by Melody Kelly
This subject is a touchy one. I can’t seem to get it out of my head…clinical depression as well as anxiety. I’ve been through it all. When I say “all,” I’m talking about suicide. I don’t even know where to start. There is a 99.9% chance you don’t know that I have attempted suicide. You may have seen my scars that cover my arms and legs. What you don’t see is that they are on my stomach, ankles, and chest as well.
Another thing you may not know about me: In my freshman year, I took over 350 pain pills in an attempt to end my life. I had just turned fourteen at that time. I felt I that I had just started living. I didn’t tell my Mom that I was depressed and suicidal. How can you tell the woman who gave you life that you don’t want to live anymore?
The night I tried to end my life still haunts me. I can still smell the pills. I can still taste the coating on them. It was so hard to breathe. I went into the spare bedroom so I could open the window, and breathe fresh air. I remember how hard it was to walk. I remember how I felt when I thought I was about taking my last breath. The tears were running down my face. I was so dizzy. I remember it all too well.
When I realized what I was about to do, I instantly regretted it. I thought about all the things I had not done, and would never get the chance to do:
I had never driven a car.
I had never been to Florida.
I had never met my brother.
I had never been an aunt.
I had not finished high school.
I would never go to college.
I would have never seen my sister walk down the aisle.
I would have never fallen in love nor felt true love.
Above all, I would have never told my family and friends how much I truly, truly love them.
My best friend would think she didn’t do enough for me.
My Mother would blame herself.
My siblings would no longer have me in their lives.
At this point, countless, crazy thoughts raced through my mind.
At this point, I realized I didn’t want to die.
Although I would leave letters, I knew the letters wouldn’t bring me back. I knew they wouldn’t help. Letters wouldn’t answer the questions that my family and friends would have. They wouldn’t wipe the tears off of their faces. The people that love and care about me would never hear my laugh again. They would never see me smile again.
I realized someone would find me dead. Most likely, that would be my Mom. As I thought of that, it occurred to me that I would never forgive myself for even remotely thinking of permitting this to become a reality. I can never apologize enough for what I was planing. What I can do, however, is to be here for the my family and friends. I also want to be here for anyone who is considering suicide.
I still have days when I wake up asking God, “Why am I here? Why keep me alive?” Then I have other days when everything is perfect, and I think of why I wanted to die. I have people that love me. I have people who care for me. I feel so sorry for the people who feel the way I do. But, I am here. I will be here for these people. I will continue to live my life, and I will do whatever I can to help. I will pay it forward.
If I had one wish, I wouldn’t wish for money, or successes. I would wish that no one would ever feel like the way I did. I don’t want anyone to ever go down that “dark road.” I think of suicide as ending a book that isn’t finished yet.
Project Semicolon (projectsemicolon.com) is an organization dedicated to the prevention of suicide. In a sentence there are semicolons and periods. Think of suicide as the “period” which ends your life. You can end the sentence, but why end an unfinished sentence when you can use the semicolon to keep it going? Why not use the semicolon to finish the unfinished sentence?
Don’t end your life. Your story isn’t over. Your sentence isn’t over. It’s not ready to be over.