"Tear drops on the paper, one after another"
Yeah, that's right. This one actually has quotes around it. It's a lyric, not the song. The song is Steven by Jake Miller. You probably don't know it, but there have been times I listened to this song on repeat for hours. Why? Well, I'll answer that soon enough, won't I?
I hope you realize what this post is probably about. Yup, that's right: suicide. Because I haven't talked about enough depressing shit so far. But, see, here is the difference: for the previous suicide entry, it was my friend which makes it sad and depressing. This one, is about me. So, I can say whatever I want, however I want. Here is my story.
My first suicide attempt was when I was 13. Yeah, you read that right. My sister Julie had a really bad Crohn's disease flare up, so we had a bunch of pain killers around the house. I started cutting again, but it wasn't helping. I felt alone. My best friends went to different schools and were involved in different activities than I was, so I went weeks and even months without seeing either of them. Another thing you should know about me: I have very few friends. If you're nice to me, I'll be nice back, but it is very difficult for me to actually begin a true friendship with new people. They were my people, and I basically didn't have them. I hit rock bottom. I took a handful (or what was left, I don't really remember) of the Percocet my sister had laying around, went into bed, and fell asleep, not expecting to wake up. Percocet. What a weird name, right? Sounds like something you take for erectile dysfunction. Do you want to perk your set? Take some Percocet. That'll get the job done. Basically all it is is Oxy mixed with Tylenol. It could've gotten the job done, but I'm just an idiot. Anyway, his was at like, I don't know, 7 or 8pm. I woke up at noon the next day. I was pissed. As if I weren't a failure enough, I can't even kill myself right?! Come on! Anyway, I just continued being depressed and cutting, knowing if I tried again I would probably fail, so I never got the guts. I did, however, write a suicide note before I took the pills. Basically, I told everyone I was sorry for being a burden and existing. For being the reason I would hear my parents fighting sometimes. For having to have my parents pick between which kid they wanted to go to events for. Although, they usually chose my other sisters anyway, they did always have to pick me up. In some cases forgot me, but they still had to deal with me.
My second (and final) suicide attempt involves a lot of background detail. It was my freshman year of college at University of Oregon. It was spring term, and I was relatively happy-go-lucky compared to what I usually am. That was, until I met Josh. Let me get things straight. I met two guys named Josh my Freshman year. One was a very nice guy who wanted to legitimately get to know me, but eventually lost contact. Then, there is the other one. This one is my FAVORITE person ever. No sarcasm AT ALL implied there... He was the worst. I will tell you why. So, we went on a few dates and were really casual. Made out a couple times, and we usually hung out at his apartment. Which is exactly what we were doing on probably the worst day of my life. He wanted to go further, but I stopped him. He kept insisting, so I finally got up off the couch where we were watching a movie. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me back toward him. I swear I heard my shoulder pop. I told him to let my wrist go because it was hurting me. I could feel the bruises forming. He took my other wrist and slammed me against the wall. My head almost put a dent in the dry wall. He kept kissing my neck and whispering "it's okay" in my ear. I kept telling myself to knee him, punch him, somehow get him off me, but I couldn't move. I was frozen. Even when he released his insanely tight grip from my wrists, I still couldn't move. I could still feel his grip around both of them, cutting off the circulation. All I could say was "stop," but it was so faint, I could hardly hear myself say it. It wasn't until we both heard a knock at the door to the apartment next to his that I finally snapped out of it. His body was completely shoved against mine, pinning me to the wall, but I finally shoved him off of me and kneed him in, what I hope was, his balls. I ran out of there and back to my dorm so fast, never looking back. The rest of the day was a blur. That is, until we get back to where we are now: my second attempt.
Yes, he is the reason for my second attempt. I did the same thing I did the first time: I grabbed some pills and went to sleep, hoping, praying, I wouldn't wake up. You'd think because I am a biochemistry major I would be better at this, but no. I didn't take two seconds to Google how much I need to take of something to actually kill me. Although, I did feel like complete shit this time when I woke up, but, once again, I failed. After I woke up, I spent most of the day crying in my room, alone. Thankfully, my roommate was gone that weekend, so I could cut and cry and sit in silence all I needed. It ended up being the entire weekend. I never told anyone that full story until now. Mostly because I don't think I was ever really able to wrap my head around all that happened. That time, I didn't write a note. But, I did wonder if anyone would've ever found me before they actually started to smell my rotting body. Probably not. The world was grey for days on days. It still is sometimes, but that truly was the worst day of my life.
