Surviving a Failed Suicide

On March 8th, I was admitted to a psychiatric facility for suicidal ideation. I spent my time in the psych ward writing, connecting with other patients, and processing my emotions. After two weeks off support groups and medication adjustments, I was discharged and went on my way, fully intent on enjoying my life. Five days later, I was COVID-positive.

The diagnosis devastated me; my freedom had just been restored and now it was being ripped away from me again.

My world became small, confined to my small, one bedroom apartment.

I felt physically and mentally weak, unable to maintain my focus and unable to stay awake. I was alone with only my cat and my depression for comfort.

In isolation, my depression worsened and the longer I quarantined, the more alone I felt. I longed for human contact, for human connection, and for a breath of fresh air. I lusted for it.

The days started to melt into each other. The passing of time was just a vague concept to me and I fell deeper and deeper into a pit of desperation. Eventually, there was no difference between night and day — only the drift in and out of sleep.

I felt hopeless and life felt meaningless and on April 13th, I said goodbye to my friends and family and swallowed 15 pills of OxyContin in an attempt to end my life.

I laid on my couch for hours waiting for the drugs to take me but the Grim Reaper was nowhere to be found. I had not taken enough drugs for him to come calling.

Friends and family called 911 and eventually, I was taken to the ER where I was placed in isolation as my vitals were monitored. Staff placed a camera in my room to monitor me in case I tried to hurt myself.

Once a bed opened up, I was transferred to the COVID wing of the hospital. For nine days, I curled up by the window and cried as I watched people walk in and out of the hospital.

Some people sent me flowers. One day, I removed flowers from their vase and placed them in a Styrofoam cup. Then, I smashed the vase and cut myself with the shards. Blood was spilled but no real damage was done.

I was transferred to a psychiatric facility where staff verbally abused me, yelled at me, and neglected me. There were no support groups, no changes to my medication, and no face time with the psychiatrist overseeing my case. I said whatever was necessary to leave that horrible place and was released six days after I was admitted.

As soon as I was discharged, I started plotting my death again. I did research. I bought pills. It took less than two weeks for me to end up right back in a psych ward.

It has been three weeks since my last discharge and I am still struggling. I think about suicide constantly. Like a vengeful ghost, thoughts of killing myself follow me day in and day out.

I wish I could say something inspirational about still being alive but the truth is, that night forever changed me. I stared at the face of death and dove into battle. I am a different person now with battle wounds that continue to fester and boil. The truth is, I will never truly recover from hitting rock bottom because recovery is a lifelong process and this failed suicide attempt is not an event that I survived but an event that I keep surviving. I will keep surviving it for the rest of my life because time does not heal all wounds. Sometimes, all time can do is increase your pain tolerance.

If you are having thoughts of harming yourself, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline by calling 1–800–273-TALK (1–800–273–8255) or by using their online chat service.