I died on June 6th this year. It was around 12 PM; I guess that’s a funny time to die. My psychiatrist asks, what in the world possessed you to kill yourself at that hour? I don’t know. There wasn’t anything specific that happened, I’d just been feeling the siren call of death for quite a while by then.
It was a calm affair, save for my hands shaking and my heart beating really fast—mostly as a result of the medications. 30 minutes after I overdosed, I noticed that my thumb was raw and bleeding from cracking open so many blisters of pills. The day I overdosed, a friend of mine tried kicking the door down and called the police. The day I overdosed, I was in the back of an ambulance with a paramedic strapping me down and he said “That must have been around 200 pills”. It had been 100. He says, that’s not good. The day after I overdosed, I lay in bed in the observation unit and could barely move. Even shifting hurt. The day after I overdosed, my friend’s mother awoke me from my nothing-slumber to tell me she’d bought slippers and a toothbrush for me. One day after I overdosed, three of my friends drove over an hour to see me and brought me just the food they knew I liked. One day after I overdosed, I overheard a nurse warmly, unthinkingly saying she had filled in “baby’s” record to another coworker, like she was sorry for me. One day after I overdosed, a friend brought me four yellowish-red apples and said, I bought a bag of apples and picked the nicest ones out for you. One day after I overdosed, I thought, it would’ve been so nice to actually die.
I’d planned to go to the movies with a friend that day. I remember floating in and out of consciousness after they’d pumped my stomach, and I would open my eyes, look at the dark of night through the single narrow window high up on the wall, and think: Ah, I won’t make it to the movie in time.
I love you. I’m probably gonna go lie down. I love you. My heart is beating very fast but I’m very calm. I love you. I send this to my friend after I swallow the last of my pills. They don’t understand. They don’t understand at all. I love you.
A friend of mine was holding me in my hospital bed, and tears kept running down my cheeks, and I kept repeating, very earnestly: “I really did want to die. I really did want to die.”
Lying in the observation room. They wheel in a drunk guy who keeps yelling he doesn’t want to be there. He says, “I’m not dying yet, get me out of here”. For the first time, I think to myself, huh. I guess I am dying.
People feel uncomfortable when I talk about it. I don’t regret it. I wish I had died. I still think I might do it again after I leave the hospital. I love you. I love you. But I need to do it. I was so very very calm. I guess it’s a confusing feeling. I can love you and still be able to leave you. I love you I love you I love you. I do.
There was a woman with a clipboard who came to my hospital bed later, she came and she stood above me, looking at me like she would at a sick puppy, and asked me two questions. She said, how are you feeling? I said, I don’t know. She asked, do you want to get better? I said, no. My psychiatrist asks me: what are your thoughts on what you did now? I say, I don’t regret it. My only regret is that it didn’t work out.
You feel light. You feel tingles in the tips of your fingers and toes and up to your calves. You feel a little dizzy. You start losing your breath a little. Your hands tremble. You feel your heart pounding really very fast. 144 beats per minute. I’m not sure I could say I was happy because there was no emotion in it. No fear. I was at peace, when I was dying. I felt death coming to me. I was so happy.
turnnoffyourmind
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
janainaart
2087
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
kaledo-art