I hope you realize what this post is probably about. Yup, that's right: suicide. Because I haven't talked about enough depressing shit so far. But, see, here is the difference: for the previous suicide entry, it was my friend which makes it sad and depressing. This one, is about me. So, I can say whatever I want, however I want. Here is my story.
My first suicide attempt was when I was 13. Yeah, you read that right. My sister Julie had a really bad Crohn's disease flare up, so we had a bunch of pain killers around the house. I started cutting again, but it wasn't helping. I felt alone. My best friends went to different schools and were involved in different activities than I was, so I went weeks and even months without seeing either of them. Another thing you should know about me: I have very few friends. If you're nice to me, I'll be nice back, but it is very difficult for me to actually begin a true friendship with new people. They were my people, and I basically didn't have them. I hit rock bottom. I took a handful (or what was left, I don't really remember) of the Percocet my sister had laying around, went into bed, and fell asleep, not expecting to wake up. Percocet. What a weird name, right? Sounds like something you take for erectile dysfunction. Do you want to perk your set? Take some Percocet. That'll get the job done. Basically all it is is Oxy mixed with Tylenol. It could've gotten the job done, but I'm just an idiot. Anyway, his was at like, I don't know, 7 or 8pm. I woke up at noon the next day. I was pissed. As if I weren't a failure enough, I can't even kill myself right?! Come on! Anyway, I just continued being depressed and cutting, knowing if I tried again I would probably fail, so I never got the guts. I did, however, write a suicide note before I took the pills. Basically, I told everyone I was sorry for being a burden and existing. For being the reason I would hear my parents fighting sometimes. For having to have my parents pick between which kid they wanted to go to events for. Although, they usually chose my other sisters anyway, they did always have to pick me up. In some cases forgot me, but they still had to deal with me.
My second (and final) suicide attempt involves a lot of background detail. It was my freshman year of college at University of Oregon. It was spring term, and I was relatively happy-go-lucky compared to what I usually am. That was, until I met Josh. Let me get things straight. I met two guys named Josh my Freshman year. One was a very nice guy who wanted to legitimately get to know me, but eventually lost contact. Then, there is the other one. This one is my FAVORITE person ever. No sarcasm AT ALL implied there... He was the worst. I will tell you why. So, we went on a few dates and were really casual. Made out a couple times, and we usually hung out at his apartment. Which is exactly what we were doing on probably the worst day of my life. He wanted to go further, but I stopped him. He kept insisting, so I finally got up off the couch where we were watching a movie. He grabbed my wrist and yanked me back toward him. I swear I heard my shoulder pop. I told him to let my wrist go because it was hurting me. I could feel the bruises forming. He took my other wrist and slammed me against the wall. My head almost put a dent in the dry wall. He kept kissing my neck and whispering "it's okay" in my ear. I kept telling myself to knee him, punch him, somehow get him off me, but I couldn't move. I was frozen. Even when he released his insanely tight grip from my wrists, I still couldn't move. I could still feel his grip around both of them, cutting off the circulation. All I could say was "stop," but it was so faint, I could hardly hear myself say it. It wasn't until we both heard a knock at the door to the apartment next to his that I finally snapped out of it. His body was completely shoved against mine, pinning me to the wall, but I finally shoved him off of me and kneed him in, what I hope was, his balls. I ran out of there and back to my dorm so fast, never looking back. The rest of the day was a blur. That is, until we get back to where we are now: my second attempt.
Yes, he is the reason for my second attempt. I did the same thing I did the first time: I grabbed some pills and went to sleep, hoping, praying, I wouldn't wake up. You'd think because I am a biochemistry major I would be better at this, but no. I didn't take two seconds to Google how much I need to take of something to actually kill me. Although, I did feel like complete shit this time when I woke up, but, once again, I failed. After I woke up, I spent most of the day crying in my room, alone. Thankfully, my roommate was gone that weekend, so I could cut and cry and sit in silence all I needed. It ended up being the entire weekend. I never told anyone that full story until now. Mostly because I don't think I was ever really able to wrap my head around all that happened. That time, I didn't write a note. But, I did wonder if anyone would've ever found me before they actually started to smell my rotting body. Probably not. The world was grey for days on days. It still is sometimes, but that truly was the worst day of my life.
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