It’s all I could hear…die…wanna die…die….
Nothing is good anymore, I want to die….

Like a chorus in my head, chanting this deadly mantra over and over.

I had given up fighting it, my knuckles were bloody. I was exhausted. I wanted it to stop.

I had no other choice but to obey.

The faces of loved ones didn’t even matter to me at this point. They would be better off without me anyway, I was a worthless piece of crazy shit now.

I was an awful girl.

I didn’t have time to buy a white oleander, death by a beautiful flower.

Instead, I took those pills, two at a time, washing them down with my lukewarm Aquafina. I was planning on slowly consuming the whole bottle.

The woods were swampy and there was no dry spot for me to sit under a random tree and wait for the pills to take my life away from me.

I wanted to give it away, it was of no use to me anymore.

I stood there, the unseasonably cold July raindrops filtered by the leafy treetops. I was soaked to the skin, shaking in my hoodie. I looked at my pill bottle and saw that I had plenty more to take. I hoped that I had enough to do the job but research warned me to take it slow or else I would puke it all up.

I leaned on a tree and started crying, feeling an unpleasant euphoria taking over my body due to the massive amount of pills that I had popped thus far because I was an awful, selfish girl.

I was dizzy but not nauseous.

As much as I didn’t want to live, I also didn’t want to sit in the mud.

The irony of this was not lost on me, even in my fucked up, suicidal mind.

Someone would find my dead body and some unlucky soul would have to peel my filthy, mud encrusted clothes off of me.

I think I might have laughed or at least giggled bitterly at my plight.

I stood against that tree for a long time, wishing that the earth would open up and swallow me whole.

When it didn’t (cruel world) I turned to leave, coming face to face with a cold husband, a heartbroken daughter, an angry aunt and a tough as nails mother.

I had an ambulance ride to the ER with concerned paramedics that hovered over me. I was still conscious (sadly) but don’t remember anything other than fat, salty tears and my empty soul.

They took my bottle of pills away from me. I had been an awful, bad girl.

An awful girl who just wanted to cease being mortal so badly.

They made me vomit into a trashcan. Hard, lonely vomiting. The nurse left me alone because she was disgusted. I wasn’t worth her empathy or her time.

What kind of person would do this? A pathetic, awful girl.

Nobody understood, not even my mother. Especially my husband who came close to leaving me, who did not comfort me but rather looked at me like I was some kind of freak for wanting to kill myself. Physical pain he can understand but not a mental illness.

No, not that.

Some on the inside had tried to kill themselves. I held on tightly to their stories, knowing that we all, deep down, were mad that we hadn’t been successful.

At the time, at least.

And now 16 months later, I am still alive. I no longer want to die.

No, not today.

But that awful girl still resides within my mind and I fear her ever visiting again.
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