Four Years to the Day: Why I Attempted Suicide and Why I Haven't Tried Since

Today, February 22, marks four years since I attempted suicide, and tomorrow marks the first day of the institutionalization that followed. It both is and isn't a big deal. It is in the sense that we like to commemorate things, such as birthdays, anniversaries, and counting our successes. Figuratively speaking, today I receive my 4-year recovery medallion. 

I was 16 when I was enduring this time of struggle, which I refer to as the “dark ages.” My soul was ravaged by the illusion that I was not living up to my potential. I was young, naive, and heartbroken. I knew there had to be more to life than disloyal friends, lost love, and imbalanced hormones, but I was resigned to accepting this as the reality of life. 

A few months prior to my attempt, I was in my mother’s medicine cabinet looking for my allergy medication. Right next to the Xyzal, I saw Ambien. Unfamiliar with Ambien, I looked it up—sleeping pills. My mother didn’t have sleeping problems, so I figured she wouldn’t notice if I took a few. I took a handful of pills and wrapped them in a tissue with the intent to overdose. I didn't know when, I didn't know how, and I didn't know if nine 10mg sleeping pills would be enough. But I wanted to be prepared for the moment when I got the courage to do something I had thought long and hard about.

I tucked the folded tissue into the bottom of the tissue box. I left it under my bed and didn't touch it for nearly four months. During that time, my suicidal thoughts didn't stop, but I fell in love for the first time and that alleviated some of the pain.

So, what happened in those four months? I got my heart broken for the first time. I lost my appetite; I choked on air because I was always hyperventilating. This pit in my stomach never left, and I was constantly feeling empty and hopeless. Let me make this clear: I did not attempt suicide because of a boy. I had suicidal thoughts leading back to when I was five or six. I have struggled with depression for as long as I can remember. This just happened to be one of the factors that pushed me to the edge. The feeling of heartbreak was overwhelming when combined with the suicidal thoughts.

Around 6 p.m. on February 22, I reached to the bottom of the tissue box and wiped off the dust that had collected on the plastic that bordered the opening. There the folded tissue was at the bottom. My dark fantasy was right before me, and I was ready to be the villain.  

I ran a shower and held 90mg of Ambien in the palm of my hands, held my mouth below the shower head, and took it like a champ.  I had a rush of euphoria. I was proud of myself, and I wanted to reach a bliss that was more than temporary. See, I don't believe in God, but that doesn't mean I don't believe in something greater. I didn't know where I would be going after this, but I had hope it would be better than where I was.

I don't remember collapsing, but apparently it was a colossal thud. I'm told my parents came running from the floor below to investigate. When I didn't respond, they busted down the locked door. This is where I begin to go in and out of consciousness. I remember opening my eyes to see the room spinning as my stepfather tried to drag my limp body. Somehow, I made it down the stairs, but my mother was panicking over finding my shoes. 

I'm lying in the back of the car. I'm vomiting into a bag in a stretcher. I see my father. He lets out a big sigh and shields his eyes as he says my name under his breath. He says it the same way he says my name when I do something so disappointing it seems too bad to be true. 

I woke up in the pediatrics wing the next morning. I was devastated. I was trying to comprehend that my final decision wasn’t actually final. I was mad at myself for not having accumulated more pills. I was mad that I was stupid enough to convince myself 90mg of Ambien would kill me. But instead it killed my mother, my father, my sister, my grandparents, my friends, and everyone that ever cared about me. I may not have been successful at killing myself that day, but something else died. I mourned myself.

My parents decided that I would go to a rehabilitation center to recover. I had to sign papers, even as a minor, to voluntarily submit myself into a mental health facility. I was accepted almost immediately. By the end of the night I was put into an ambulance and escorted to this unfamiliar place. When I arrived, I was taken to a financial office with my mother where she had to fill out paperwork. Not only was this breaking my parents’ hearts, but it was also breaking their bank. The recovery program was a slap to their face after having endured what they just did.

I was wheeled around on a stretcher through the whole facility, until I got past the doors in the adolescent wing. I got checked in, and a hospital bracelet was put on my wrist. I was then escorted to my room where there were two twin beds. The walls were painted black and dusted with chalk. On the outside of the door waited a whiteboard with my name on it. The girl who occupied the other bed had her name written beside mine. Her name was Mari. When I saw her name, it was the first time I had felt warmth or excitement within the past 72 hours. Mari was the name of my best friend back home. It gave me comfort in a place that was utterly terrifying. Seeing, hearing, saying her name everyday reminded me of what I had waiting for me back home. It also helped to break the ice during our first conversation. We talked about the circumstances of our admission. The first night we talked for hours, relating to recent situations in our lives and our overall mental health. We grew close, and to this day we remain close.

The facility was something like a summer camp. We had group meetings, meals, and personal counselors. The thing is, the media likes to romanticize psychiatric wards. There weren’t padded walls, foam cubes for hand restraints, or any type of restraints whatsoever for that matter. The only thing I found to be properly portrayed in the media is the anesthetics they give to violent patients. We called it “booty juice.”

The first few nights we were placed under close watch with many restrictions. This is called BO15—a behavioral observation every 15 minutes. Our personal belongings were taken, and our bodies were inspected for tattoos, piercings, and any scars/cuts. They do this to make sure you don't leave in a different condition than you came in. Some personal belongings that were taken included bobby pins, shoe laces, toothbrushes, hoodies, the rings in a notebook, pens, my contacts, and bras with underwire. Most of these items were a given, but I was shocked by how much we were restricted. I couldn’t fathom how creative one could get to take their own life with that many restrictions.

The next morning, Mari and I met the other patients. The stigma of psychiatric in-patient care labels patients as either suicidal or schizophrenic. Wrong. Reasons for in-patient admission varied from severe aggression to drug addiction. One boy was admitted after pulling a gun on another student at school. Another struggled with sobriety. The majority were suffering from suicidal tendencies. A young boy, just 11 years old, shared his story of how he jumped from the 5th story of his apartment because of the pain he felt due to his dog’s death. 

There were countless stories and reasons why the patients were admitted. It made me more conscious of other people’s problems. I made the connection that most of it had to with loss. A girl was entered over aggression but felt this way over the forced and arranged adoption of her daughter. The guy with the gun pulled it on the kid whose family sent his father to prison. And the little boy who lost his childhood best friend—his dog. My loss? I was losing my sanity. I was a downward spiral waiting to happen. This was just the beginning of it. I continued to struggle for a while after this. But what helped with my recovery was my support system. I got into writing, and I found my voice through it. And since I have used it as a platform to share the hard lessons I have learned.

When I think about my suicide attempt, I am no longer triggered by the urge for suicide but more so triggered by the pain I implemented on my family and friends. I am happy I woke up the next morning in that hospital bed. I've gone on to experience love, life and travel, along with more heartache that I am more equipped to cope with. I've recognized lessons and learned from them.