still in the bathroom

August 24, 2016

About four months and maybe twelve days ago, I tried to kill myself. By now, everyone’s brushed it under the rug and it’s as if it never happened but four months and about twelve days ago, everyone cared.

They got word that I was in the hospital from trying to overdose and they all got their panties in a bunch. No one understood why I did it. It was incomprehensible. When I was asked why. I couldn’t give them a good answer. They asked me why I was depressed.

I just wasn’t happy.

“What do you have to be unhappy about? No one said life is always going to be happy.”

That was the reaction I was getting. I never told anyone how I felt. I always kept it to myself, wrote it down and buried it away. They didn’t need to know.

Rewind back to the moment before I actually swallowed the pills.

“I was trying to write a paper.”

That’s what I told everyone when they asked what happened. I wasn’t doing so well in school and focusing was becoming so hard for me. All I ever seemed to do right was starve myself and sleep all day. So, in the middle of trying to write this paper, I started asking myself why I was even doing this. Why I was even trying because all I ever do, I fail at. So, from there, things just began to spiral downwards and I just went into the bathroom and broke down. I started panicking. I looked in the mirror and broke down even more. The tears were nonstop.

“Why?”, I kept asking myself.

Now, I’ve always thought about suicide. It preys on my mind always and in that moment, it seemed right. It’s what I had to do because I had no purpose. Everything I did was wrong.

I had a bottle of antidepressants and it just felt right. It’s what I had to do. So I went back to my room, grabbed the bottle, went back into the bathroom and sat on the floor. I cried the whole time. That day, I cried the most I’ve ever cried in my life.

Earlier that day, I had taken maybe 3 or 4 pills. I’m not sure how much I emptied into my hand, I didn’t care but it couldn’t have been more than 20. I stared at my miserable reflection in the mirror and gulped down the pills I had in my hand. I broke down again. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting- to die of course, but I thought it’d be instantaneous. It wasn’t. I immediately texted my friend. I was scared.

I didn’t know what I was doing.

She called. I answered. We talked.

Almost an hour had gone by and I began to feel the effects of the pills. I started panicking again, it’s like I was in a daze. It was a high so surreal and I was scared beyond belief. I wanted to call 911- I needed to call 911 but I couldn’t stop crying. So my friend called them for me and I sat in the bathroom and waited. Waited for someone to come and save me.

There was a loud knock on my dorm door and I- assuming it was another friend that I had on campus, jumped to my feet and went to open the door. There, standing before me were two men from campus security.

This is really happening,  I thought.

I went back to my room to grab my phone and walked out shaking and crying behind the two men. I couldn’t stop shaking. I kept looking around uncontrollably as if I was mad. In a way, I guess I was.

I was crazy.

Lost.

Desperate.

Confused.

I didn’t sleep that night at the hospital. I was afraid to. I  was afraid that if I closed my eyes, I was going to die.

“I’m going to die. I’m going to die.”, I kept whispering to myself. The nurse assured me that I wasn’t going to. Truthfully, I didn’t want to.

My heart raced the whole time. The whole night, it raced.

My heart rate didn’t stabilize till later that morning. I was up for almost 24 hours, staring idly at the television screen.

I hated being in the hospital. I hated hospitals in general. To me, only two things happen at a hospital- a life is welcomed into the world while another ceases to exist.


Since that day, I was sure that I painted myself as this crazy girl. The girl who tried to kill herself.

I don’t think anyone will ever truly understand what was going through my head at the time. I wouldn’t say it was a cry for help. I was never one to ask for help. I guess, I was just tired.

Tired of living this life.

Tired of pretending that everything was okay.

Tired of pretending to be okay with how things were going.

Tired of who I was or the person I was pretending to be.

In the end, that’s what it came down to.

I was tired and I guess that’s how it always begin.

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