“…This isn’t your fault loved ones. I can’t be helped. I love you. I hope your wishes come true in your endeavors.”

In that moment I finished up bottles of benzodiazepines and liquid opiates quickly. I felt the life inside me slowly start to wash away into a silent fading rhythm of my heart and breath. “Here it comes. Finally…”

—

Sitting in my somber motel-like room I play the echoes of “the community” in my mind and begin to write my final thoughts,

“Here’s where I am. I have no purpose. Life has lost its meaning to me. Activities, work, and social pleasantries have become pointless and monotonous. Every day is clockwork patterns and motions. This program of sobriety is pseudo-religious bullshit. All I do is wake up to throw my psycho-pharmaceuticals down the hatch and do the next self-programmed habit. Is this who I will be forever? I hate who I have become. Night terrors wake me up, freeze me in fear, and swallow me into states of panic. I am haunted by my fears. Endless anxiety attacks. It would be better if I were gone. I am too much weight to bear. I need too much help. I cannot live with this. This isn’t your fault loved ones. I can’t be helped. I love you. I hope your wishes come true in your endeavors.”

In that moment I finished up bottles of benzodiazepines and liquid opiates quickly. I felt the life inside me slowly start to wash away into a silent fading rhythm of my heart and breath. “Here it comes. Finally…”

I wake.

A hospital staff in ICU is standing huddled over me. My mother is crying holding my hands firmly,

“I’m so glad you’re alive.”

I had lost sanity, hope, peace, and a sense of purpose. Looking back, I laugh at what a horrible suicide note that was. But I had wrenching thoughts of being physically and mentally abused, molested, and bullied coming down on me twice as hard. That’s the closest I’ve come to killing this fleeting moment early. I’ve had a handful of these moments, from acting out on suicidal thoughts, to months and years of complete isolation. I was a social recluse hiding and avoiding everyone.

Each time I walked home with a dozen bottles of pills in a little crispy baggy and a burning cigarette. I was in a self-fulfilling prophetic state of depression, confusion, and mania. It seemed the squirrel cages felt home to me. My mental turbulence was embraced and I could express it without stigmas or prejudice. This had to change. Without mental action there is mental atrophy.

I found hope in my concept of a purpose, happiness, peace. My concept of purpose is that all of the experiences I have will be a message and motivation to someone’s life out there. I’m not on pills that emotionally numb me anymore. I’m now mentally plugged into spiritual meditation, social connections, and mental healing through sharing like this. I’m doing the very activities in arts that used to become mundane to me. I’m learning how to cooperate socially and blend my ideas into social bonds. I’m learning how to open up more and receive the help people want to give.

Focusing on a psychological switch is what I had to do. I am not in control of nature and another individual’s nature. Sometimes I think I am. Thus, I must confront my distorted thinking with another thought challenge. Each day I have to confront and face the fears and anxieties that would otherwise pin me down to isolation. I had to put up a mental battle against the voice in my head. Without challenging that voice, and without seeking out a sense of self-purpose and peace, I wouldn’t have made it.

I’m still searching, discovering, and learning. There’s much I don’t know and I’m fond of that. If you’ve ever experienced coming close to suicide, battled with depression, or social isolation I’m very interested to see you share what you have done to move forward and what you have learned from it. ©

–Anonymous Submission