A Cry for Help

Trigger/Content Warning: Suicide attempt

This happened recently.

It wasn't planned. It was spontaneous.

I was so depressed. My medication wasn't working. I couldn't hold down a job without constantly breaking down. It certainly didn't help that I had a huge, ugly confrontation with my dad the day before.

I was a prisoner to my emotions. They were my judge, jury and executioner. The sentence: death by overdose. They shackled me, marched me up the stairs and into my room, my execution chamber. They lined three bottles of pills onto my nightstand and handed me a bottle of water.

I didn't fight it. I thought, 'What's the point of trying anymore?'

I took a bunch of pills and chased them down with water. I didn't take all of them, though. A part of me didn't want to cause any irreversible damage, if I lived.

At first, I thought that I was just taking a gamble on my life. I was leaving it up to chance to decide whether I lived or died. But now I realize that I didn't want to die. Deep down, I was hoping that I'd live.

I blacked out.

Mom was the one who found me. She had gone upstairs to put on her pajamas. That was when she decided to check up on me. If she hadn't, I could've died. She saved my life.

Ever since I got home from the hospital, I've avoided staying in my room for too long. I only go in there to change and even then, it's a lot. What was once a safe haven has now become haunted. The water bottle I drank from is still there, empty. A prescription bottle cap is right beside it. Both serve as remnants of my worst memory.