Suicide is Murder. Self Murder.
It is a crime I am guilty of attempting.
Fortunately, I failed. Although that failure deeply disappointed me at the time, I am infinitely grateful for it now. I bless the ignorance that caused me to underestimate what I would need to do in order to assure my death.
I hope I can dispel some of the illusions about suicide and provide some strategies for survival, for both the suicidal person and those who love him or her. There is a germ of hope, in every suicidal person. Nurturing that hope can keep someone alive long enough for their situation to change--bringing their pain down to a more managable level.
None of what I am about to write is meant to imply that anyone other than the suicidal person is ever responsible for the death, should it occurr. One can try to be of help with the knowledge that even the best efforts may fail. The failure lies not with the person trying to help, or the person who didn't guess how serious the situation was. I do not wish to add to the guilt of survivors of friends or family members who comitted suicide. The responsibility for self-murder lies with the murderer, as in all murders. Only they decided and carried out the action and only they know, fully, why.
In March of 1995 I first tried to kill myself. I had pills, a lot of them. I arranged to get even more, conning a doctor into giving them to me as a sedative. All that day I planned, having decided the day before I would go through with it. I bought alcohol to increase the lethal effect of the pills, even though I didn't really like alcohol. I bought razor blades as a back up to my plan in case the pills didn't work. I wrote notes to everyone I cared about--crying as I wrote because my goal was not to cause them pain, but to escape mine. Being that selfish made me feel even worse. I tried to assure them that they couldn't have known and couldn't have stopped me. The last thing I (and I dare say most other suicidal people) wanted was for them to feel guilt for my actions.
I divided up my things, wanting certain people to have certain music, books, jewelry, etc. I put flowers on my altar and music on my stereo, and sat on my bed with the pills and the alcohol. Could I really do this? I had to face my fear, even at that moment, of death. All day I had been preparing as eagerly as if meeting a lover. My problems would be over, my pain would be gone, and I would be free! I had been cheerful at times, when not thinking of the people I'd leave behind.
Finally I had to ask myself--was I ready? Was a plunge into uncertainty really what I wanted?
Everything I had ever heard about death flashed through my mind. Would I go to a Christian hell? Or the Hare Krishna version? The Hare Krishnas believed that suicides become ghosts, always wishing for material pleasures but lacking the physical body to enjoy them. A kind of hell, I guess.
Or, what if I truly ceased to exist?
Well then, no pain! I reasoned. If I am not, how can I feel pain?
As I contemplated non-existence, damnation, reincarnating into similar situations to learn the lesson I was avoiding by leaving early--all the options I had ever heard--I finally decided that anything was, indeed, preferable to the pain I was experiencing. I decided also that I didn't want to worship a deity so lacking in compassion as to throw a suffering soul into hell for not being able to endure pain.
That decided, I calmly swallowed a great number of pills (I refuse to give clues to the amount one would require) and drank as much of the alcohol as I could stand. I immediately became very drowsy, laying in bed listening to soothing music. I closed my eyes and drifted off, expecting not to wake up.