I am 22-years-old and my life is utterly hopeless. The days run into each other, and I can hardly get myself out of bed in the morning. I call in sick at work a lot and sit home alone in my studio apartment moping and thinking about the end of my future. I am consumed with death and feel like the only time I’m actually doing something constructive is when I’m thinking of ways to kill myself.

Sometimes I contemplate slitting my wrists, but the thought of cutting myself seems too painful and messy. Besides, I wonder, who will clean up the blood?

Other times I think about inviting a radio to join me in the bathtub, but I am a coward and afraid of electrocution.

I ponder jumping off a bridge, but with my luck some meddling hero would jump in to rescue me from myself. I don’t want to be saved!

Pills! That seems the least painful. But I know if not done right, it won’t work. Therefore, I must come up with a plan.

I am seeing a psychiatrist for my depression. All of the joy I had felt in my past life is being trampled by my darkest, deepest inner demons. It’s like I’m enveloped in a cocoon of total desperation. I no longer enjoy the things I used to do. Instead I sit in the dark, the curtains drawn, smoking cigarettes and staring blindly at the flickering lights on the television set, the sound inaudible.

It is impossible to distance myself from my melancholia. Like a grotesque shadow, it follows me everywhere I go. The only escape I can fathom makes me tremble in fear. I am constantly wrestling with my emotions and getting pinned in every single match. The only way to win is to commit suicide.

Suicide is the answer I am seeking.

My doctor prescribes Valium and Xanax, and I am in heaven because they make me sleep. When I sleep, I forget all of my problems.

I begin to conserve my pills.

Counting 50 of the little blue pills and 25 of the white, I wonder if that is enough to do the job. I hope it is. I can hear the doctor warning me not to drink alcohol with the pills, so I decide to buy a bottle of wine to make them more effective.

I consider where I should go to kill myself and decide against my apartment. I don’t want my body to decompose for days before somebody finds me. Instead I choose a hotel room. To ensure I won’t be bothered, I will hang the DO NOT DISTURB sign outside the door. The next morning when the maid comes to clean the room, she will find me—it seems like a good plan.

I daydream about my death and wonder whether I will fall asleep peacefully or if the pills will make me sick. I don’t want to feel pain when I die. I imagine my body floating and my pain and sorrow dissipating. I feel sad about my parents and hope they will understand.

I anxiously glance at the kitchen clock. It’s just past 8. Like a ghost, I glide over to the living room window and peer outside. I can see my reflection in the glass and am shocked at my appearance. The anti-depressants have caused me to gain weight, my skin is sallow and blotchy, and my eyes look dead, devoid of joy and hopeless. The incredible sadness I feel is overwhelming. I wipe the tears away from my eyes.

I sit down to write my suicide note when the telephone rings and startles me out of my reverie. I don’t want to answer the phone, but I always do, so I get up and walk over to the counter where the phone sits. I hesitantly pick it up. It’s my father saying he and my mother are worried about me and want me to come home—back to Wisconsin.

“I’m okay,” I protest weakly, trying not to cry.

“It’s not good for you to live by yourself,” he tells me. “You’re sick. If you come home, your mother and I will take care of you. You’ll get better, you’ll see.”

Hearing this, all I can think about is how they’re interfering with my plan.

“What about my job?” I ask, my voice cracking. “And my apartment? I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here.”

“We’re leaving now,” he says. “We’ll be there in an hour. This is for your own good.”

It’s no use arguing with him. I mutter okay and hang up the phone. For now my plan is temporarily on hold…I am relieved that I won’t have to kill myself tonight.

Fourteen years have passed since that night, and although I have never thanked my parents for saving my life, I am deeply grateful.

The ironic thing about depression is that it settles in without warning. I know my melancholia lasted for nearly two and a half years, but I can’t recall exactly when it started or when it went away. A depressive state leaves a huge void. No matter how hard I try, there are some aspects about my illness that I cannot remember.

My sister told me that after my father hung up the phone, it immediately started ringing. Knowing that it was me calling, he instructed her to answer.

“Did they leave yet?” I anxiously ask.

There is a pause. Nancy is being motioned by Dad to say yes. “They just left, Joanne. They should…”

“Oh no,” I moan, choking back sobs. “Now I can’t kill myself!”

I do not remember this conversation.

My mother told me that after I moved back home, they took me to a doctor who prescribed new pills. But the pills made me catatonic. All I did was sit in a rocking chair, staring into space, not talking or eating. Worried that it was the pills causing this reaction, my parents flushed them down the toilet.

I do not remember this either.

Had I committed suicide that lonely night in 1984, I would never have known the love of my husband, Jim, a man who accepts me, flaws and all. I would not have experienced the joy of spending time with my family, nor would I be watching my niece and four nephews grow up. I also wouldn’t feel the sheer sense of accomplishment of being only five classes away from earning a college degree.

Although I still battle with depression, I am a stronger person today. It may sound cliché, but life does get better. The day will come when the sun shines bright again and the sky turns blue. I have experienced the bottommost point in my life and survived.

Comments (1)

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written by linzi, March 07, 2008

im sorry about what has happened to you.
the worst of it is that i have them same feelings most days but i know that i have to try and cope if not for me for my parents.this yr has been so hard after losing my son when he was just a day old it hurts like hell and my mum is getting ill so could not do with the stress of me topping myself.
i have always self-harmed and tried to kill myself but never whole heartedly if i had to do it proberly i would not be sitting at this computor now and as hard as it is to get out of bed everyday knowing that i have nothing to wake up for hurts that lil bit more but the thing is im not so sure that any of us want to take our own lives when the world is full of so many emineis that are sick and more than happy to go round killing innoccent young people that we don't stand a chance doing it ourselves.
most people are stuck in a rut so to speak, they have thought like this for so long that they can't seem to shake of the feeling and look into the future like the days you wake up and the sun shines in to your bedroom window and you cant help but smile those are the days that we sit back and think we maybe not today maybe i don't want to die maybe i'll make it through the day just maybe.........................



i would like to talk to you please email me back and tell me what you think x