I was never an optimist, but for some reason, people took me as one. They never considered how I felt behind that act I put up. I guess that’s why I became such a troubled teen. That’s probably also why even after two failed suicide attempts; I went for a third. I’m warning you now, if you decide to keep reading this, you might find that it’s more of me complaining than an actual story.
It starts a week after my parent’s divorce. My mom was drinking, my dad was sent to the mental hospital (god knows where) and I became lost. Slowly, I was becoming restless. Now that I think of it, I know it wasn’t the divorce that got me. It’s the shear pain of loosing both of my parents when they were there for me my entire life. I mean seriously, everyday when I came home from middle school, I’d find my mom puking up the last few drinks she had while she cried over every single little thing in her life. The image is still etched into my brain. I couldn’t take it.
I confronted her one-day. We needed to pay the bills and she got fired, I assume. Immediately when I tried to speak to her, she became angry. My mother, the woman I grew up loving, the one person who was suppose to love me, started getting angry at me. She yelled at me for being such a bad daughter, for being the reason they got divorced, for taking up so much of her time and money, and I still remember the last words she told me before I ran away.
She said she regretted having me.
I was barely fourteen.
What was I suppose to do?
I took a wad of cash I was saving up (less than $100) and I left that hellhole. At the time, I was just so sick of everything. Before I even used up half of my money, I decided it wasn’t worth it anymore.
I stayed over at a friend’s house that night and the next day I planned my first suicide. It was fairly simple. Wait for a car to come, get hit.
Well as you can see, since I’m writing this so I’m not dead (my plan failed). I was taken to the hospital and they called my parents. Lets just say they weren’t too happy when my mom came to the hospital and started yelling at me the moment I woke up. After that, I had pretty much had it.
I pulled all that stuff they hooked up to me to try to monitor my condition and basically destroyed myself. That was my second attempt at dying. As you can see, that didn’t work.
A year later, I was back to where I started. I was depressed, tired, and just drained in every sense of the word.
In my hand was a knife.
Then I slowly found my heartbeat with my free hand and took a deep breath.
I remember thinking, ‘X marks the spot’, ready to go through with it.
Something stopped me however. There was no “life flashing before my eyes”, no sense of hope or anything.
All I felt was the feeling of sweat with that knife I was holding and reality hit me. This isn’t one of those drama movies where the storyline goes on after someone dies. This is real and the story doesn’t continue for me after I die, it just ends.
I didn’t want that.
I wanted my life to flash before my eyes and then I found myself shaking. I was desperate, but I wasn’t lost anymore. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be happy someday. I wanted something worth flashing before my eyes when I die. I wanted to continue my story. I wanted to start living.
The most important thing is: I did.