die. I’m very much alive, as are you. So… grab my hand and run.

Let’s live.