I have attempted suicide.
If you knew me, and if I told you, you would know this. To be precise, too many times to count. Even if it is just looking out of a balcony thinking about it I consider it an attempt- because you are CONSIDERING jumping off. But it was this time that made me change. After about 18 attempts (although 4 of them were serious) I felt the time was right.
I had to plan first. You can't just say, "I'm done" and then don't do it because you can't think of how to top yourself.
You can't jump off a building, because there is a small chance you will survive. Even if small, you still can. And besides you are still alive for a few seconds afterwards.
Hang myself? Well, a few problems:
A) I don't have a rope;
B) Your neck has to be straight or you will end up in the hospital rather than in limbo;
C) It's always a bugger thinking about who will tie you down.
Every form of suicide has one thing that will be an annoyance. For me, my final suicide attempt was me slitting my wrists in a bathroom. I wrote a suicide note, but I didn't want it to be sloppy and optimistic. I kinda knew that I wasn't actually going to die but in the rare occasion that I did, I wanted to go out in some sort of style. No "I'll see you again" or anything. So I wrote the first thing that came to my head, which was rather blunt.
"I'm dead. You'll be dead. That man in Brazil is dead. That woman in Soho is dying. For every child that's born 80,000 of them die. 99% of all non smokers die, unless of course you are an imaginary symbol of religion. You're going to hell. Maybe I'll meet you there. Live with it."
Yes, very blunt for a general metaphorical personality as myself. But nonetheless I needed to say something. It'd be very un-British of me to just die. Even if it does come across as stupid to whom ever decides to reads this article, I had no choice. It was either die without anything to talk about at my funeral or keep it if I ever survived the attempt.
So, note on sink. Tap water running. Jump into the bath very cold. The combination of the freeze of the bath and the blood from the knife was (in an ideal way) supposed to work well together. The bath was so cold though, I had to put hot water in to make it at least resemble a bath in England, not some atmospheric stuff in the Arctic.
I forgot the knife downstairs! Dang! If I go downstairs, mother gets suspicious! So what to do, eh? Ah! Scissors! If very blunt and- frankly- harmless scissors. Still, it could work if I press down hard enough. It would only pierce a little bit of my skin. At most, my skin would itch a little.
So yeah, I am an epic failure of a suicide attempter. I now realise it was no point ever trying again because it wouldn't work. Besides, this wasn't my worst attempt. A year before, I actually slashed my wrists. I had to be hospitalised both mentally and physically. I had a scar on my wounds, but also one in my brain.
After suicide attempt #19, I realised it was time to stop. No suicide attempt #20 coming any time soon. My girlfriend, mother and- strangely enough- father are too important for me to give up. My band wouldn't like it either...but that was two years ago.
Don't be taking my advice, now. I am not a very reliable person anyway.
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